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suuuuper smut under the cut

"You're mine." Walter growled into her neck, panting against her skin as his hips pistoned into hers. "My Omega. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed. Mine."

"Yes, Alpha." She gasped, her fingers weaving into his curls, keeping his face in her neck. The edge of his desk dug into the backs of her thighs, his fingers curling into her backside harder, pulling her closer as he pounded inside her.

"You feel so good, my Omega. Fit me perfectly. Made for me." He panted, his hips starting to lose their rhythm. Sliding a hand between them, he moved his thumb over her clit, wanting to feel her come apart around him before he emptied himself in her. Small noises started to leave her lips and he captured them with a kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. "Are you going to come, my Omega?"

"Yes, Alpha." She said, looking into his eyes and nodding.

"Good girl. My good fucking girl." He said, holding the back of her neck with his free hand, keeping her forehead pressed to his and her eyes locked. Her nails dug into his scalp as she came, quivering and pulsing around him, squeezing him so tightly. He kept moving, his hips moving harder and faster until he buried himself in her to the hilt with a rough shout, giving a few more shuddering thrusts as he spilled inside her.

They stayed there for a long moment, gulping in breaths, their hearts thundering in their chests.

"Where do you live?" He asked finally.

"With a room mate and her boyfriend in town."

"You're moving in with me."

"Yes, Alpha."

"Mine." He said, pressing a kiss to her lips before pulling away and tugging her down off the desk, turning her around and pulling her hips towards him, sliding back into her with a single fluid movement, a gasp leaving her lips. He kept his hands wrapped around her waist as he started moving again. His Omega. His.

92-Year-Old Grandmother Makes Stunningly Intricate Temari Balls

A ninety-two-year-old-grandmother from Japan creates stunning embroidered balls known as “temari,” (meaning “hand ball” in Japanese) which showcase a skill she learned in her sixties. A traditional folk art, which was conceived in Japan in the 7th century, the craft is tedious and highly demanding craft. The unknown woman has constructed 500 unique designs, which are photographed by her granddaughter NanaAkua. Overall these beautiful trinkets are a symbol of happy life and good fortune, which originate from friendship and loyalty. 

RIP Shannen & Luke 

Where is he going?

Purring fox

(via)

Transitions

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Modern AU, friends to lovers, it’s very distracting when a Bridgerton becomes a triathlete…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, exhibitionism, masturbation, oral sex (m to f), smidge of intercrural sex, vaginal sex. Lots of Benedict skin in a tiny towel, yes that needs a warning label.

Word Count: 6.3k (oops)

Authors note: This is a birthday request fill for @chaoticcalzoneranchsports. Request in essence is a Modern AU Benedict entering a triathlon and becoming a total menace to reader’s hormones lol. I hope you enjoy this wonderful human, sorry it’s a little late <3. FYI, this might be the most teasing modern Ben ever invented and all responsibility for this fall squarely on them not me hahah. This could be the first in a TRI-logy of triathlon Ben fics. Oh and there is a recurring theme of 3s (and multiples of) in this fic, TRIathlon etc., cos I think I’m so clever. (I’m not.). Thanks as always to my beta @makaylan :)

“A triathlon?” Your laugh is interrupted by a hiccup, “are you serious?”

“Yes,” he throws his hands up to emphasise his point and knocks over his beer, “…whoops.” The delayed, muted reaction to the spill all over his jeans tells you everything about how inebriated he also is.

“Gonna need better coordination than that, especially on the bike part,” you quip, patting his shoulder, part in sympathy, part to steady yourself before wandering to get a towel from the barman. Luckily this is your local; they’ll take pity on you and your drunken friend.

-30 minutes later-

“Ssss fa charityyy,” he slurs as you wander down the street half an hour later.

“What is?” You’re currently staring at a weird-looking patch on your coat. What is that? Beer? Dammit Ben

“Triathlon,” he says emphatically, looking at you, disbelieving that you aren’t following his apparent internal monologue.

