#louche x reader

[fayes-fics]

And One For Luck

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict introduces his wife to birthday spankings

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub tones, mild exhibitionism, spanking, dirty talk, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.8k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. This is a very belated birthday gift for my wonderful mutual (and talented fic writer) @queen-of-the-misfit-toys, who requested Benedict + birthday spanking. I'm sorry I'm so slow with writing lately, my dear, but I hope you enjoy this enough to compensate. <3

“Happy birthday!!” all your friends raise a toast around your dinner table, and you drink the dregs of your wine down with gusto. Three glasses in, the word seems warm and fuzzy around the edges.

“Hello, handsome,” you slur slightly as your husband slides into the seat next to you.

“Hello, darling, that might be enough wine,” Benedict suggests gently, taking your glass and putting it back on the table as you pout. “I need you complis mentis for your last gift in a short while,” he whispers, leaning in.

“Do I not get but one hint?” your pout growing larger. 

You have certainly enjoyed all the other wonderful little gifts he has given you today, from the physical (lovely jewellery, the dress you wear) to the social (this surprise dinner party).

“Alright. It’s a tradition I heard about from our fine American cousins; I think you’ll enjoy it. And that’s all you get for now, wife,” he winks and slips away again to play party host. 

—

You sway a little as you bid the last of your friends goodbye in the hallway. As your valet closes the front door and scurries away with a quick bow, you turn to your husband.

“Thank you for my party, Benedict,” you smile, still a little tipsy; the wine has you feeling louche and a little aroused at the sight of him in his handsome navy velvet jacket and gold cravat. He looks like a present himself, wrapped up in delicious layers you want to peel away to get to the lovely gifts underneath.

“You are welcome,” he smiles, kissing your temple. Then there is a change in his voice; it’s darker, smoother. “Now, are you ready for your final gift of the day?”

“Yes, please,” you murmur back, suddenly a little breathless at the bedroom tone he has employed.

“How daring are you feeling, my love?” he checks as warm fingers trace patterns on the skin of your back, right above where your dress line is.

“Very,” you answer honestly, already feeling a heated ache for him between your legs. It still amazes you that only a few words from him can do this to you.

“Pull up your dress.” It’s an order.

Everything inside you screams yes and please.

“Here?!” you hiss, faking displeasure, playing up as a surge of want gallops through your body.

“Did that sound like a suggestion?” he raises an achingly seductive eyebrow. You scramble to obey, gathering your dress up over your arms. Rather conveniently, you find there are loops hidden under the hemline. “Another gift,” he smirks as you feed your hand through, recalling this is the dress he had specially made for you tonight. No wonder he also asked you to forgo your chemise. He has planned it all. You just love it when he does this. 

“Hold on here,” he instructs, taking your hands and guiding them onto the thick balustrade at the base of your staircase. You grip the smooth polished wood and shoot a desirous look at him over your shoulder. He smiles predatory, and a hand lands on your bottom, warm through the thin luxurious but thin layer of your silk underwear.

“Tell me, darling wife, have you heard of birthday spankings?” his voice smokey and dark.

You clench reflexively at the word, butterflies fluttering, your breath catching.

“No husband,” you demure, flexing instinctively against his hand, “please tell me more.”

“Those in the Americas believe it brings luck to the birthday person. You get a light spank on the buttocks for each year you have been alive,” he intones, his breath hot on your cheek as his long fingers swirl patterns into the silk, and he adds, “And an extra one for luck.”

“Are you really going to spank me twenty-seven times?” you gasp, unable to stop rubbing your thighs together with glee.

“No, wife,” he corrects, his lips sliding down to your neck to suck on the cord of your neck. “I'm going to spank you twenty-eight times. Unless you do not want any luck?”

“I want it,” you rush out, and he chuckles warmly at the speed of your response.

Then his hand raises from your bottom, and you miss its warmth, but only briefly, as he slaps it back down, a light tap on the silk. You moan quietly, the sensation not enough but spiking your arousal.

“Count for me, darling,” he requests, right in your ear.

“One,” you stutter.

“Well done,” he rumbles approvingly, and the praise causes all of your body to bloom. You will do anything when he speaks as such.

He does the same to your other buttock, just a very light, gentle tap of his fingers.

“Two,” you count dutifully, twisting to look at him again, but he stops you.

“No, face forward,” he commands with a warm chuckle, pressing your head gently so it hangs between your shoulders where you cling to the wood.

He manhandles your hips so you are shuffled backwards, more bent over, before there is another spank. This one is more intense, back to the original cheek, and you exhale slightly at the feeling, knowing he is just warming you up.

“Three.”

He makes an approving noise at the back of his throat as he pulls back the same hand and spanks right on top of where he just had, taking you by surprise; you had expected him to go to your other cheek.

“Four.” 

“I have to keep you on your toes, do I not?” his voice laced with amusement as he intuits your thoughts.

You sigh your approval as he traces his fingertips gently over the sting. You rub your thighs together, seeking friction for the throb growing between your legs.

Rapidly, he glances a blow on your other cheek, a bit more insistent now.

“Five,” you exhale obediently, hanging your head and wanting him to strip off your last layer of silk underwear to touch your bare skin. “More” escapes your lips unbidden.

He huffs a laugh bemused and leans over your back. “More of what, darling wife?” he teases, his breath hot on your cheek.

“I want your hands on my skin,” you rush out, blushing.

He chuckles again and spanks the other cheek, his fingers lingering.

“Six.”

“If you are very well-behaved for me, perhaps I will,” he dangles the promise softly, and you groan almost in frustration.

He reigns four quick successive blows onto either cheek, the cool silk almost soothing against your button as it becomes more heated.

“Seven, eight, nine, ten,” you reply, biting your lip and looking over your shoulder at him. He flicks his head fractionally with a pointed eyebrow, telling you without telling you to look away again. “I want to look at you, husband,” you grouse a little, pushing back into his grip spanning your cheek.

“I’ll stop if you keep looking at me,” he warns in a playful tone.

“Fine,” you grouse and look away,

He laughs at your faux indignation and, as he does so, spanks both checks at the same time.

“Eleven, twelve.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, knowing the effect it has on you, your skin pebbling in goosebumps and a frisson running down your spine at the low, honeyed tone he uses.

Another two blows have you blowing out a puff of air, getting closer to the strength that leaves his mark over your skin for a short while.

“Thirteen, fourteen.”

But you can’t help but smile as his left hand spiders to your hip, to the little row of tiny buttons there holding on your silk underwear. He deftly plucks them open as you breathe shallow, excited, pushing back towards his body. With a push from the hand still resting on your cheek, the material flutters to the ground, and you step out of them as his large hands slide to encircle both cheeks, fingers splayed wide.

“Your skin is blooming under my attention, darling,” sounding proud of his handiwork thus far. “But I won't be satisfied until I can see handprints, so hold on because it's time for the real spanking to behind now, my love.:

You can scarcely believe this is happening; your dress hitched over your back, bottom half now utterly bare, hanging onto the staircase in your hallway, sconces blazing, and the glass window to the street unobscured by its velvet drape. Should anyone walk by at a certain angle, they would surely see you if they happened to glance in; it feels by design. 

“Anyone could see us, Benedict,” you point out, nodding to the window off to the side.

“Do not pretend as if that does not make you want this even more, darling wife,” he rumbles, leaning over your back so his lips brush your ear.

He’s right. Your husband has an exhibitionist streak that makes you crave him. He wants the world to know you are his, and if they want to watch as he takes control of you, he will let them. And god, you will let him do it too. 

“Let them look at this, your beautiful bottom and…” you gasp as two of his finger trail down between your legs and glance your folds “.. this luscious wet cunt, weeping just for me.” 

You whimper as the words fall from his lips, so scandalous but said with such a lyrical cadence; they are elegant like poetry. Your cries get louder as he pushes one long elegant finger into your body, as the other hand spanks hard upon your naked flesh.

“I…I have forgotten my number,” you hurriedly confession over a moan as Benedict slowly rocks that finger into and out of your body, your clit throbbing, desperate for his touch.

“What a pity; we were halfway there….” he sighs, giving you a hint, his fingers going still.

“Fifteen!” you announce triumphantly at your quick calculation, and he makes an approving noise of your depiction and thrusts deeper into your cunt adding a second finger.

“Well done,” he chimes as you moan his name and start to rock back into his movements; the squelching sound of your body as he finger fucks you seems so loud in the echoey hallway.

“I love that sound,” he comments as if he knows where your thoughts have run before reigning another spank onto your cheek, hanging onto the fleshy spot he had hit, his fingers flexing as you cry out. “And that one, too,” he adds smugly; you know, without looking, he is wearing that handsome smirk of his.

“Sixteen,” you count.

“So, so good for me,” he praises, removing his fingers from inside you and painting a wet trail of your arousal across your heated bum cheek. He spanks with that damp hand, the moisture somehow adding a sharp edge to the ache. You squeal faintly as he huffs a laugh, swirling a pattern of juices over your flesh.

You whine at the loss of his fingers inside you, praying he will slide the other hand between your legs to soothe the entirely different sort of ache there. But he does not. He just spanks again with each hand slightly cupped, the noise so loud and the impact so great your whole body jerks.

“Urghhh… seventeen, eighteen,” you sigh, then clear your throat. “Please, may I have your fingers again?” your ask, meek, keeping your head down.

There is another loud spank that makes you exhale heavily.

“Nineteen.”

“What was that darling?” he teases, playing the fool. You know he heard you; there is nary another sound in the house; he just wants you to say it loud, to beg for him.

“I would like your fingers inside me again, please, husband,” you pronounce crisply, pulling your head up and staring at the wall ahead of you, not turning around as he asked.

“Oh, good girl,” the hand that was not inside you reaching to stroke your face affectionately. “You did not so much as turn your head; you deserve a birthday treat indeed,” he hums as you push your cheek into his palm, rubbing like a cat. Until he withdraws the hand, and you inhale sharply as you hear the unbuttoning of his trousers. 

Yes, yes, oh god, yes, even better, your mind screams as your cunt clenches, so very keen for him.

You can practically hear the smile as he notices the quiver of excitement in your legs and runs a thumb slowly up the back of your thigh before grabbing his cock and lining up. You are babbling soft pleas under your breath as he teases you, running his tip over your sensitive, swollen nub and chuckling at your frustrated snuffle.

Fingernails gouging into the wooden post you grip, your throat releasing a feral sound as he pushes into you abruptly, plumbing deep, your soaked channel providing no resistance to his deep thrust, pulling him into your hilt with a ripple of excitement. He groans and utters how wondrous you feel, tight around his cock. Just as you want to ask him to move, a hand spanks hard on your left buttock, and you cry out, almost having forgotten.

“Twenty!” you cry out, fingers flexing, legs stiffening, pushed so close to orgasm merely by him fucking into you with one stroke.

“Push back onto me, darling,” he tutors glibly, a hand wrapping around the crest of your hipbone to encourage your movement.

You do as told, bending your arms to pull away and straightening them to push back so he sinks to the hilt. The invasion makes your eyes roll, makes you begin a greedy rhythm, chasing what you want as he clucks affirmative noises. The hand releases your hip, and you know what is coming; he spanks just as you push back onto his cock, your own motion making the blow that much more impactful.

“Twenty-one.”

It's a frenzy of movement as you start to fuck yourself onto him in earnest, and he rewards you every few strokes with a spank on your bottom, your skin glowing hot as your clit throbs for attention. You wish you weren't still in your dress, your stays pinching your ribs and breasts as your lungs inflate with ragged pulls; the material around your bicep pinching skin as you pump your arms for leverage, fucking back onto him.

“May I touch myself?” you pant after you have obediently counted the twenty-fifth blow.

When he gives permission, your hand slides between your folds instantly, snagging that swollen pearl and groaning loudly at the firework it fires inside you. You speed up, he growls, the grip on your bottom harsh after the next spank; he's going so hard now your body jolts with every hit.

“Twenty-six!” your call is urgent, breathless, needy, knowing it just spurs him on, wanting to push you to the edge and pull you over with him.

“Come on, birthday girl,” he implores, “just two more,” you can tell from the tone he won't last much longer either, both of you overwrought from the explosive passion. 

You know the last two will be harsh; you are holding your breath as his right hand blows so hard you scream, the elixir of the harsh strike on your glowing skin melding with the pleasure of his cock pushing you open as your fingers scrabble over your clit. 

“Twenty-seven!!” 