“Lovely,” you answer, distracted.

“Be more supportive,” he whines and grabs your shoulders shaking you gently, “I’ve only got six months to get into shape,” he says, miming pumping some iron.

“Fine. I’ll sponsor you, hmm, three hundred million pounds,” you reply, kicking a stray kebab shop chip into the gutter.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he challenges, “better empty all those offshore accounts.”

“Naaah, I keep that kind of chump change in my knickers drawer,” you counter with a giggle.

“Well, I know where I’m looking next time we need money for pizza,” he cackles triumphantly.

“Keep your hands out of my knickers,” you protest, only realising how it sounds after it’s been spoken.

He raises an eyebrow at that, but in his drunken state, it’s more Donkey from Shrek than James Bond.

You just shrug. What does he want with your knickers anyway? 

-6 weeks later-

“What are you doing?”

“Shopping online,” he says idly, looking up from his phone as you hand him the carton of popcorn and take your seat next to him, “need new clothes.”

“I haven’t seen you in a new item of clothing in more than two years, Ben. Why change the habit of a lifetime?”

“They don’t fit anymore,” he shrugs, “need some new t-shirts.”

You just frown; it doesn’t look like he’s put on weight lately. Difficult to tell in winter, with all the layers. If anything, his jawline is even more defined recently than before, definitely growing into his looks.

“Switch that off,” you grouse, waving at his phone, “the film is starting.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “Luckily, I can have this on my eating regime,” he happily stuffs a large handful into his mouth, shooting you a goofy popcorn-filled grin.

Eating regime?

-3 weeks later-

“What is that noise?” You frown into your phone, putting down your buttering knife. 

“Oh, it’s the music, I guess,” he responds, sounding a little winded.

“Wait… where are you?”

“The gym.”

You snort. “C'mon, seriously, it’s Saturday morning. Don’t lie; you just haven’t made it home yet from a night out, right?” You take a bite of your breakfast.

“No,” he says slowly, as if explaining to a child, “I’m at the gym.”

“Wait… really?” You have to brush away the toast crumbs you spit out onto your pyjamas at that one.

“Yeah,” you can hear the confusion in his voice, “did you forget? Triathlon? You’re sponsoring me the GDP of a small nation, remember?”

“Hah,” you exhale, “really didn’t think that would stick.”

“Well, it is, I mean, I hate it here, but it is,” you can hear his breathing is a little heavy, making your stomach feel funny, being right in your ear like that. “So what did you want?”

“Hmmm,” you respond, distracted by his low voice.

“…You called me?” He prompts.

“Ohhh… was just curious if you want to hang out later. Pizza and a movie?”

“Yes, to a movie. Sadly, no to pizza. Despite the promise of raiding your knickers.” He gusts a laugh.

Your gasp is audible. “What?” 

“You…. You, joked that night? Remember? Keeping your money in your knickers drawer?” He sounds embarrassed.

“Oh yeah, sorry… too early for me,” you attempt to laugh it off. “I’m sorry, but what are you actually doing? Cos, you sound in pain, frankly.”

“Bike. I’m on kilometre 33” he sounds proud; bless him. To be fair, that’s quite an achievement for 9 am.

“Wow,” you look at your cup of tea and plate of toast and feel very lazy, “Well, see you later? 6ish?”

“I’ll be there,” he pants.

You have to hang up. That breathing and his slightly gravelly voice when he kept saying knickers is a bit too much.

-3 weeks later-

You’re out at a Thai restaurant, and he’s eating the spiciest soup ever, based on the sweat beading on his brow, at least.

“Why the hell did you order it at level 3?” you question, “you know that’s crazy hot.”

“Spice is good,” he counters, “revs up the metabolism.” 

“You look like you’re suffering.”

“All for a good cause,” he shrugs, “but might need to take off the woolly jumper.”