He leans over your back, still mostly dressed himself, and you know you are both sweaty now with the exertion, feeling his sticky forehead rest on the nape of your neck, below where your hair is pinned up but rapidly loosening with the jerking motions you make together. He is gusting breaths and starts to meet your thrusts, the press of his pelvis heavy against yours.

“Here comes your good luck, darling,” he grunts, pulling his head up to teeth the skin at the hairline of your neck.

The last blow is both hands at once on the outer edges of your cheeks where they meet your thighs—the sting on this new, delicate spot almost blinds you.

“Twenty-eight!!” you howl; your body is breaking, the sensation all too much. Your bottom smarting, raw, your cunt convulsing vice-like on his cock as something inside you snaps and your whole body shudders and shakes, blood rushing in your eardrums, mouth slack and screaming. He has to grasp your hips as your body goes limp, and with a final shout, you feel his fingers curl around and dig into your belly as he stills and empties his seed deep inside you, winded, the veins in his neck pulsing as he comes so hard you almost lose your footing.

For a few moments, it's just laboured breathing, him pulling you upright as his cock softens and slips from your body, curling you into a tight embrace from behind you. Dress hem still looped around your wrists, you turn around and twine your arms around his neck, pulling him down for an artless but satisfying kiss.

“Thank you for the best birthday present ever,” you murmur. Benedict smiles almost bashfully now that playtime is over. Delicately he picks you up into his arms and carries you up the staircase to bed.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau

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

[daze4all]

Host Club AU Reader Series: Host! Dan Heng, Blade, Jing Yuan, Loucha, Gepard, Sampo

Smoky room and a sweet scent, golden tasseled curtains and a plush velvet loveseat spread out.

In a room where handsome men beckon you into the jazz filled space.

 For a moment to forget your worries and relax

Which Host would you like to request milady?

3 Takes on This Reverse Harem Setting

Modern Spicy Japanese Host club Guys in Suits with Secrets issue. Stelle /Reader Manager

Comedic Ouran Highschool host Club twist with Stelle/Reader Haruhi forced to crossdress as a host Caelus!

Ancient Asian Past Brothel like Red Light district. Yoshiwara! Past life! Client! Stelle x Host forbidden love. Escape attempt. From red light district prostitution.

Alternative dark setting with forbidden love setting clients customer relations… secret romance to steal away high-class courtesan or ancient Chinese harem setting.

To get you in the mood this spicy Amv of the tall Guys in Suits by Thoma inspired me  abit~

Secrets in the Host Club

Host! Dan Heng has a contract to pay from predecessor top host

Host! Dan Feng who disappeared to have baby Dan Heng due to a scandal with a client. Father-Son or twins? Scandalous~

Or they be the Hitachin Twins lol Brotherly love/ twincest for comedy  value like Ourna Highscool Host Club lol.

Host! Blade abnormally obsessed with beating Dan Heng in the rankings.

 Bl vibes from a past bromance Dan Feng maybe

possible amnesia but flashes of their past lives in yoshiwara maybe?

desire to beat dan heng as top host

-Blade like Mori Like tough silent guy host in OHSHC! AU

Host! Jing yuan Current top one host

been their the longest watching this drama

smugly knowing the whole stories

 Wingman! Jing Yuan secretly wants Blade x Dan Heng together so he can get with manager/reader or Stelle/Caelus

Secretly some ceo or big shot being forced to marry like Tamaki souh but avoiding engagement by  keeping up playboy personality by keeping up the host club.

The Tamaki Souh the King of the host club who wants his host club family to get along and be fam

Host! Loucha maybe sneaked in their as Kyoya keeps it together financially.

-Mysterious

- Spy ! Loucha Secretly undermines  club

- Double Agent! Louche Maybe geos to Belobag! club and have to bring him back for ratings

- but he a double spy who was stealing belobog host sclub’s secrets

- Steals Gepard & Sampo maybes he sways them to join  Xianzhou/Loufu’s Host Club Rival Planets / Clubs

Host! Gepard awkward embarrassed host.

- actually FBI Or undercover COP as sus undercover drug dealing going on.

- Guy Next door? Natural! Host like Haruhi. Or Mori tough guy.

Cop! Gepard there to To bust Host! Sampo being that Sus dealer of kinky toys not drugs lol.

Host! Flirty! Sampo Criminal Dangerous Host

Fun Host Theme nights: Yukata night, suit day,  glasses day, costume day, pirate etc. other kinks ppl can comment.

Host! Stelle : Client, host/crossdressing Caelus or manager willed to take over and run host club that is suffering from a debt from scandal with top star (Dan Feng)

Breaks vase like Haruhi just student at college idk lol gets into shifty host club for rich famous lol

Or modern au or ancient red light district brothel?honkai

NanookL manager! dad of stelle? Debt lender guy have to make up deficit too for club

#ouran high school host club #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail spoilers #honkai star rail #male yandere x reader #imbibitor lunae #yandere imagines #honkai star rail imagines #dan heng #hsr blade #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader #stelle x dan heng #stelle reverse harem #honkai x reader #honkai star rail mc #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail reverse harem #gepard x reader #sampo x reader #blade x reader #dan heng x you #Youtube #blade fluff #dan heng fluff #honkai star rail found family

[historiaxvanserra]

hate fuck with Eris x reader pls!

HATE FUCK | ERIS VANSERRA

18+ please bitches. It's porn with minimal plot.

Warnings: enemies (ish) to lovers, established relationship, sort of dub-con (not really).

also i know the prompt was hate fuck but for some reason it came out more like two idiots in love but no one wants to admit it. don't judge me.

Sapphire skies melt into a darkening indigo as the last rays of sun sink below the backdrop of The Forest House and the sound of gentle orchestral music is a symphony in the crisp Autumn air.

The sea of dancing bodies inside the main hall glitter like a jewel toned wave as the chandeliers light kisses the Ladies' tiaras and dresses adorned in crystals.

From the outside looking in, this is a world away from the home you had grown up in. The Windhaven camp had not been kind to you, a half-breed woman of low birth.

Had Rhysand's mother not taken pity on you, this life would have been little more than a fever dream; the opulent dresses, and expensive wines, decadent parties and indulgent companions.

It may be beautiful but there is no denying the ostentation of it all. All of this grandeur and ceremony when the common folk still want.

Still suffer and starve while the aristocracy live in a world where hedonism is revered and indulgence is praised.

You imagine none of these people have ever known what it truly is to want.

Before you are able to abandon yourself to the thought your attention falls onto the figure emerging from the main doors.

They're swathed in shadow and from your place against the fountain you can just about make out that it is a Male who descends the steps with an otherworldly grace. He's tall and broad. And the strands of his unbound hair billow in the wind behind him in a silken drape.

As the figure stalks through the grounds and rounds the corner at the fountain he is bathed in the golden-hued faelight from the patio.

Eris Vanserra.

He walks with purpose towards you and as he falls into view you can't help but admire the way his skin shines like opal in the moonlight, or the way his face, half-shadowed, seems to hold some dark and ancient knowledge.

He's beautiful in a way that reminds you of old Gods, long forgotten. It's a strange and harsh type of beauty. And you hate him for it.

He has the kind of face that could bring cities to their knees and he knows it.

Eris Vanserra carries his beauty like a burden; he's all arrogance and self-loathing. A tempting oxymoron. And you hate him for it.

"Did no one tell you it's in poor taste to abscond from a party before your hosts?" The Autumn Prince sneers, furrowing his brow as he takes you in.

You hate him.

"Clearly you people know very little of good taste," You retort, digging you heel into the dirt beneath your barefeet and tilting your chin in defiance.

Eris eyes you carefully, a small smirk ghosting his face. His painfully beautiful face.

Why does he have to be so damned ethereal? And fierce. It's perverse and wholly confusing.

"And what is that supposed to mean, love?" he asks in feigned courtesy as he inclines his head towards you.

You hate him.

"Do you know that for one of those pretty dresses," You say pointing through the large window into the ballroom that glitters ruby and topaz, "you could afford to feed an entire village?.

Eris' broad shoulders visibly stiffen at the venom in your tone as you turn your gaze back onto him.

"I didn't know that," he swallows thickly. Perhaps learning to finally swallow some of his pride.

"Of course you didn't," you laugh bitterly, "you have never known what it is to go without."

"To be left wanting."

The laugh your words tear from him lights a fire in you, that signature louche quality he has to him. Total indifference. Tainted with something else. Something dark and base. It burns you in the most masochistic sort of way.

You hate him.

"Believe me, little girl," he spits, taking one long stride towards you so that his chest is inches from yours, "I know what it is to want."

He's half-breathless as he turns his darkening amber eyes upon you.

Gods, he looks like divine in this light. Like some sort of fallen angel. Ephemeral and cruel.

"And what do you want, Eris?" You eye him carefully, the rise and fall of his chest and the sheen of sweat that coats the exposed planes of skin under his shirt.

The way he looks at you then is enough to bring you to your knees. He moves like a predator, silent and resolute and his eyes glint against the black. Wild and dark.

"I want," He rasps as he cages you between strong arms, "You." his breath is hot as it fans your face.

Heat coils in your stomach and spreads through you like a wildfire.

"I hate you." You remind him.

Eris chuckles darkly, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger and forcing you to look at him.

The air is laden with the smell of him. Sandalwood and birch. Stained darker by the scent of his arousal.

"and yet," He whispers against the shell of your ear, like it is a secret shared between two lovers.

"You want me too."

His kiss is harsh and just a little painful, all teeth and tongue as he fights for dominance. His hands rest on your hips, fingers brusing the tender flesh beneath.

He wants to mark you. Wants to leave behind the remnants of his desire. To remind you of who you belong to. Belong with.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders and as he deepens the kiss they become entangled in his long auburn hair.

The sound that leaves him is something akin to a growl. It's dark and animalistic. Claiming.

He tears his mouth from yours and you're left breathless and aching for him.

The way his teeth come to graze your neck feels like sin. And you find yourself begging. For release. For him. You're not entirely sure.

You had sworn you hated him but when his large hands come to rest on the exposed skin of your thigh you're not entirely sure where the line between love and hate began to blur.

Eris' laugh is cruel and taunting as his hands play with the hem of your pretty dress.

It shines like quartz every time the clouds clear and the crystal refracts in the moonlight.

"I wonder how many villages I could feed with this, hm?". Eris whispers to you as one hand continues his ascent up your exposed thigh and the other begins to pull at the restricting fabric.

For a moment he suffices to bunch the fabric at your waist but when the tight material reaches the apex of your thighs you find it constricting and unhelpful.

The tearing of fabric fills the night air followed by a sharp inhale of breath as Eris lifts you from the ground, your back slamming into the stone wall with an uncomfortable pressure.

"You ripped my favourite dress!" You complain, your hand flying to steady yourself against Eris' solid form as he holds you in his bruising grip.

"I'll buy you a hundred more," He promises against your lips, his teeth nipping at the sulk of your lower lip, "and for every one, I'll feed a hundred villages."

His promises are not empty ones. This you know. You and Eris have been doing this dance for longer than you care to admit.

You learned early on that there is a fine line between love and hate and with Eris that line is one crossed frequently. With reckless abandon. It is a line you crossed willingly, and you would do so again, in an instant because--

"Just let me have you." Eris' urgent hands finally hit their mark at the apex of your thighs, rubbing slow circles through the thin material of your panties.

"You have me," You remind him drawing him into a kiss, much more ardent and longing than the previous biting "so take me."

Wordlessly Eris lifts you against the wall once more, the gritty surface a cruel juxtaposition against the smooth expanse of your back.

Angling your hips as he frees his aching cock from his riding pants you moan into his mouth as he pulls gently at your lower lip.

His hot breath against your face, the heat building in your stomach from the ministrations of his deft fingers is of little consequence when you feel the thick tip of him pressing against your entrance.

"Fuck, love." Eris voice is a low growl in your ear as he sinks into you, your walls fluttering around him like a velvet vice when you feel him pressing against that sweet spot deep inside of you.

"So good for me," he coos as he thrusts harshly into you. His hips digging into yours with such force that causes your whole body to shake as he resumes those slow, torturous circles on your clit.

"I hate you," You remind him. You remind yourself.

"I hate you too," The way he says it is loaded with something else, something hidden. All the words you could not say.

Eris sets a brutal pace as he fucks into you, his breaths coming in sporadic succession as he nears his own release.

You feel your own imminent orgasm as it begins to wash over you. Eris brushes a stray hair away from your face as he holds your weight in his strong arms as he continues his assault on your aching cunt.