You curl some pad Thai noodles onto your fork and idly watch him fight off his thick fuzzy top.

Oh.

Underneath, he’s wearing a white t-shirt. You are taken aback by how filled it looks. And his arms? Why is there so much definition? You find yourself staring without even realising it. He wasn’t kidding about those gym visits—clearly.

A noodle unceremoniously plops back into your plate, splattering tamarind sauce onto your jumper and hand.

“Shit!” you busy yourself attempting to remove the stain with your paper napkin but glance up to see him looking at you with a smirk on his face. “What?” Your voice is a touch defensive.

“Nothing,” he singsongs, “just didn’t think you that type, you know?”

“What type?” You’re not looking at him again, pawing at the sweater, hoping it won’t stain.

“A perv,” he breezes

“Excuse me?!?” Your head shoots up.

“You heard me,” he answers, “you have no leg to stand on. You literally dropped your dinner staring at my body.”

You squirm in discomfort,  “I was simply taken aback, that's all,” again too defensive. “Gym seems to be paying off,” you add, aiming for nonchalant.

“Based on your reaction? Yes, I’d say so,” he chuckles.

“Eat your bloody fire soup, Popeye,” you grouse, knowing your cheeks are blushing; he just laughs louder.

-6 weeks later-

You walk down his street peeling off your jacket; so glad Spring weather is finally here. He said to come over at 7 pm for film time. You’re a little early; the bus was on time for once. It’s only 6:30 pm, but you figure he won’t mind, especially as you’re clutching a bottle of his favourite wine.

His building door is wedged open by someone moving their stuff out, so you just skip in and take the lift to his floor. He won’t mind you just knocking on his front door; you’ve been friends for so long and visit each other so much that you really should just exchange keys.

You knock casually on the door, checking your hair quickly in the gleaming ‘603’ of his door plate.

There’s a longish delay, then a “Who is it?” His voice sounds far from the door.

“Who do you think, Sherlock?” you laugh back.

“You’re early.” He says, a little harried-sounding.

“Let me in,” you grumble.

“Fine, but beware.” That sounds like a strangely ominous warning. 

Then the door sweeps open. And you forget quite how to breathe.

The first thing you notice—acres of toned skin. Dripping wet. You've obviously interrupted his shower. A towel is slung low on his hips, a little trail of glistening hair from his belly button (god, it was made for a tongue) down into the towel. Otherwise not much body hair, just lean muscles everywhere. A quiet ridiculous iliac furrow and flat washboard stomach sweeping up to a surprisingly well-toned chest. Not huge pecs but lean, toned. Broad, muscular shoulders. Exactly how a triathlete would look. As your eyes sweep down again, there’s an outline of something against the towel you definitely shouldn’t be looking at. 

“Why not just take a photo? It will last longer,” he teases quietly, with a raised eyebrow.

“Bloody hell Ben,” is all you can say, finally looking at his face.

“Better come inside. Can’t have you glitching in the corridor.”

He steps aside with a smirk and gestures you in. You walk almost on autopilot, silently handing him the wine as you pass and catching a whiff of delightful woodsy clean shower gel as he closes the door behind you.

“I can’t be drinking at the moment, but thank you,” he says quietly, placing the wine on the hallway table.

“I’m sorry I’m early,” you find your voice, “I should have buzzed, but the door was wedged open downstairs, so I just came up.” You know you are rambling slightly, not quite wanting to look at him again. 

He smirks as you go to sit in his living room still on autopilot, and he follows, leaning in the doorway to his spare room opposite you, a pull-up bar above his head. 

“Please, go finish your shower, get dressed,” you encourage, taking off your shoes as you usually do when you get comfy on his sofa.

“Oh, I’m done,” he assures. “Just didn’t get around to drying yet, but that’s ok. I can air dry, always nice after I get back from the gym,” he says drolly and reaches up to loop an arm around the pull-up bar, the other hip dropping slightly. He’s deliberately showing off now, goading, teasing you. “Sometimes I don’t even bother to get dressed again, just go to bed naked; feels good after a workout.”