"That's it pretty love," He whispers, his words simple yet filled with something akin to adoration and much too far from the usual menace that marks his words, "cum on my cock."

Eris' encouragement is all the permission you need as you give into the wave of euphoria that washes over you like a tidal wave. The world blurs at its edges as Eris fucks you through your orgasm, chasing his own release.

"I hate you," You say airily, biting into the skin of his neck in a futile attempt to muffle the sounds of your pleasure as it breaks apart in your mouth.

Eris comes with a thunderous moan that pulls at your heart in a way that terrifies you. The feeling of his seed spilling out of your pulls you back to reality.

Eris laughs once more bringing you into another burning kiss. Only this time he is more deliberate and tender with you.

"I hate you too."

#eris vanserra #acotar x reader #acotar #eris x you #eris x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris acotar #eris headcanons #eris vanserra x reader

[hamsterclaw]

Jungkook Masterlist

All my Jungkook writing is smutty and 🔞. Flirty fuckboi JK is my fave trope.

Bike Cage office workers! JK x reader, boss Yoongi

Jungkook and you fucked at the office Christmas party two years ago. You're not sure why he's going out of his way to reconnect with you now.

Sketchy mechanic! JK x reader, ft gangster Tae

Jungkook and you got out of your previous lives, together. Your ex-boyfriend wants your help, and he’s trying to pull you back into the life you left behind. Featuring Taehyung.

Castaway - desert island AU

When your charter plane crashes on a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific, you're the only survivor. Well, you and the most irritating man in the known universe.

Foundation doctor! Jungkook x doctor! reader ft Yoongi

You know Jungkook is a fuckboy. So why are you letting him fuck with you? Featuring Yoongi. Also read Louche, a drabble.

Poster Boy doctors JK x reader x Yoongi

You, Jungkook and Yoongi liven up the most boring conference in the world.

Benny doctor! JK x doctor! reader. My secret fave JK.

Jungkook drives you crazy. You aren't sure how you're going to survive the next few months working with him without doing him bodily harm. Featuring gorgeous paediatrician Yoongi.

Soft police detective JK. Part of the Rage AU.

Jungkook doesn't think of himself as being overly emotional. Why does everyone keep telling him he wears his heart on his sleeve?

Criminal lawyer JK x police detective reader

You are investigating a murder with your partner, and the things that you uncover hit uncomfortably close to home. Featuring Taehyung.

Tag graffiti artist JK x reader

You first met Jungkook years ago, when you were a rookie cop and he was brought in for defacing public property. Now he's an established artist, and a chance encounter brings you together again.

Spin idol! JK x manager! reader

You were part of Jungkook's management team, you know better than most the restrictions and rules he has to live his public life by. If only he wasn't so damn irresistible.

Lush gaming CEO JK x reader. Part of the Gemini AU

Jungkook's built his company from nothing, and he's damn well going to sit back and enjoy the spoils.

Double Team Seokjin x reader x Jungkook

You, Jin and Jungkook solve problems for the city's elite, albeit via unconventional means.

Politico staffers JK and reader

You and Jungkook are staffers in the office of the Secretary of State. He's cut-throat, sneaky, and goddamn it, everything you love about politics in one irresistible package. Featuring Namjoon, Yoongi and a Jimin cameo.

Afterburner fighter pilots Jungkook x reader

All Jungkook's ever wanted to do is fly, and he's damned good at it. Then you turn up, and get under his skin.

Legend selkie JK x reader

The man you help one day insists he owes you everything.

Pow

Your job is to keep Gotham city safe, but you spend more of your time keeping Catboy aka Jeon Jungkook out of trouble.

©hamsterclaw 2021-2024

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic

[gagmebucky]

[biker!bucky. clothes ripping kink. dollface.]

A gasp falls from your lips, sputtering a high pitched, “B - Bucky!” But he only regards you with a glinting smirk and resumes splitting it up your skin; your hands grab his wrists but his strength is absolute, and all you can do is dig your nails into his skin as you shriek, “What the hell are you doing?” But you already know he loves the marks, when your impression is left on him for others to see. 

in which you look too good in that damn dress, and biker!bucky can’t help himself. (includes biker!bucky x chief-of-police’s daughter!reader, clothes ripping kink, reader receiving oral.) 

—

A big hand clamps over your mouth, texturized with the calluses of a hardworking man, while a strong forearm anchors across your waist. Before you can react, you’re swept backwards into an unisex bathroom as leather and spice wafts your senses, and a familiarly gruff voice settles your fight-or-flight instincts: “It’s me.”

Immediately, you relax which has him releasing you so you whirl around, your back to the automatically locked door. Your heart like a hummingbird’s, you blink in disbelief at the mountain of a man standing before you in all his louche glory. 

“What are you doing here?!” you exclaim in a hushed gasp. Despite yourself, excitement skitters across your skin as you take in your bearded, blue-eyed blackguard: a broad six-foot, towering in dark leather and denim, chestnut brown hair disheveled sexily. All in all,  he’s something that draws attention at a suit-and-tie police ball. “What if someone sees you?!” 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of the ex-con you’ve been shacking up with. It’s more that your father is being celebrated for his dutiful law enforcement work, and finding out his daughter has been getting on her knees for the same type of person he’s dedicated his life to putting away isn’t the place for that. You plan to divulge your relationship to him soon, just not yet. 

Bucky’s tongue darts across his bottom lip, his teeth following as his gaze drags over every curve and contour of your low cut dress clad frame. You’d think he’d gotten enough of an eyeful with the images you texted him. His eyes snap to your face, and he surges forth with an animalistic groan at the base of his throat.

In one second, he grasps you by your hips—a crushing grip glides beneath your satin dress and hauls you high on his waist, palms searing and fingers kneading through a layer of fishnets and panties—and braces you on the bathroom’s sink. A gasp expels from your lips as your back collides against a cold mirror, another sound escaping when he yanks your thighs wide and slots himself between them.

In one hand, his rough pads upturn your jaw, almost squishing your cheeks with his force, maintaining eye contact. Feral, his eyes practically glow, and your skin prickles with a likewise manic passion. “You really sent those pictures and thought I wouldn’t come and see you for myself, dollface?” His wicked orbs flicker down, to the crease of your cleavage, to the slit in your dress, the fishnets covering your legs; his broad chest lifts and falls with a ragged breath. 

A simmering furnace kindles in your core, crackling under your skin at the primal reaction to little ‘ole you. Admittedly, it shouldn’t be surprising given his carnal demeanor toward you has persisted since the first time you saw him—being towed away in handcuffs at the station. Nevertheless, it never falls to ignites something unhinged inside you, a wild side that shudders in anticipation for whatever he’s going to do to you. 

This wasn’t the plan, but God, you love this deviation. 

Upon messaging him that album of scandalous poses, all pristine in your classy—but borderlining skimpy—outfit, you just wanted to work him up while you attended this event. You wouldn’t have thought he would show up here, risking being seen by the flurry of officers who’ve either arrested him, or heard about the suspicious activities in his supposedly innocuous biker gang. Then again, that spontaneousness is one of the reasons why you seem to be addicted to him. 

“Did you think I could resist getting my hands on this pretty ‘lil dress and your sexy body underneath?” he asks breathlessly, baritone pitch raking over your nerves like gravel. “And I couldn’t care less about whether your daddy sees us.” His white incisors scrape across his bottom lip. “What did he expect when he let you go out in something like this?“

Thin straps swoop low and reveal your décolletage as the black satin clings like a second skin; from the V of your chest to the reverse V on one thigh, it highlights all your assets tantalizingly, and fishnets do the same to your legs in stretched diamond-shaped string. 

“Oh? Does that mean you don’t like it?” you goad innocently, lashes fluttering. 

His lips twist up at one corner, entertained by your fauxness. “I’m just pointing out if he didn’t want you to be roughed up by someone like me, he would have told you to put on something that doesn’t make your tits look that good. A blind man can see you’re just asking for trouble.” 

“What if that’s what I want?” you reply then tilt your head and part your lips to accept his thumb into your mouth. Your tongue curls around the appendage while your cheeks hollow with a tight suction; your stare remains on his the whole time, watching the flames blaze in his eyes as he pops free from your Cupid’s bow. 

“Then you’re on the fuckin’ right track, dollface,” he just about growls and leans forward, intention set on kissing you until you’re breathless and dizzy, and your lips are swollen and glossy with his spit. 

Although the prospect tightens in your belly, you stop him with a shake of your head. “My lipstick, biker-boy,” you say to the disgruntled confusion on his face, amused by the expression. “Consider these lips off limits until the end of the night.” You pause. “Then they’re yours to take however you want.” 

Impatience lurks in his gaze, and restraint locks his jaw. Air flares his nostrils as his head tips forward. Distance nose-to-nose, he says a quiet, “Okay.” But there’s something about the quality there that has your hackles rising despite the calmness. “I won’t ruin your lipstick.” 

The second the last syllable is drawn, without any time to consider the mystery of his purposeful diction, a shrill riiiiiiiiiip cuts bounces against tiled wall’s echo. Somewhere below your eyeline, his hands have hooked underneath the mesh and jerked it apart at the bend of your knee. Once carefully stepped in-to brand new fishnets are reverted into a tattered piece of sheer with a hole ovaling up your thigh. 

A gasp falls from your lips, sputtering a high pitched, “B - Bucky!” But he only regards you with a glinting smirk and resumes splitting it up your skin; your hands grab his wrists but his strength is absolute, and all you can do is dig your nails into his skin as you shriek, “What the hell are you doing?” But you already know he loves the marks, when your impression is left on him for others to see. 

“What’s wrong?” he teases, brows knitted in feigned confusion, continuing to litter the floor with your clothing. “Your lipstick is fine, dollface. That’s what you wanted. And since I can’t have those lips, then I’ll just have to settle for these.” 

With an effortless twitch of his hands, your underwear is shredded into two separate pieces. Next thing you know, he’s on his knees, and he’s pulled you forward until your ass is on the edge of the porcelain sink and your legs are prised apart, leaving his face level with your most intimate part.

No time wasted, he delves in. He wastes no time delving in. Tongue first, he delivers a flat stripe up your sticky folds, ending at your slick bud which he immediately suckles into his warm, wet mouth like you’re a lollipop he’s hellbent on getting to the center of. 

Pleasure strikes you like lightning, stimulation zapping you in your deepest depths. Before you can think to suppress it, you give a startled cry, a guttural choke resounding off the walls as you buck into the heaven that is him. 

One of his hands shoots up and stuffs two fingers in your mouth, rasping over your taste buds, and muffling any attention-bringing sounds. All the while, he’s feasting on you in that same passionate and skilled manner he kisses you with. He suctions all the honey he can out of you, batting at your clit with his tongue. 

Shocks attack your nerves, and shakes rack your body, inadvertently causing you to grind against his face. One of your legs curl over his shoulders, heels pressing into leather-bound muscles. Your fingers plunge into his impossibly soft locks and hold on for dear life while you’re upended by blind bliss building in your center. 

Blue eyes pierce your soul, watching the delirium pump through you. Wickedness shines at the forefront of those storming oceanic pools; his pupils are dilated in raw desire at the flush of your cheeks, the look and feel of you desperately sucking on his index and middle digits to smother your pretty moans, the rhythmic undulation of your body.

The pit in your stomach deepens and spirals outward. Your toes furl in your heels, and your spine curves into an arc as an orgasm hurtles through every cell inside of you. A stifled noise vibrates against his fingers which has him jabbing them deeper until he can feel your throat constricting around them. 

As you ride out your wave, he’s wringing every iota of pleasure out of you. He keeps your engorged button swathed between his teeth while you tremble with aftershocks. Once he’s satisfied, he retreats after an audible pop and rises to his six-foot and wide shoulder stature. 

You’re still buzzing with the residual effects, panting heavily when he comes to loom over you. He grasps you by the jaw in his spit-soaked hand, and his lips glistening with your liquid lust, he kisses you. He takes possession of you, snaking his tongue in and claiming every inch for himself; he smears your lipstick and has you suck the taste of yourself off his taste buds. 

Finally, he lets you go to gulp in much needed air. The look on your face already tells him you don’t give fuck all about the ruined cosmetics, or the torn fashion. No, he can see you’re basking in the sensations he invokes in you, grateful you’re allowed to be so undone. 