Well, that's a thought your traitorous brain didn't need. Your mind is a jumble of inappropriate thoughts of him naked as you watch his torso as he gestures, fascinated by the movements, the play of supple damp skin over lean muscle. Wondering what it would feel like under your fingertips, your lips, or your skin as he presses you into the mattress. The last lingering thoughts seem to coalesce into the strange question of contemplating what he might do if you walked over and ran your tongue over him right now.

“...Y/n?…” he’s looking at you expectantly. 

It’s patently obvious he has asked you a question, and you have utterly zoned out, your focus purely on his body and what you want to do to it, to him.

“Did you hear a word I said?” He asks teasingly.

“Sorry, I…” you feel embarrassed. 

“How long?” 

“How long what?”

“How long since you last had sex?” he smirks.

You inhale sharply. “That’s none of your business.”

“One, you are my friend; you can tell me.” A finger around the pull-up bar extends out as he counts the reasons with his fingers. “Two, you are looking at me like a hungry man looks at a triple-stacked burger.” Another finger. “And three, I can help with that,” he shrugs as the third finger unfurls.

Your eyes fly to his face, lips parting in shock. Did he just… proposition you?

“So I ask again… how long?” His voice is pitched low, the feel of it almost buzzing around your ribcage even at a distance.

“Six months,” you exhale, looking down at the ground, your mind flashing back to your last drunken awful one-night stand.

“My god,” he sounds genuinely shocked.

“I know,” you lament, still staring at the wooden floor, “I swore off one-night stands after one too many disappointments, and I haven’t met anyone since, so…” it’s your turn to shrug as your sentence trails off.

“Stand up.” His voice takes on a tone you’ve never heard before, and you’re on your feet before you quite register what’s happened.

Feeling nervous, you start rambling, “I suppose I should be more active in the dating apps, maybe? But I just find them so artificial, and honestly, I’d prefer a random bar meeting than this weird swipe-right culture. I feel like a dating dinosaur for saying that, but….”

“Y/n,” his timbre is velvety.

“Yes,” your response is soft, almost silent.

“Shut up.”

He prowls over to you with a look in his eye you have never seen before; it’s dangerous. Is this what Ben is like to all the people he sleeps with, you wonder? It’s very different from the friend you know and, yes, love. Platonically. Or at least you think it’s just that. Right now, you are honestly not sure.

He stops in front of you, his eyes glittering. “I’ve thought about you,” his voice is silky, pitched low. “What it might be like to cross that invisible line, to give in to temptation.” 

Your breath is uneven now, your pulse speeding up as your good friend messes with every sense in your body. His smell is intoxicating; you can feel the shower warmth radiating off him. You daren't meet his gaze; he is too close. You keep your eyes cast down slightly, staring at the constellation of tempting freckles smattered across his breastbone. 

“Look at me,” he orders quietly, two fingers curling under your chin and pushing your face up to look at his. Fuck, he is devastatingly handsome, so close-up. All cheekbones and hazy eyes. Rivulets of water from his freshly washed curls running down his neck, pooling above his clavicle and in his suprasternal notch. Your tongue almost feels heavy. Desperate to track the journey of those droplets.

“I can’t even see the colour of your eyes anymore,” he rumbles, “your pupils are blown so wide.” He moves the fingers from your chin, trailing them up to run over your lips. “Your lips look almost wine-stained, so flushed. God y/n, you look devastating when you’re aroused.” 

You are shocked you are still standing. Who does this? Many men would just have stuck their tongue into your mouth by now. Not this tease; he is determined to ruin you. Slowly. He drops the hand from your face, but your knees feel strangely jelly-like as he leans his whole body closer, ghosting a breath over your cheek.