Your eyes are hooded, Cupid’s bow red and swollen from him, bare thighs dripping with a dull ache between them. The formality of the event means nothing to you now when he’s here, having done that to you. You have half a mind to sneak out with him. 

Like he knows what you’re thinking, he shakes his head. “I want you to go out there. I want them to see the chief’s pretty little princess looking like she just got fucked with no panties and no lipstick. You got that, dollface?” When you nod, all dazed and starry eyed, he smiles. “Good. I’ll pick you up later and ruin your soft, wet little pussy until she’s as swollen as your lips are now.”

 [masterlist / feedback]

#bucky x reader #bucky x you smut #bucky barnes imagines #marvel imagines #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel x you #i struggled A LOT with this one for some reason? i wanted to scrap it but i wanted to post something so i forced myself to finish it #anon who sent it: you can send it again and i'll try to write it better!! #my writing

[buckyownsmyheart]

Duty [4/12]

CHAPTER 4: Getting Dolled Up

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: another 2.3k (next week is longer, promise!)

Warnings: A mouthy Sam, groping and a smooch or two

Series Summary: Ex-army doctor, and now on-mission-for-the-Avengers doctor, Major (Y/n) (Y/l/n), had prepared herself for anything. That was, of course, until she met a devastatingly charming Sergeant from Brooklyn with a quick wit and a kind smile. I wonder what will happen.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 3

You always liked to think that you were pretty prepared for anything that might be thrown your way, you had, however, not considered James Buchanan Barnes in an all-black velvet suit. Good god that man did things to you.

“Might want to close your mouth there, Doc,” he smirked at you, “You’ll catch flies.”

You shut your mouth quickly and swallowed, ignoring his smug look.

The team had been summoned by the New York mayor to oversee a gala at an art gallery. Intel suggested that there was going to be an art thief operating that evening, trying to steal one of the pieces of artwork, named “The Power of Reciprocity”, in a more concealed room down a corridor outside of the main room, and the thief would be using the gala as a cover to steal a piece. On the floor would be Tony, posing as himself, and then you and Bucky as undercover guests. In a van nearby would be Sam and Nat, as Steve was currently in New Jersey scoping out a newly reformed gang.

This was how you found yourself eating a bowl of Lucky Charms (because these events only ever have canapés, and you’ll be damned if you were going to go hungry), with half of your make-up on, wearing sweats and trying very hard not to obviously drool over Bucky Barnes as he stood there in his full suited glory.

You placed your now empty bowl in the dishwasher and turned back to Bucky, “I’ll admit, you scrub up nicely Barnes.” This was a small understatement, he did a lot more than scrub up nicely, he might actually be perfect, but there was no way he’d hear you say that. You walked up to Bucky, and continued, “Best I go get dressed and show you up before your head gets so big it needs external support.” You patted him on the chest, partly to satisfy the itch your fingers had to run themselves over every part of him, but also for effect as you walked towards your room.

Nat had tasked herself with finding you the perfect outfit, her reasoning being that she knows what can kill a man, both figuratively and literally. Per Nat’s styling advice, your hair was in a delicate up-do with a few strands framing your face, Wanda had done your makeup to bring out your eyes and the dress you pulled from some vastly expensive shop did wonders for your figure. In the end, you had both agreed on a floor length royal blue dress with jewelled detailing around the waist and the neckline. Nat had also supplied you with a knife thigh holster, as a gun would be too obvious in the dress. She had also bequeathed you one of her favourite knives, but not before adding a quick, “If you lose this, I will end you and everything you care about.” You also had on some heels that were a little too high for you, but you were just there to look pretty, so had thought why not?

You knew you looked good from the bolstering that the girls had given you, but that didn’t remove the butterflies that fluttered gently in your stomach. Ignoring them, you walked out into the kitchen, swaying your hips a little more than usual. The click of your shoes caught the attention of the team gathered there, and silence fell immediately.

“You ready boys?” You called out to them winking at Nat, as she chuckled at everyone eyeballing you. Bucky wandered over to you and gave you a not-so-subtle once over, and then a twice over.

He offered his arm, “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Robocop.”

You took his arm and walked out with what had been becoming a permanent smile across your face.

“Hey lovebirds, give us a smile!” You heard Nat shout,

You and Bucky turned your heads at the same time before the undeniable ‘click’ of a camera. You turned back shaking your head, Bucky laughed gently beside you. You gave them all the bird as you both walked away, and they eventually made a move to follow you.

-

You perched your elbows on one of the high tables skirting the side-lines, waiting for someone to get hurt. What a great job you have. The champagne flute you held managed to stop you wringing your hands nervously.

“Hi, sweetheart,” A louche voice breathed in your ear as a hand moved far lower than you appreciated, following your curves. You were not in the mood to be dealing with this tonight. You grabbed the hand, twisting it and slamming it on the table. You looked up to the man.

“Do that to me again sweetheart,” you mimicked, “and I’m going to shove your balls so far up your ass that they’ll hang either side of your tongue instead.”

You put your glass down and strode away, trying to find Bucky to ease your mind, and hoped that he looked murderous enough that any glare he sent would put anyone who looked at you the wrong way off. Before you could find him, you heard Sam’s voice in your ear.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Nat also spoke up, her silky voice full of barely concealed laughter, “I fully endorse any form of violence you wish to inflict upon that man.”

You chuckled, feeling your anger dissipate, and whispered, “Tash, you’d endorse any form of violence no matter the context,”

There was laughter filling your ear, and a buzzing of agreement. You scanned the room, subconsciously checking if Bucky was still okay when he appeared beside you.

“You okay?” His eyes scanned your face, and you gave a smile, a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding was released.

“Yeah, I’m all good, Buck. I doubt that guy will ever try that again though,” you breathed out, a whisper of a laugh present. A scowl had formed on his face, and you knew he needed a distraction before he got too caught up in planning someone’s murder, “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Dance?” He questioned.

“Yeah, you know, you move your feet in time with music, maybe even smile?”

“A smile? Don’t get ahead of yourself Doc,” Sam’s voice filled your ear once more.

“Butt out, birdbrain,” Bucky growled.

“Come on Sarge, whaddya say? For recon purposes.” You grinned at him,

“For recon purposes? Well, I can’t say no to that.” he offered his hand to you, a bright smile lightened his features before he put his own glass down and pulled you onto the dancefloor. You were focussing intently on not rolling your ankle because your knees had gone a little wobbly at his warm hand and warmer gaze that had fixed intently upon you. What you didn’t know was that it had been on you the whole evening, and he couldn’t quite get himself to stop.

On the dancefloor, you were acutely aware of Bucky’s gloved hand on your waist and his thighs brushing against yours as he expertly led you around, weaving between the other guests. Wow, you needed to get your head out of the gutter. Tony caught your eye whilst he was talking to the mayor and winked. Why did he seem to always know what was going on? Trying to concentrate on what you were actually here for, and not the movement of Bucky’s shoulder under your hand, or the tickle of his breath on your neck.

“Uh, Buck?” He hummed against you, his chest vibrating against yours, “Is it normal for people to stare unblinkingly at us?” He froze, “There’s someone at your 7 o’clock, light blue suit.”

Bucky spun you both around slowly, and spoke quietly, “I think he might have recognised me, Sam, Nat? How should we proceed?”

Your ear filled with static and then Nat’s voice, “I think you know what to do, Barnes, think Cap Pre-Berlin 2014, the mall.”

You pulled back and glanced at Bucky, “What happened in 2014?”

Bucky’s face was completely unreadable, “Sorry about this Major.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours, his right hand had moved from holding yours to on your cheek, whilst his left squeezed your waist. Automatically your left hand moved to the nape of his neck, and your lips moved against his. His unique sandalwood scent, the scent of him, filled your senses and everywhere he touched you felt like it was on fire. Before you had fully processed the kiss, and far too early for your liking, he pulled away. His ears were a bit pink, and he looked at his shoes sheepishly. You opened your mouth to say something, but Sam interrupted.

“Think you put him off alright, put me off my damn soup, jeez! You’re paying for my therapy after that!” He gave a chuckle, “Stark and Barnes, you’re on. He's headed through the door to the painting.”

You looked back up at Bucky, “You got a bit of uh- “, you swiped your thumb over his lip, “Um, lipstick,” you clarified, trying not to stumble fully over your sentence

“Bad guy, Barnes, pick up your chin”

“Thanks, Tony,” grumbled Bucky, but he still didn’t move, his eyes not leaving your face and you could almost see the cogs whirring in his brain.

You whispered to him, pushing lightly on his chest, “Go catch the bad guy, Sarge, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right, bad guy, yeah,” and he went to the door with purpose, and you had to prevent yourself from saying something else you might regret. You knew there was something between you, there was attraction (you had caught him looking more than once), but you’re scared if you begin to care a whole lot more, that it might break you when he got hurt. Maybe it would change the team dynamic, or you could be used as leverage and a ploy against him. There were many potential downfalls if you admitted your feelings. It also terrified you that someone might be able to see underneath your toughened exterior. He might be attracted to the idea of you, the person on the outside, without knowing what he's getting on the inside.

“Hey Doc,” Nat’s voice cut through your downward spiral, “Think they might need some help down in the side room.”

You walked as quickly as you could without arousing suspicion towards the corridor. As the noise of the main hall died down, the clicks of your heels felt obnoxiously loud, something was off.

“Bucky? Tony?” you called out down the corridor, wondering where they had gone. If only you had looked at the blueprints before, guess that’s karma for not paying attention during the briefing. Tony would have your ass later. A large forearm closed around your neck, crushing your windpipe, and you convulsed, trying to get some air into your lungs.

A deep voice rumbled behind you. "No time for that. " His voice reverberated through your body, making you shudder at its malice. As your vision started to tunnel, Nat’s voice was in your ear, saying something you couldn’t work out. It sounded like you were underwater. Nat. Her knife. You moved your hand to your holster and pulled out the knife, sharply jabbing it into the guys leg, aiming for any artery you could find. He yelled out in pain and dropped you. Falling to your knees you gasped for air, taking long deep breaths and trying to calm yourself. The guy was now lying next to you, twitching. You knew in a couple of minutes he would bleed out and die, but at this point you were too thankful to care. When he finally lay still, you reached over and pulled out the knife, trying not to look at his paled face and shocked eyes. You had never quite got used to taking a life, no matter how necessary, it was never a pleasant ordeal. You were in the business of saving them, felt upside down doing the opposite. As you stood up Bucky hurled around the corner.

“What happened? Are you okay? Who’s this guy? Natasha said you weren’t answering comms and we got scared. I thought something might have happened to you,” he stopped, looked at the bloody knife in your hands and his face moved slowly back to your face, more questioning now, “Where did that come from?”

“A woman never tells,” you winked, hiding your fear behind a façade of calm, and slowly slid the knife back into its place on your thigh. Tony rounded the corner.

“Bad guy won’t be getting away, that’s for sure,” he regarded the body at your feet with a look of surprise and mild amusement, “I’m going to tell Sam he really doesn’t want to mess with you.” He brushed past you and Bucky, before adding finally, “Cops are on their way, I’m going to enjoy the free booze!” And with a wave, he was out of sight.

You wrung your hands and said to Bucky, not quite looking at him, “I’m going to head home, you’re more than welcome to stay here though.”

“Nah, I’ve outdone my social interaction quota for the month, I’ll drive you.”

Once more, you heard Sam pipe up in your ear, “Anyone still bothering you Major? I can come in and kick their ass for you, I’ve been told I’m quite adept at it.”

“Just a one old man, around 6”2? 260lbs? He has a bionic arm, but I reckon I can handle him Wilson, thanks for the offer.”

“Yes ma’am,” came the reply.

Bucky feigned offense before taking your hand, squeezing it twice before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and helping you in the direction of the car. You leaned on his shoulder, thankful for the solidity of it and its ever-present stability for you. As he placed a soft kiss on the crown of your head you decided that your feelings for him were a problem for future you, present you was going to enjoy his company without feeling guilty.

New York Times

Art thief found tied upside down with his own trousers, is now threatening to sue the Avengers and well-known billionaire Tony Stark. More on page 4.

  Chapter 5

 tags (message me if you want to be added!!):

@broco8​ @nerd-without-a-cause​ @sebbbystaaan​ @mcubuckyandsteve @cutiepiemimi13 ​ @velvetwonderbucky​

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes x y/n #b.b fanfic

[bluewatsons]

Laura Miller, Sleazy, bloody and surprisingly smart: In defense of true crime, Salon (May 30, 2014)

This stigmatized genre has much to teach us about the way crime and justice really work

Give me a book that begins with a time and a date and a boring address, something along the lines of "At 9:36 on March 24, 1982, Dep. Frank McGruff of the Huntington County Sheriff's Department was dispatched to 234 Maple Street in Pleasantville, North Carolina, a quiet, suburb 10 miles west of Raleigh, to follow up on reports of gunshots and screams."

There is nothing more generic than this sort of sentence -- which is why I was easily able to make one up on the fly -- and yet there's nothing more seductive, either. In it is promised: the regular-guy lawman (who always seems to have a new baby at home), the horrific crime scene (there is always more blood than anyone expects), the enigmatic object found lying in the foyer (marked with an X in the helpfully provided floor plan), the minute-by-minute timeline of that fatal half-hour, the witness reports that don't add up, the fractal-like multiplication of scenarios and theories and complications.

I've always felt somewhat sheepish about my appetite for true crime narratives, associated as they are with fat, flimsy paperbacks scavenged from the 25-cent box at garage sales, their battered covers branded with screaming two-word titles stamped in silver foil, blood dripping luridly from the last letter. The most famous practitioners of this louche genre -- Joe McGinniss, Ann Rule, Vincent Bugliosi -- come coated with a thin, greasy film of dubious repute and poor taste. (Can there ever be a valid reason to title a book "A Rose for Her Grave"?) True crime is also the mother's milk of risible tabloid journalism, of endless trashy news cycles in which the same photo of a wide-eyed innocent bride (where is she?); a gap-toothed kindergarten student (who killed him?); a bleary-eyed, stubbled suspect (why did he do it?) appear over and over and over again.

Occasionally, true crime is where literary writers go to slum and, not coincidentally, make some real money: Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood," Norman Mailer's "The Executioner's Song." It's not the Great American Novel, yet somehow such books have a tendency to end up the most admired works of a celebrated author's career. Is it because better writers tease something out of the genre that pulp peddlers can't, or is it just that their blue-chip names give readers a free pass to indulge a guilty pleasure?

By contrast, crime fiction has a better rep. It is the most respectable form of genre fiction, the one that even the snootiest literary critics will admit to enjoying now and then. They justly praise the innovative prose styles of Raymond Chandler or Elmore Leonard as vehicles for a distinctively American voice. And crime -- transgression of the social and moral order -- is one of literature's central themes, after all. Isn't one of the greatest novels of all time called "Crime and Punishment"? Plus, from Cormac McCarthy's "No Country for Old Men" to Toni Morrison's "Beloved," many novels by literary titans are crime fiction by another name.

True crime, however, labors always under the stigma of voyeurism, or worse. It's not just unseemly to linger over the bloodied bodies of the dead and the hideous sufferings inflicted upon them in their final hours, it's also kind of sick. Gillian Flynn's second novel, "Dark Places," describes the wincing interactions between its narrator -- survivor of a notorious multiple murder like the Clutter killings of "In Cold Blood" -- and a creepy subculture of murder "fans" and collectors; when she's hard up for cash, she's forced to auction off family memorabilia at their conventions. Yuck.

The very thing that makes true crime compelling -- this really happened -- also makes it distasteful: the use of human agony for the purposes of entertainment. Of course, what is the novel if not a voyeuristic enterprise, an attempt to glimpse inside the minds and hearts of other people? But with fiction, no actual people are exploited in the making.

I love crime fiction, too, but lately I've come to appreciate true crime more, specifically for its lack of certain features that crime fiction nearly always supplies: solutions, explanations, answers. Even if the culprit isn't always caught and brought to justice in a detective novel, we expect to find out whodunit, and that expectation had better be satisfied. A novelist who dares to build her narrative around a murder and then refuses to collar the perp by the last chapter -- as Donna Tartt did in her sumptuous, underappreciated second novel, "The Little Friend" -- will never hear the end of it. Readers of books and viewers of television and film demand not only to know who did it but why, preferably with a tidy little back story about a molesting uncle, bullying schoolmates or a mom who tricked with sailors in the next room. We believe in evil, but we also want pop psychology to explain it away.

Crime fiction reassures us that for every murder there is a sleuth as obsessed as we are with getting to the bottom of the puzzle. There are the formulaic clashes between the committed police detective and the self-serving brass, the feds who interfere with the locals (or vice versa) for purely territorial reasons, the nagging spouse and the occasional sloppy, time-serving colleague who just wants to wrap this thing up before he's set to retire with a full pension. But there's also always someone, the hero -- whether public officer or private dick -- who really, really wants to find out the truth and has the brains (and sometimes the brawn) required to do it.

Because most of us have a lot more experience with crime fiction -- TV and movies, but also books -- than we do with actual crime, our sense of how law enforcement works has been distorted by the imperatives of entertainment. Forensic scientists often complain that the public expects them to possess and deploy the wizardly high-tech tools they see every week on "CSI." Because the "CSI" team's gear is presented as omniscient and infallible, legal professionals must contend with jurors' overinflated confidence in forensic evidence. Even the most appalling news stories of incompetent or corrupt lab workers will never register as deeply as watching Gil Grissom and his earnest sidekicks stay up all night and ruin their marriages for the sake of seeing justice done.

For all their lingering shots of mangled bodies and gooey, maggot-ridden corpses, these TV procedurals paint a too-pretty picture. If Jack Nicholson were a true-crime author, he'd be telling the audience for such pseudo-gritty shows that they can't handle the truth. Finding myself seated next to a criminal prosecutor-turned-defense attorney at a wedding several years ago, I asked him what pop culture gets the most wrong about crime and punishment in America. After a long pause, he said, "I'm torn between two answers: How much police care about getting it right and how competent they are to do it."

True crime is not above trafficking in misleading clichés -- because, let's face it, there's not much that true crime is above. The majority of the genre is cheap sensationalism, deploying the most shopworn clichés: tragic maidens; idyllic small towns; smiling devils; winsome, doomed tots. Much true crime has achieved its goals if it gives its readers something to shiver over late at night or to whisper about at school. (Most of my early knowledge of true crime classics like "Helter Skelter" came from other girls who got ahold of the books while baby sitting and recounted the most horrific details to a breathless audience on the playground the next day.) Plenty of it offers a comforting message similar to that of crime fiction: that, for all the bewildering and seemingly random violence of this world, it is usually possible for us to know what really happened and who's responsible.

But we also live in a golden age when it comes to a more challenging vein of true crime. These books include Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls," about 14 unsolved murders in Long Island; Raymond Bonner's "Anatomy of Injustice," about the wrongful capital conviction of a black handyman for the rape and murder of an elderly white widow in South Carolina; Janet Malcolm's "Iphigenia in Forest Hills," about the celebrated journalist's inability to accept the guilty verdict against a young mother accused of hiring a man to murder her ex-husband; and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error," which is in part a challenge to another milestone in the genre, Joe McGinniss' "Fatal Vision." Coming up next month is another landmark, "The Wrong Carlos," by James Liebman and the Columbia DeLuna Project, an exhaustively researched consideration of a 1980s case in which the state of Texas most likely executed the wrong man.

Even true crime books in which the identity of the killer is uncontested can open up welcome vistas of uncertainty. Recently, Anand Giridharadas' "The True American" examines the lives of two men: the sole survivor of a hate-crime spree, who forgave and tried to save his would-be killer, and the killer himself, who seems to have become a different man before his 2011 execution; who was he, really? Dave Cullen's masterful "Columbine," published in 2009, offers the most definitive account of the infamous school shooting and clears up many misperceptions, but still leaves the reader with a sense that the reasons for such acts may be fundamentally unknowable. Several years ago, when I was interviewing Margaret Atwood about "Alias Grace," her novel about a maid convicted of killing her master in 19th-century Canada, she remarked that murderers themselves often don't seem to understand their own crimes. They describe the acts as something that "just happened" or as if they were committed by someone else even as they acknowledge they did it. The true crime accounts I've read confirm what Atwood said.

Most important of all, true crime reminds its readers over and over again that most detectives aren't fantastically clever, that most investigations make dozens of significant mistakes and that even the most seemingly hard evidence can become as indeterminate as a quantum particle under sustained study. Sometimes the confusion is understandable. Jeff Guinn's "Manson," a biography of the murderous cult leader published last year, recounts how long the LAPD spent pursuing a bogus scenario in investigating the massacre at Sharon Tate's home.

Investigators assumed that because drugs were found on the premises, the motive was probably a drug deal or connection gone bad. Manson had his followers plant "clues," in the form of weird words written on the wall in blood, with the bizarre idea that the police would instantly link these words to the Black Panthers. (They instead assumed it was just crazy druggie writing, which of course it was.) Much time was lost before the cops were put on the right track by an informant. This, incidentally, is how most real-life whodunits, such as the Unabomber attacks, seem to be solved. There's nothing like true crime to dispel the notion that criminals get caught because of a detective's brilliant reading of the clues. Rather, they get caught because someone rats them out.

Nowhere is the danger of investigators' tendency to settle too early on a theory of the crime more evident than in stories of wrongful conviction. As "Anatomy of Injustice" tells it, police decided that Edward Lee Elmore, the simple-minded African-American man who had mowed neighborhood lawns for years, suddenly turned violent. Under the influence of a suspiciously meddlesome neighbor, a local city councilman, they ignored significant evidence contradicting this theory, and eventually resorted to falsifying evidence, while Elmore's own lawyers barely bothered to defend him at all. Finally, thanks to the efforts of an attorney working for South Carolina's Center for Capital Litigation, the conviction was overturned. The actual murderer has never been identified, but at least an innocent man has escaped death row.

Investigations aren't always led astray by deliberate manipulation, however. In "The Wrong Carlos," confused and inept handling of the crime scene, witnesses and hunt for the man who stabbed a convenience store clerk in Corpus Christi combined with coincidence and bad luck to lead to the unjust execution of Carlos DeLuna. He was the spitting image of the likely culprit to the degree that even people who knew either of the men quite well couldn't tell photos of them apart. Under the aegis of Liebman, 12 Columbia Law School students pored over the records of the case, producing a meticulous and highly detailed report on the crime investigation and trial -- which, while sobering, is also catnip for the amateur detective. It strongly suggests DeLuna was innocent and it's so convincing that even the victim's brother agrees.

Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls" and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error" may be the most accomplished true crime narratives I've read in recent years. The killer or killers responsible for dumping bodies along a lonely Long Island road have yet to be identified. The investigation appears to be stalled for a variety of reasons having to do with the personalities and ambitions of local officials. So Kolker's "Lost Girls" focuses instead on the lives and families of the dead, young women who drifted into the world of prostitution and could not succeed at pulling themselves out again. It's a portrait of underclass life, frayed by substance abuse, domestic violence, crime and fecklessness, and it asks not what circumstances create a monster but which ones forge his victims.

"A Wilderness of Error" is remarkable not just for questioning a murder investigation and conviction but also for condemning the famous true-crime narrative written about them. Morris is a master of the genre, albeit in a different medium (documentary film) and can even claim to have gotten an innocent man out of jail by making "The Thin Blue Line" in 1988. Above all, he is preoccupied with how we establish what's true. His first book, "Believing Is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography," dismantles our faith in the facticity of photographed images. "A Wilderness of Error," his second, concerns the case of Jeffrey MacDonald, convicted of murdering his wife and two small children in 1970. The crimes were the center of a bestselling book, "Fatal Vision" by Joe McGinniss, later made into a TV movie, that pressed home McGinniss' theory that MacDonald was a psychopath.

The writing of "Fatal Vision" was the subject of yet another book, Janet Malcolm's "The Journalist and the Murderer," devoted to probing the moral soft spots in all journalists' relationships to their subjects, but Morris believes these murders were insufficiently investigated and that MacDonald did not get a fair trial. Many aficionados of the trial find Morris' arguments unconvincing, but that is partly Morris' point. Just like the cops, outside observers settle on a story about what happened and become invested in it. They then ignore or dismiss any evidence that undermines that story, often with a vehemence that increases as the counter-evidence mounts. Certainty, an emotional state all too common today, is less a testament to the merits of a belief than a measure of how much we want to go on believing it.

At the very least, Morris presents a convincing case that an uncertain McGinniss was pushed into endorsing MacDonald's guilt by his publisher because offering a conclusion would make for a more satisfying book. Later, of course, the author had no choice but to double down on that conclusion, and whether or not he believed it before his editor urged him to declare the case solved in his own mind, he seems to have fully believed it in the end. All this would be meat for an interesting consideration of the nature of truth and whether it can ever be meaningfully detached from desire, but as Morris keeps pointing out, when it comes to true crime, real lives and real justice are at stake. Crime fiction can afford to go on telling us what we want to hear, but at its best true crime insists on telling us what we can't afford to forget.