“No perfume today, hmm,” he murmurs, “just you and your tempting smell. You have no idea how good you smell without it, just a touch of body wash and a lot of,” he takes a deep inhale, “...you.” 

How can one syllable be so devastating?

“Ben,” a single word escapes your lips.

“What?” The ‘t’ is a staccato against the shell of your ear.

“What’s happening here?” Your whisper is a little desperate. 

“Whatever you want to happen,” he replies, his voice right against your cheek, “six months is too long for anyone, but especially someone as special as you.” He opines, and a single finger draws a line down the skin of your sternum to the first button of your shirt. “I’m counting to three; then I’m undoing this button,” he murmurs. “You have until then to get away from me, and we can just pretend this never happened.” 

“One….” You inhale and stay very still.

“Two…” The tension is palpable as you pull back slightly and meet his molten gaze.

“Three…” His deft fingers flick open the button as his lips hover over yours but never touch.

This is the Benedict Bridgerton you’ve heard rumours about, the one you’ve listened to women whispering about in the bathroom at parties that you could never quite fathom or reconcile to the goofy friend you’ve always known. It’s like he’s hidden a part of himself from you and only now is revealing it—this devilish, devastating seducer. 

“Ben,” you stutter, feeling the warmth of his fingertips trace gently over your skin to the following button, feeling his breath on your lips. 

“Yes?” you feel the word as much as you hear it.

“Kiss me,” he has you begging.

His lips finally capture yours, but it is still just a tease. Surging forward, then pulling back, goading you with just a glimpse of opened lips, a peek of what his tongue is offering. He wants you to take from him; you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

As his fingers find the next shirt button, you throw your arms around his neck and dive in. Trapping his hand between your bodies. The dewy, dampness of his showered skin seeps into your cotton shirt as you press against him and run your tongue into his mouth, grabbing a fist full of his hair and growling slightly into him.

“Oh, there it is,” he teases into your open mouth, “the wild thing hiding under this witty, intelligent exterior. I just knew it.” 

His touch of arrogance should be off-putting, but he’s being so complimentary with it, it’s just plain hot. You make a desperate noise in the back of your throat and smash his lips back to yours, this time goading him to plunder your mouth. Another button pops undone under his fingers as you surge against him, feeling something hot and insistent pressing through the thin towel and the waistband of your jeans.

He is down to the last button now. He flicks it loose and then tugs the shirt down over your shoulders but doesn’t pull it off completely, just leaves it there, trapping your arms in the sleeves taunt, slightly behind you.

He moves to run his nose over your cheek, “I know all your secrets. I’ve watched you so closely over the years. What makes you bite your lip, squirm in your seat.” His lips tease against your jaw as he keeps talking. “I’ve seen your gaze linger on people making out. You couldn’t look away from that couple fucking in the Barbican stairwell.” His mouth is on your neck now, a hot slide of kisses. “I’ll never forget the look on your face. I could tell how much you craved it. It took all my strength not to throw you against the wall and take you right then. But no, I chose to remember it. So that one day I could tell you what I know for certain. You love to watch and be watched, don’t you?” His voice should be illegal. 

You breathe heavily, slightly ashamed he can read you like a book, as he holds you steady, arms still ensnared. 

“I’ll fuck you against the window,” his tone sinful against your ear, “that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? To have the whole neighbourhood watch you.”

You don’t have to say anything; he knows the answer from your reaction. Your body quivers as he yanks the shirt off, tosses it away, and then takes a step back. The obvious tent under his towel makes you bite your lip hard. He looks like the definition of sin.

“Come with me.” He pulls you by the hands, walking backwards, and you follow, your eyes on him the entire time. Nipples pebbled hard, and underwear flooded. He stops before his floor-to-ceiling window and whirls around, crowding into your back. 

“Take. It. Off.” Each word is a sentence.

“What?” You don’t even hide the panting in your voice.

“Everything,” he exhales, “every last stitch you are wearing. Strip right here.”

Your hands move to your jeans as you shakily exhale and unzip. You are so relieved you wore matching lingerie today. Perhaps subconsciously, you did so on the off chance of this outcome.  Large hands land on your hips and assist the push of denim until it hits the floor, and you flick it away with your foot. You are just in underwear now.

His hands sweep over your torso, the slight callouses he has developed from the bike snagging on your skin as he nuzzles your cheek. His lips find yours in another heady, passionate kiss. As your tongues dance, his hands cup both breasts. He teases your nipples with swipes of his thumb over your bra. 

Longing to feel those fingers on your flesh, you push each bra strap down until they hang loose. 

“Unhook me,” you whisper and a hand trails around and plucks open the clasp effortlessly.  

You peel away the bra and throw it aside, feeling his heated gaze slide down your skin over your shoulder. 

“So perfect,” he whispers; his fingertips are so warm and teasing on your nipples. 

You moan and curve your chest out, chasing his touch, causing your bum to push back against his cock. 

“Look at you,” he growls, “look at yourself in the window.”

You gaze forward, and in the reflection, you see a wanton tableau of your breasts trapped in his large hands, his body pressed against yours from behind. 

“Fuck, Ben,” you whisper and stare, hypnotised as you slowly undulate your hips. Watching your body move sinfully against his as he groans.

“Yesss,” he hisses in encouragement, pushing against you, just his towel and your underwear separating your bodies as you move slowly in unison.

“I believe I told you to take everything off,” he rasps, grabbing your hips and running fingers over your underwear.

“You do it,” you murmur back challengingly. 

“Oh, that's how you want to play, is it?” His voice is low and dangerous. “Fine”. He walks you forward. “Put your hands on the window,” he commands. 

You do so; the cold of the glass contrasts with the heat of his hands on your body. A thrill runs down your spine at the thought of someone in the surrounding windows, maybe a few people, watching this happen.

Ben’s hands hook into the fabric at your hips, and he inches the material lower as he leans over your back. Warm lips press against your upper spine between your shoulder blades, and you groan as he runs his tongue down your back as his hands push the underwear down your legs. He’s crouching behind you now as he kisses the swell of your bottom, his hands throwing aside your underwear. 

“Open your legs wider,” he orders softly, and you stutter a breath, feeling one of his hands sweep up your inside leg and quests against your mound. You gasp his name. He chuckles richly and finds your clit, nudging it lightly with a fingertip, making you cry out and clench down.

“You have no idea how much you’ve driven me crazy over the years, do you?” he groans, his mouth open against your butt cheek, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth, fingers teasing in little circles. “Being my wonderful sweet friend when all I’ve ever felt is guilt about what I truly wanted. To bury myself between your legs,” he inhales lewdly. “Your bewitching smell drives me insane. Jesus Christ, y/n, you have no idea how many times I've taken myself in hand after spending time with you, desperate for you. How long I’ve waited for you to see me the way I see you.”

You crest a moan, unbidden, incapable of words, as he soliloquises his adoration for you in filthy precise detail. You had no idea this is how he feels; the thought he has come multiple times fantasising about you is something you can't comprehend, but you want to hear about it. You want him to tell you in precise detail about every time he has fucked his hand and thought about you.

“Tell me about it,” you blurt out before you can censor it.

“What?” he teases, his fingers circling your clit slowly, his lips kissing across to your other cheek.

“Touching yourself,” you squeak timidly, knowing you are blushing.

He stands up suddenly and spins you around to face him, the glass cool against your shoulder blades as he shoots you a molten look.

“Why don't I show you?” he whispers, and your eyes fall to the towel as it drops away under a flick of his hand.

Oh, Ben.