#media #true crime #ethics #errol morris #crime fiction #crime #society #detective fiction #television procedurals #Joe McGinniss

[fayes-fics]

Innocence: Pt IV

Innocence series masterpost

PREV  |  NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict finally takes his wife's innocence

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, innocence/corruption kink, sex education, loss of virginity, dirty talk, smidge of exhibtionism, oral sex (m to f), vaginal sex.

Word Count: 6.2k (oops)

Authors Note: Here we are, it's the wedding night and sex finally happens. I hope you enjoy <3 Thanks as always to makaylan for the beta read.

There’s a persistent feeling the whole of your wedding day. As if, in some ways, you are waiting for it to be over. Yes, your ceremony is lovely and emotional, and yes, the reception after is a terrific party filled with family and friends, but it’s not what you are anticipating.

A wedding lasts but one day; a marriage lasts a lifetime.

You are eager to get to the part where it’s just the two of you; starting the rest of your life together.

So, as you ascend into his, now your, horse-drawn carriage to return to his, now your, London home, the wait is finally over. His hand feels warm through your glove as he assists you, well-wishers waving you farewell as the carriage jolts to life.

He is smiling at you, sitting in the opposite seat, and you pout at him.

“What’s wrong, Mrs Bridgerton?” he teases, knowing how much you love your new title.

“You are quite far away,” you huff with mock indignance. “Can you not sit with me?”

There is a brief chuckle. “I am but a foot from you,” he points out, your knees touching, “and this carriage ride will be five minutes at most. It would be rather cramped if I were to sit next to you, and I doubt you would be comfortable. Now that I think on it, this is a carriage designed for one, really. We need to upgrade now, especially if we start a fam….”

He stops mid-sentence, his mouth falling open fractionally and his pupils rapidly dilating. You have quickly straddled him and sat on his legs, just like you did on that fateful night of the Bridgerton Ball.

“Husband,” you purr with a raised eyebrow, enjoying the look of surprise and desire on his face.

A large hand lands on your thigh, warm through your silk dress. “Is this how it’s going to be?” He fires you a lopsided grin. “My wanton little wife just climbing into my lap on every carriage ride?”

You tilt your head with a knowing smile and a raised eyebrow. “Is that a complaint or a compliment I hear, Mr Bridgerton?” you volley playfully, champagne making you louche and just a little bold.

His eyes sparkle in the low light of the passing street lamp as his face erupts into a proper grin. “Oh, I married so very well,” he opines and leans in to capture your lips with his.

You shuffle forward as the kiss deepens, and he makes a noise into your mouth as you rock the apex of your thighs on his crotch.

“How long did you say this carriage ride would be, husband?” you check as you break the kiss.

“Five minutes, more like three now,” Benedict replies, sounding almost rueful.

“Pity. I was rather thinking of fulfilling your wish,” you tease, running your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck.

“What wish?”

“For me to suck your cock in our carriage,” you breathe right into his ear.

He makes a low noise, and his fingers dig into your hips.

“Another time, my love,” he murmurs, “tonight is when you truly become a woman. Are you looking forward to it?”

“Yes, husband,” you whisper, diving back in for a hungry kiss as the carriage jostles you slightly to the left; you have to shoot out a hand and hold the roof to keep on him. His hands band around your bottom and pull you snugly over his rigid cock as you again plunder each other’s mouths. Endless kisses as you grind each other unhurriedly, building a simmering tension that threatens to boil over.

So engrossed in each other, neither of you realises the carriage has stopped moving until there is a polite throat clearing as a footman stands expectantly outside the door.

“We are here, my love,” he coos softly, not a shred of embarrassment about being caught in a passionate clinch.

In his arms, you duck down to look through the carriage window at the red brick townhouse that will be your London home. It looks homely, handsome even.

“It looks wonderful, Benedict,” you exhale, turning back to face him and placing a light kiss on his lips before detangling yourself from his lap.

He assists you down the steps to the pavement, but as you move towards the door, he sweeps you off your feet bridal style as you squeak in surprise.

“Do you honestly think I wouldn’t carry you over the threshold Mrs Bridgerton?” his tone honeyed with an undercurrent of heat, his body solid against you.

You stare at him mesmerised, your mouth open in surprise as he shoots a lopsided grin and takes a few purposeful strides towards the now-opened door.

“Thank you, Smith,” he nods to his valet as you enter. There is a friendly-faced elderly gentleman already in his outdoor coat and hat, “Provided all is how we discussed, you may leave for the night.”

“It is all set. Thank you, sir.” The elderly man bustles away, closing and locking the front door behind him.

“Should I not have been properly introduced to your valet darling?” you ask as he moves towards the stairs, your attention pinging around the hallway, admiring the decor of your new home.

“You will,” he guarantees, “but I have given all my staff the night off, so we may have our privacy. Mr Smith is well aware that our attention will only be on each other tonight. He will meet you when it is appropriate to do so. And that moment isn’t while I am so hard and eager to be inside you,” he whispers.

You giggle into his neck and kiss the warm skin there, enjoying the flex of his body as he carries you upstairs.

“Your home is beautiful, Benedict,” you sigh, craning your head to look around.

“Our,” he corrects, “our home. And if there is anything not to your liking, we can change it,” he offers as he moves down the corridor and sweeps you into a large room with a roaring fire and a four-poster bed. “This is our bedroom, my love,” he explains softly as he delicately pulls off your shoes and places you back on your feet.

“It’s so lovely. But I shall not have my own chambers,” you query in surprise, cataloguing the room, already enamoured with it, “as my parents do?”

“If you wish it so, you may,” he shrugs, “there are other rooms, but… I was rather hoping you would always lay with me,” his face suddenly tinged with a touch of vulnerability.

You look up and throw your arms around him. “That is what I want more than anything,” you rush out. “I am just getting used to being married, and I only have my parents to go on. I have no idea how all this works, Benedict; you will need to teach me,” you confess ardently.

“I will, but I think there are some more important things I need to teach you tonight, my love,” he says duskily, his voice dropping to a tone that vibrates right to your core.

Thoughts of anything else scatter as he walks you backwards, his lips ghosting over yours, the room suddenly notching up a few degrees as heat prickles over your skin, making the little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You feel your spine brush solid wood and realise he has pressed you against a pillar of the four-poster bed.

Still kissing you, you feel his large hands unfastening the dress buttons between your shoulder blades.

“This wedding dress is stunning,” he murmurs, “but it is time it came off.”

You nod as he moves his lips down to your throat. Nudging your chin upwards with his nose and delicately nipping the skin over your windpipe, moving around to the side of your neck with soft gossamer kisses as his hands pull the fabric from your shoulders. Your dress relents, falling to a heap on the floor,

“Benedict,” you gasp his name as he tugs you roughly to his body, just in your chemise now. Fingers spider up your spine through the thin material.

“What is it, my love?” He asks, his breath hot on your skin, his teeth gently worrying the spot below your ear as his fingers push the chemise loose from your shoulders.

“Am I supposed to feel so, so overwhelmed?” You whisper, your body a riot of sensation. You feel flushed, and the ache between your legs has not been this intense before when still this dressed.

He chuckles richly, the sound vibrating into your bones as he surrounds you.

“Oh yes, my love, you should feel overwhelmed, drunken almost on sensation,” he explains, his words gusting into your ear, your earlobe between his teeth. “If I do this right, I don’t want a single thought in your head; I want you chasing the feelings your body is giving you. Don’t think, my darling, feel,” he advises, and with that, your chemise floats down to the floor to join your dress.

He grabs your hands and steps back; you watch as his gaze runs down over your body, just your stockings and stays left now. You feel somewhat self-conscious under his heavy appraisal, but he is holding both your hands out so you cannot cover yourself up.

“Am I still acceptable to you, husband?” You check, same as you had a few days before when he visited your bed chamber.

“You already know the answer to that,” he answers, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he places one of your hands over the bulge in his trousers.

You smile back at him as you splay your fingers out and squeeze him through the rough material.

“May I?” You ask coquettishly as you move to unbutton his trousers.

The hand over yours bats it away.

“Not yet,” he smiles.

He brings your hands high above your head, forcing you onto tiptoe like a ballerina.

“Turn around, my love,” he instructs, and you do so, his grip changing to your wrists as you turn your back to him. “Wonderful,” he compliments, stepping forward, so your bottom rubs against his rigid cock. He guides both your hands onto the wooden corner post of the bed. “Hold on here, and don’t let go until I ask you to,” he orders, releasing his grip as your hands grasp the wood as asked. It’s polished, smooth and warmed by the nearby fireplace. It feels solid under your palms, something reassuring to cling to.

His hands run over your arms, then over your back, until he reaches the lace of your stays.

“Tell me, darling,” he enunciates languidly as his fingers pluck the strings, “are you wet for me?”

“Yes, husband,” you reply, already feeling your hot, slick desire dripping onto your thighs at the mere mention of it.

“Do me a favour, as my wife?” Anytime you are wet for me, tell me. I don’t care where we are; I want you to lean over and tell me quietly right into my ear. Will you promise to do that for me?”

“Yes, husband,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” the way he says those two words has you in a jumble, and a sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.

“Oh my goodness, what was that delightful noise?” he teases, kissing the back of your neck almost as a reflex, as your stays come loose from his unlacing. “Is that because I called you a good girl?” his voice impossibly low as your last item of clothing falls from your torso.

You nod and bite your lip.

“Oh, then I shall always call you that in the bedroom,” he opines. “I need to hear that noise the way I need air.” There is a desperation to his tone that makes you lightheaded and frantic. As if he is as affected by you as you are by him, and you want to know it, to feel it in every fibre of your being—a mutual burning passion.

Your body is naked now except for your stockings, and his hands feel huge as he smears them down the expanse of your bare back, taking his time, trailing goosebumps in his wake, making you pant in anticipation and hold onto the pillar for dear life.

He drops to his knees behind you, and you feel him plucking the ribbons that keep your stocking over your knee. When they relent, his fingers trail over the back of your calves, taking the white silk with them. You are utterly naked now, yet he is fully clothed; his jacket is still buttoned up.

“Please take off your clothes,” you implore, even though you can’t see him.

“I will, my love,” he responds, “and you will watch me. But first…”

His hands grab your ankles and push them apart. You gasp in surprise as he kisses the back of your knee, and his tongue runs wet and wide up the back of your thigh until he reaches the globe of your bottom and bites it.

“Benedict..” you tense a little, realising he is pushing his nose into the crease between your cheeks.

“Shh, do not be concerned,” he soothes, the sound muffled against the back of your thighs. “Now bend over some more, please.”

You do as asked, your grip lowering on the pillar as you bend.

“That’s perfect” you feel his breath over your damp inner thighs and then feel blinding pleasure as he buries his face between your legs from behind.

“Benedict!” this time, it’s a loud throaty cry as his stubbly chin raps your clit, and his tongue unfurls, requesting access to your channel.

“Yes, wife, yell my name,” he growls into you, “tell the whole world you want me.”

Your knuckles go white from gripping so hard, eyes closed as he literally eats you from behind. His teeth nipping at your labia, his tongue gathering your moisture and drinking it down. You are sure this must be the most debauched tableau, and a thrill ripples over your skin at the realisation that the curtains around the windows are still open; with the sconces lit and the fireplace roaring, you are visible to the neighbouring houses all around the square.

“Benedict, we can be seen!”

“I know. Let them watch; maybe they will learn something,” he replies huskily, then sucks your clit between his lips. It makes you moan hard and push back.

“Yes, moan for me, writhe on my face,” he encourages.

He was right; you are drunk, drunk on sensation, drunk on him. You are dancing close to something amazing and feel it tingling across your skin. He keeps pushing with his tongue spiralling you higher, and then he sucks your clit hard between his teeth, and you are gone. Your legs shake as you drive back onto his face riding the shockwaves that emanate from your core. Waves of bliss tensing and releasing your muscles. You know you are calling his name and a litany of other words, but it’s all a blur as you fight to stay upright, sagging against the bedpost.

Just as you start to float, you are snapped back into the room as he pushes a finger into your fluttering channel, and you squeal at the sudden invasion.

“Oh my darling, I forgot how deliciously tight you are,” he groans into your thigh, “and how delectably wet you get.”