Nestled in a neat patch of trimmed hair is the nicest cock you've seen in a long time. Not so big as to be scary, but just delicious looking, more than a handful, and you are suddenly so utterly mindless for him to fuck you. Instead, he takes his cock in hand and leans close to you, not touching but millimetres apart. He makes a noise in the back of his throat that makes your breath hitch as his hand begins to move up and down, squeezing his shaft; a little bead appears at the head that your tongue longs to taste.

“Y/n,” he moans, his voice so resonant it vibrates through your very being, settling into a pulse between your legs as you feel a trickle of moisture escape and run down your skin.

“Ben,” you stutter.

“Y/n,” he repeats, moving his hand faster, his gaze piercing yours.

You rub your slick thighs together and bite your lip, hands flexing against the glass, nervous to touch him and break this heady spell.

“Please…” you plead quietly, “please fuck me.”

“God, I love it when you beg,” he groans and releases his cock, grabbing your hands and pulling them above your head, your watch tinking against the glass as his fingers sink between yours and he leans his whole body against you. The head of his cock slides hot against your belly button.

“Please,” you repeat as he thrusts slowly against your body.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, “I want you so mindless for me that you are shaking.”

No one has ever teased you like this. It's maddening. 

“Now, where was I, hmm?” his voice a light teasing thing as he sinks to his knees right in front of you, still holding your hands, placing them on his head before pulling your left leg over his shoulder. “I think I was just about to…” he stops mid-sentence and buries his face between your legs, the stubble on his jaw rasps against your inner thighs as his tongue delves into you, his nose bumping your clit. 

He growls right into your cunt as you cry out, and your hands flex on instinct, pulling on his hair, nails scraping his scalp. 

“Watch me,” he orders, and you make searing eye contact as he moves to suck hard against your clit, tongue rolling in surging waves, making your knees want to buckle. He senses it and grabs your hips, pushing you back against the glass. 

You keep your eyes on him, but your thoughts flit to whether someone is out there amongst all those other windows watching this. Him on his knees, face embedded between your legs, as you lean your back against the glass but thrust your hips forward, gyrating and riding his tongue. Making the neediest sounds, chasing your high with no thought to anything but this and now and oh god, yes. He is relentless, thorough and certainly the most enthusiastic you've had in ages, possibly ever. Talking filth right against your sodden flesh - about how good you taste, how much he has dreamed about this, how he can’t get enough and pleading with you to give him more noises and cries and everything. Lashing you with his tongue. But it’s when he moves a hand, slides two fingers inside you, and instantly finds your weak spot that you scream his name. 

“There it is,” he grunts and pushes you quickly towards the edge; no one has been quite this dedicated to ensuring you come intensely. Your legs start to shake, and he has to bear some of your weight on his shoulder as you lose coordination, the invisible string holding your body tight snapping, your nerve endings on fire, your vision whiting out, yelling and crying and convulsing against him. You breathe in heavy, sharp inhales as he gently kisses your folds and holds you up. The cooling glass is a wonderful balm against your heated flesh.

“Holy fuck Ben,” you exhale shakily as you finally find your voice.

“How do you feel?” he gloats quietly, tenderly placing your foot back on the ground with a quick squeeze of your ankle and a kiss on your knee.

“Shaky and amazing,” you answer honestly, closing your eyes and swallowing hard.

“Good,” is the silky reply as he gets to his feet in one swift motion and leans into you again, his cock searing against the dewy skin of your belly, and he grabs your face. “Now, where would you like me to fuck you? I can do it anywhere you want. You want right here? The table? The couch? The bed?” As he lists each spot, he softly kisses your cheeks, ears, forehead, and even lightly on your eyelids. 

“All of them,” you exhale.

“I’m not sure I have quite that much stamina,” he chuckles “you are so very…” he presses hard against you, his cock trailing moisture onto your skin as you gasp “...intoxicating.”

“I don't mean tonight, Ben,” then you get a sudden swooping feeling in your gut at your assumptions. “Wait, is this just a one-night thing?” your voice wavering, failing at the neutrality you hoped for.