“Oh my god, Benedict, your fingers feel huge. Please go slow,” you plead, breathing deep, still fizzing from your orgasm.

“Darling, that’s just one finger; I will add a second and a third. Then you will have some sense of how my cock will feel.”

With that, you feel a stretch and keen as he gradually adds another finger and rocks into your fluttering channel.

“How’s that, my darling?”

“Fr…From this angle, it feels di…different than when I was in your lap,” you pant, confused.

“I’m reaching a little deeper, that’s why. You are halfway down my finger now, you brave girl,” his voice rough, the pressure inside feeling different.

“Is this what your cock will feel like?” You ask, clinging desperately to the bedpost.

“No, my cock will feel much bigger and go much deeper inside you,” he preens.

“Oh god, Benedict, I don’t know if I can take it,” you fret.

“Yes, you can, and you will do so beautifully.” He insists, “we just need to go slow, my darling. I can do that for you.” He promises and adds a third finger.

“That’s so much. I’m so full, Benedict,” you almost wail.

“Oh darling, you have no idea,” he chuckles against your bottom, teething the skin there.

You breathe in deep as he rocks his fingers in and out of your body, making the most carnal squelching noises, his fingers coated in your juices.

“Well done, darling,” he praises gently. “I won’t push any deeper for now, but in the future, you will take the length of my fingers and love it.”

Suddenly his fingers are gone, and he’s standing up behind you.

“Turn around,” he orders softly, and you do. The post digs between your shoulder blades as you lean upon it, your legs still wobbly. He waits until you look up into his eyes before he places the fingers that were inside you into his mouth and sucks them clean. You watch, mesmerised, until he pitches forward and kisses you deep, the tart, almost sweet taste of you blooming on your tongue.

“Now it’s your turn, my darling,” he declares calmly, “you may undress me.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach as you reach for his jacket and fumble slightly as you slide the buttons loose. He looks down at you with a gentle expression as the jacket hits the floor with an audible thump. Next, you undo his waistcoat, starting to feel the warmth of his skin underneath as your fingers brush his shirt between buttons. Once that is discarded, you decide to surprise him.

You kneel and remove his boots one at a time, taking his socks too. When you glance up and see his gaze hooded, his chest moving up and down more rapidly than before, a warm feeling slides down your spine, and on instinct, you sit up on your heels and pitch your face forward, rubbing your nose over the rigid cock straining under his trousers.

He practically howls as you close your mouth around it, knowing your saliva is seeping through the material onto his heated steely flesh.

“Fucking hell, y/n,” he gusts, and you flood all over again, this need to please him so potent and intoxicating. “Your mouth feels like heaven, but please, no more; I need all my concentration to make this good for you.” You pout up at him, and he affectionately cups your cheek. “I love how enthusiastic you are to have me in your mouth, my love. Believe me. But this is for your benefit, just for tonight.”

You take his proffered hand and stand up.

“Why don't you remove my shirt?” he suggests with a knowing little smile. “You have yet to see my body nude.”

You perk up at that thought, and he lets you peel off his shirt, revealing pale skin with a smattering of freckles. When the material joins the growing pile on the floor, he takes your wrist and guides your hand onto his chest. You feel the play of muscle movement as he breathes. Fascinated, you run fingertips over his contours, his torso so very sculpted and appealing. His skin is warm and smooth.

“Do you like what you see?” He queries, almost demure.

“Very much,” you respond honestly, crawling your fingers up from his abs to his left nipple, puckering as you scratch a gentle fingernail over the nub.

His eyes track you as you begin to circle him, placing a kiss on his bicep as you pass. You trail your hand over the plane of his back, watching as there is a ripple over his skin where you touch.

“I like your body, husband. I feel the urge to touch it, kiss it,” you confess.

“You may,” he offers over his shoulder and somewhat on instinct, you crowd against him and kiss a notch on his spine, your peaked nipples pressing into the curve of his back as you do so. He makes a sound thick with desire. Your tongue shoots out unbidden and licks a line, your hands grabbing his clothed bum as you do. His skin has a salty tang that is irresistible.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters heavily.

“Did I do something wrong?” You whisper over his warm flesh, unwilling to remove your lips.

“Not at all,” he assures, “I love how instinctive you are. So inquisitive and so very carnal. It’s just delicious, wife,” his low tone rumbling from his ribcage.

“I like the vibration when you talk. I want to lean against you and have you read to me,” you sigh, “I love your voice, Benedict.”

He chuckles richly as you complete your circle around him, your lips landing on his pectoral muscle right above his thumping heart.

Two large hands cup your jaw and tilt your head to look at him. His pupils are blown, and his breath is slightly ragged. “I will talk to you as much as you want, my wife. I notice how your eyes darken when I whisper filthy words to you. Do you want me to tell you what comes next?”

Hypnotised, you sway a little in his arms and catch your bottom lip between your teeth as you nod.

“Once we are both naked, I am going to lay you down on that bed and climb between your legs. You will need to spread your legs wide, like when I held you open on my lap in front of the mirror. Are you ready to do that for me?”

You nod again, chewing the lip now, the tingle between your legs morphing into a full blooming ache.

“Good. Girl.” each word is a sentence, and you feel a shiver race down your spine.

“I felt that,” he gusts, tilting his head closer. “I will never ever tire of your body responding to my voice. It’s so very alluring,” he exhales, his hand flexing on your jaw.

“Then what will happen, husband?” you ask, enchanted.

“Then I will take my cock and push it gently into your body.”

You whimper at the thought.

“I still don’t think it will fit, husband,” you worry.

“Darling, a baby can come out of that channel. Believe me; I will fit in.”

“It does what?!?” you exclaim in shock.

“When you have our baby, my love, it will come out of there.” he lectures, a hand moving to caress your hair soothingly. “They really do teach you absolutely nothing.”

You try to put the thought out of your mind as it’s too much to contemplate—one thing at a time.

“Well, perhaps, husband, it is a good thing we are so very ignorant,” you reply, a tick of amusement on your lips.

“Why do you say that?” his tone becomes light and teasing, the hand in your hair slides to the back of your head, fingers stretching wide to cradle you.

“Because if I knew what it was like to suck your cock or have your tongue inside me, I would think of precious little else,” you respond seductively “in fact, I have thought of little else since.”

He makes a needy sound, crushing your lips to his; he devours your mouth as his other hand tugs at his trousers. As your fingers run covetously over his body, his tongue slides over yours, and his wedding ring catches your scalp as you feel his trousers slip away. You are both naked now, his cock searing your belly.

Before you can touch him, he breaks the kiss and picks you up as he did when he carried you into the house, placing you carefully at the centre of the bed. His lips find yours again as he hovers over you.

“Open your legs, darling,” his voice velvet and honeyed.

Slowly you open your legs wide, and he climbs between them. You see his engorged cock bob close to his body as he does so, and nerves fire in your belly.

He settles over you, his naked flesh covering yours, and you stop breathing for a moment. So much heat, and his natural scent floods your senses. You thought it was overwhelming when he laid on top of you fully clothed, but now without a stitch of fabric to separate your skin, it’s even more so. You don’t have adequate words to describe it. His weight pins you down, his cock brands the patch of hair between your legs, his arms cage your body, his hard chest solid against your soft breasts.

“Oh my god, Benedict,” spills from your lips.

“Do you like having my naked body between your legs, wife?”

“Yes,” you hiss as his teeth grab your earlobe and suck it insistently.

“Are you ready for me, darling?” It’s a dark whisper in your ear as a hand trails down over your skin and cups your core. “You certainly feel it to me.”

His fingers tease your bud, and your hips cant towards him, his hipbones digging into your flesh as you do so.

“Please go slow,” you murmur, and his eyes soften.

“Of course, my love,” he reassures, and you feel his hand slip away from your folds and grab his cock.

You feel a sizeable blunt pressure between your legs and gasp.

His other hand caresses your cheek. “Look into my eyes, darling; that way, I’ll know everything you need,” he promises.

You hold his gaze, your body alight with anticipation laced with a silky thread of fear. You feel your body open up a fraction, and the tip of his cock slips inside you. Your world tilts. It is so hot, so hard, so big.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes going so wide, barely able to blink.

“You’re doing fantastic, darling,” he confirms, breathless and shaky from the effort of holding himself back so much, the instinct to plunge into your body so strong.

There is a stretching sensation inside, and you groan as he slips in further, the skin all around your cunt pulling taunt at the invasion. Then you feel a weird tugging resistance, and he stills.

“Darling, I can’t pretend this next part will be pleasant for you,” he admits quietly, “but it will be over momentarily, and you will not have to endure it ever again. This will be your maidenhood gone. Are you ready?’

You swallow heavily, the feeling already so intense. “Alright, husband.”

Sweetly, he takes your hand and kisses the back of it as you feel a sharp stab of pain that makes you whine. It feels like something inside you has snapped.

He is still again. “Well done, darling,” he coaches, “you took that so well. Do you still hurt?”

“A little,” you concede, feeling a residual dull ache around where he broke through.

He kisses the tip of your nose. “It will go away momentarily, I promise.”

Then he pushes in a little deeper, and the feeling is so strange. Not quite painful, but just so much pressure—like you need to burst.

“Relax, my darling.” he tutors, touching your ribs, “it will hurt less if you release your muscles. Breathe out for me.”

You do as asked, and he slides the last few inches more easily. You feel a tickle on your clit; it’s his pubic hair brushing you, his balls resting on your bottom, And you feel so very, very full.

He groans lightly, “See, I told you I would fit”, his voice delicate and soothing.

“Are you all the way in, Benedict?”

The pressure simultaneously feels completely alien but somehow pleasant.

“Yes, my love,” he responds, not moving as you adjust to the sensation.

“My god, it feels like you are in my tummy.” you blurt out, and he groans again.

“Yes, darling, I’m deep inside you now. As far as I can go,” he rocks a tiny spurt forward, and you moan at a different tugging sensation, this one pleasurable.

“That’s your hilt, my love. I’m at the very top of your channel. You see, as I told you, we fit together perfectly.” He smiles and leans down to give your lips an affectionate kiss.

“Now, what happens?” You ask softly.

“If you are comfortable, I will start to move.”

You take stock of your body, and other than the feeling of being so viscerally invaded, so held open in an entirely new way, you feel fine, well, even. The bloom of pain that you felt subsided. “I am comfortable,” you confirm.

“Wonderful,'' almost a sigh of relief. “I shall go slow at first, but I will go quicker when you tell me to.”

Your axis is thrown again as you feel him withdraw, your slick channel clinging to his cock, trying to draw him back in. You feel the ridge of his tip drag over your walls. Then he is surging back in, and all you can do is pant and cling to his body.

“Fuck Benedict,” it’s all your say.

“Does that feel good, my darling wife?” You thought his voice was dangerous before, but now with his cock buried inside you and his lips hot on your ear, it’s genuinely lethal; you feel your heart pounding.

“Oh my god, I never knew… nothing could prepare me for this; it’s breathtaking,” you effuse.

He laughs, and you gulp as you feel the jolt inside you. “Just you wait,” that killer voice expresses throatily.

You twine your arms around his body as he builds to a leisurely pace now. And you go with him, pushing up against his strokes into your body.

“Oh yes, that’s it, move with me.” he compliments and kisses you lightly as he rocks you.

The bedding rucks under your shoulder blades as he speeds up a little, and you both breathe heavily into each other's mouths. Every stroke makes your eyes want to roll back, your feet flexing against the mattress.

Then he changes angle, and suddenly you can’t help the sound that escapes you. It’s a moan and a cry all at once. A blinding surge of pleasure races through your body from your cunt all the way to your scalp.

“Oh, look what we’ve found,” his tone smooth as silk and rich as dark chocolate.

“What is that?” you rasp.

“That, my darling wife, is the spot deep inside you that I’m going to hit repeatedly to make you come so hard you won’t ever want to do anything else for days; just stay in this bed and fuck me,” he gloats, the confidence oozing out of his every pore. If you weren’t so far gone and dazed by that one spike of sensation, you would pull a disapproving face at that line. As it is, you feel your body clench around him and gush down his cock as he says it.

“My god, I love you,” he growls as he wheezes from the pressure you exert.

“You just love my cunt,” you riposte cheekily, grabbing his bum cheek and digging your nails into his tight flesh, then suddenly biting your lip, horrified by what slipped out without conscious thought.

He stills and pulls back. His expression is wild, his mouth dropping open in shock. “Fucking hell, wife. Where did this wonderful filthy mouth come from? And how can we ensure it never goes away?”

The last question is pitched low, and you know, on instinct, he wants you to grab his bum again, so you do.

“We are not leaving this bed for a week,” he snarls, grabbing both your hands and pinning them onto the pillow. “By the end, you will know everything I do and talk filth to me. I can’t wait for you to do that. My darling little innocent becoming my darling minx of a wife. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Good. My god, you were made for me. And I was for you.” He stutters.

He guides your hands back onto his shoulders.

“Are you ready to feel something truly extraordinary, y/n?”

“Yes, Benedict.”

And then he starts to move again, and it’s a blurry tide of carnality. His cock nudges that spot inside with each movement, and you cry out every time, your nails digging deep into his flesh, your legs hitching up around his hips, chasing the high, wanting more. Always wanting more.

You are drowning in him; he is inside and all around you. Pounding into your body now with a force you didn’t think you could ever withstand, but all you feel is incredible fullness and blinding pleasure as each stroke tugs at your clit, filling you up perfectly.

You rasp his name, and he grunts hard, the slippery dew on your skin making you slide against each other. His scent captivates you most; it makes your taste buds prickle and salivate. You want to bite him and soothe his flesh with your tongue. You want to mark him, have him mark you, a primal want of mutual ownership.

“Tell me this is good for you,” his voice implores with a tinge of ferocity.

“This is wonderful; I’ve never felt anything like this,” you answer truthfully, your voice surging with the push of his body roughly into you, wanting more than anything for him to believe you. “Please don’t stop, I feel something building Benedict, and it’s so, so magical.”

He groans deep and long as you tell him that, and you can tell he is hanging by a thread, waiting for you to break so he can too.

“Touch yourself, my darling, just like I taught you,” he breathes, guiding your hand so it is trapped between your bodies.

You curl your fingers into the top of your folds just as he showed you, shuddering as your knuckles brush his moving cock. Blinding, searing pleasure races through your body. Then you can’t stop the noises you are making, the white-hot intensity notching up your spine from your core and turning your thoughts to nothing but this, and now, and oh god, more.

You know your other hand is gripping his back hard, pushing up to meet his thrusts, writhing on his cock, calling his name, but it’s a distant second to the feeling exploding inside and the spots dancing behind your eyes as you screw them shut and scream. You hear him lavish praise on you, a chorus of yes, yes, yes, but the rush of blood in your ears makes everything so muffled.

He is thrusting hard now, feeling impossibly large as your cunt clenches in waves around him. Still floating, you hear his voice call out; he stills and makes the most guttural call against your neck, his mouth slack and hot on your skin.

Then there is a warm bloom of something deep inside you as he reaches his peak.

“Is that you, Benedict? Your seed?” You chant, still feeling under a spell.

“Yes,” he slurs near your ear, “milk it all from me, my darling.” And you do, cunt still fluttering and clinging onto him, as you tumble down slowly from a high you didn’t think possible.

After a few moments of shared panting, he slowly withdraws from your body, and you grunt softly as he slips from inside you, feeling a trickle of wetness leak out as he does so.

As he rolls and tucks you against him, you glance down and see a trace of blood on the pristine bedsheets.

“Don't be alarmed, my darling,” he murmurs in a reassuring tone, “that will not happen again; it was just your first time.”

You nod your understanding and settle into his hold.

“Did you enjoy becoming a woman?” he inquires, although you suspect he already knows your answer.

“Very much so,” you confirm with a satisfied sigh.

“I am so very glad,” his voice soothing as he runs his fingers through your hair.

“What do I learn next, husband?” You drawl a few minutes later, swirling a fingernail on his shoulder.

“In the morning, my love, once we are rested, you will learn how to ride me.” He smiles crookedly at you.

“Is it like riding a horse?” You ask bright with curiosity.

“Somewhat,'' he laughs lightly, “but much more pleasurable.” He kisses your lips chastely. “But for now, let us sleep, my love.”

As he says the words, you feel your bone-deep satisfaction transitioning into a drowsy pull, his body warmth making your limbs feel weighty. And as he twines around you like a vine, your eyes droop.

“You wish to sleep in each other’s arms? Naked?” You check, a little taken aback.

“Oh yes, we shall do this every night from now on,” he states, his chin resting on your head as you curl into him.

“Then why did my mother insist on so many nightgowns for my trousseau?’ you ponder out loud.

Benedict guffaws at that. “Those are not just for sleeping in, darling; they are for me, mostly to rip off your body before we have sex.”

“Ohhhh,” your eyes wide, now understanding the gleam in the eye of the married ladies in the shop as you picked them up.

There is still so much to learn.

Benedict Taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #1k notes omg you guys!

[fayes-fics]

Talk to Me

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Just some dirty talking Modern AU Benedict

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub tones, dirty explicit talk, smidge of vaginal sex.

Word Count: 1.5 k

Smutmas Kink: Dirty Talk Smutmas Theme: Tinsel

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Day 2 contribution to 12 Days Of Bridgerton Smutmas hosted by @hallownightsblog. Sorry it's a few days late. It is also kind of answering this anon fic ask from August (ask: I’m already imagining how good your “you won’t be able to walk straight after I'm done with you” would be with Benedict). Using this photo as suggested by @p0tat0nug for dommy modern Ben vibes. If there is one thing I love, it's Benedict talking filth. Enjoy! <3

You are standing sipping your drink, watching your inebriated coworkers throw ridiculous shapes on the sticky dancefloor as a mix of Eighties cheese blares from the speakers, one sad, lonely multicoloured spotlight swirling around them. A silly cocktail umbrella tickles your cheek as you take a swig, pulling a face at its too-sweet contents. You remove the flimsy paper crown from a cracker that has been making your forehead itch, leaving the makeshift tinsel boa hanging loosely around your neck.

“Having fun?” a voice whispers into your ear as a large hand wraps around your waist from behind.

You can’t school the grin that breaks out across your face. He has arrived as promised to whisk you away from this very mediocre work Christmas party in the nearest pub to your office.

“Not in the slightest,” you murmur, placing your hand over his and twisting to kiss his jaw.

“Well, that is such a shame,” he chuckles, moving so your lips meet, a lingering heated kiss that has you leaning back into him. “What can I do to make your evening better from here on?” he asks, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Take me away from here?” you propose with a sigh.

“But you are having so much fun, I can tell,” he teases gently. “How could I deny you the delight of watching… whatever the hell is happening on that dancefloor,” he chuckles, his eyes tracking the movements in front of you.

“It's a crime against rhythm and eyes; that’s what is happening,” you declare sardonically, as his laugh gets deeper, the vibrations of his body around you causing a buzz over your skin. You love to make him laugh.

“Care to show them how it's done?” he offers.

“Hmmm, I'm not in much of a dancing mood tonight,” you admit truthfully.

“So what are you in the mood for?” he queries, his tone a little duskier as the fingers splayed wide across your belly flex slightly.

“I'm in the mood for you to take my clothes off,” you murmur boldly into his neck.

“Oh, that can definitely be arranged,” he rumbles, his warm lips brushing your forehead.

You look around and realise there is no one within ten feet of you in this alcove near the pub door. No one can hear what you say to each other over the loud music, and it appears no one is paying you any mind, too lost in their drunken hazes. You decide to be daring, the three drinks you've had and his delicious scent making you just a little louche and hedonistic.

“Tell me what you are going to do to me, Benedict,” you appeal. “Play with me.”

He knows that codeword, and he inhales sharply. “Right here?”

“Yes, please, please talk to me,” you implore.

You feel his stance shift, his grip tighten. You know he is slipping into the character you love that he occasionally plays for you.

“You are such a dirty girl,” he murmurs into your ear. “Here you are in front of your colleagues, and all you want is for me to talk filthy things, don't you?”

“Yes, please,” already a little breathy at the tone he has employed.

“Do they know how naughty you are?” he questions, his breath hot over your cheekbone.

“No,” you are already writhing a little pushing your bum back into his crotch, the outline of his cock starting to probe his jeans.

“No, I bet they think you are so sweet and decent. None of them knows the truth do they?”

“No.”

“What are you?” he demands hotly.

“I'm a filthy hussy,” a throb in your underwear as you utter the words quietly.

“Nuh uh uh,” he clucks, a finger hooking into your belly button through your dress.

“I'm your filthy hussy,” you correct.

“That's more like it,” he exhales. “Do you know what happens to filthy hussies?”

“Tell me,” you breathe, your ribs pushing against the muscle of his arm in his firm hold.

“They get bent over this filthy pub table in front of everyone,” he hisses, his other hand running down your back, unseen by others, between your bodies and grabbing your bottom through your dress.

“You wouldn't,” you huff in mock indignation, reaching a hand behind to squeeze his cock through his jeans.

He growls against your neck.

“I most certainly would. And if you try to fight me, I will spank you until your perfect bottom is red and covered in my fingerprints. So everyone knows who you belong to,” he snarls.

“But they will all watch; how could you do that to me?” you gasp, playing the appalled part so well that you see the flash of appreciation in his eyes at your histrionics.

“Oh, little one, if you think that is bad, wait until you find out what is in store for you next,” he guffaws deeply, the sound resonating in his ribcage and buzzing down your spine. He moves the tinsel around your neck, so it's a makeshift noose.

“What?” you gulp, swallowing heavily, feeling your nipples pebble painfully inside your bra as he bites the cord of your neck and tugs on the tinsel, just enough that you feel a little restriction over your throat.

“I'm going to pull down your soaked little knickers, and I'm going to fuck you right here,” he growls, surging his hardening cock into the hand you hold there. “Don't pretend you’re not dripping for me right now; I know you are.” He asserts so cocksure you do precisely that, the line between fantasy and reality blurring as your body reacts to the filth tumbling from his lips.

“But I don't want to be watched,” you protest weakly, rubbing against him, transmitting the exact opposite message to your words.

“Yes, you do; you are a filthy hussy who loves to be watched. All your teammates salivating about how beautiful you look face down on this table, crying pretty tears as I fuck you so hard you beg me to make you come. My cock branding you, making you clench so hard. Are you clenching right now?” the last question has a tint of desperation as real Benedict wants to know just how aroused you are.

“Yes sir,” you answer, knowing that last word makes him feral when you play like this.

The noise he makes is animalistic, and both hands move to grab your hips almost bruisingly.

“I will make you come so many times; you will be begging me to stop. But guess what?”

“What?” you pant.

“I won't. You won’t be able to walk straight after I’m done with you. I want you delirious and cock drunk. Just my little fuck toy,” his delivery harsh and his breathing uneven.

“Take me home, Ben,” you break character first. “In fact, just take me to the nearest quiet spot. If you are not inside me within five minutes, I might die,” you whisper hotly, seizing your small handbag and coat from the chair in front of you, not bothering to bid goodbye to anyone.

He grabs your hand and pulls you, almost stumbling down a narrow hallway, passing the toilets and a door marked staff only as you fight on your coat one-handed without buttoning it up. He pushes the emergency exit doorway; luckily, no alarm goes off. You are now in a quiet alleyway with no windows or doors facing save the one you just left. The air is cold and crisp, and you see your breath cloud in front of you. He goes to walk briskly towards the narrow exit at the far end, but you tug on your joined hands and stand still.

“My car is right down there,” he gestures with his free hand.

“Yeah, and this wall is right here,” you nod at the recently painted black brick, hidden from view by the angle of the alleyway. “We are doing this, right here, right now,” you arch an eyebrow and ensure he is watching as you hitch your hands under your dress and remove your underwear, balling it into your coat pocket and looking at him expectantly. The cold air swirling around your throbbing clit somehow adds to your exhilaration.

His mouth falls open, his face incredulous. Considering the fantastical, hypothetical filth he was just spouting, it appears he has no words to offer at this very real moment.

“Benedict Bridgerton, get over here and fuck me. Right now. You teased m…” your words die as he twists around with a growl, crowding you into the cool brick as he wraps one of your legs over his forearm, the wool of his coat tickling the sensitive skin on the back of your knee.

“You can be a bit of a hussy for real sometimes, you know,” he mutters affectionately into your ear as he pulls down his zipper, and you pant expectantly.

“Yeah, and you love me for it,” you counter wryly, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and biting his neck lightly.

“I really fucking do,” he agrees, hushing your cry as he invades your body hot and hard.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat  @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #12 days of smutmas #12daysofsmutmas #bridgertonsmutmas