“I just told you I have come fantasising about you for five years, and you think I'm letting you go after one night?” he gusts a laugh, fingers tracing delicately over your lips and cheeks.

“Five years?” you twist your mouth into a little playful pout, your confidence surging at his reply.

“Yes, you little tease,” he smiles, that crooked smile that always gives you butterflies. “Now answer the damn question before I go get a damn condom.”

You make a show of looking over his shoulder as if assessing your options, and he chuckles again, stooping his hips a little and sliding his cock between your thighs instead.

“Ohhhh,” you stutter, eyes fluttering closed and hands flexing against his back.

He thrusts lightly between your thighs, and on instinct, you close your legs a little, giving him more friction, the movement easy from your skin still soaked from the orgasm he gave you.

“You don't need to get a condom Ben,” you say quietly, “I trust you are clean, and I'm protected.”

He stills his movement and cups your face tenderly, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nod, then smile with a flirtatious edge and move to whisper against his ear, “I want to feel all of you.” He makes a noise that has you buck against him, sliding his cock between your thighs again. The motion glances again at your clit, and you raggedly inhale. Oh god, you could just do this all night.

“C'mon y/n,” he teases, rocking gently, “pick somewhere before I just slide right into you here.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, and he mirrors the expression.

“Oh, you asked for this,” he gloats and stuns you by picking you up, wrapping your legs over his slim waist and sliding right into you, pulling you down onto his cock in one visceral, swift, plunging motion.

“Fuckkkkkkkkkkkk…..” you cry out, breath stolen, feeling so very invaded in the best possible sense. His cock holding you open, a sold hot weight deep inside. 

Oh, god, yes. This.

He holds still for so long that you pull his face from its spot, buried in your neck and nudge him to meet your gaze.

“Ben, are you ok?”

“More than ok,” his voice is rough. “You feel amazing; I… I need a moment before I can move; it’s been a long time since I was skin on skin, and well, it's you….” he admits, his tone is reverential.

You smile and kiss him on the forehead, tasting the tangy salt of his sweat. 

He pulls back slightly, his lips find yours as he surges back in, and he swallows the noise you make. Slowly he builds a pace, and you close your eyes, tilting your head towards the ceiling, concentrating on the sensation of him dragging against your walls, pushing you open with each move, the stretch so enthralling.

Oh god, we should have been doing THIS for the last five years, you think indulgently to yourself.

“I agree,” he murmurs, his mouth hooked over your chin.

“Shit, I didn't realise I said that out loud,” you admit sheepishly, tipping down to meet his gaze.

He gusts a laugh and spears into you a little rougher than before, your soft cry catching against his stubbly cheek. 

“I think I see someone watching us,” his voice suddenly dangerous and velvet, hot against your ear.

You inhale sharply and clench around him at the illicit, electric thrill that runs through your body.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Tell me about what you see?” your voice is thready, somehow the thrill heightened by knowing you are totally at his mercy, legs around him, back against the glass.

“I think it's a couple,” his voice is gravelly. “At first, it was just a woman I saw a glance of; now there’s a man too.”

You moan and bear down onto him harder the thought you have an audience of this debauched tableau. You move an arm to wrap around his shoulder and pitch forward to bite his neck.

“Fuck y/n,” he exclaims, pulsing deep inside you.

“Tell me more, Ben, please,” you take his earlobe between your teeth, pulling it taut as he thrusts into you.

“Oh god, they are…. they are kissing,” he moans, his breathing becoming a little more ragged.

You clench hard again, and he growls long and low, pulling his face back to rest his forehead against yours.

“We did that,” he sounds feral. “We fuck so good we make others want to do it too.” 

“Yessss,” you writhe on him, “fuck me hard, Ben, make them jealous, make them all watch as you ruin me.”

“Keep talking to me,” he pleads and hitches your legs onto his arms, pressing you higher on the glass, pounding into you now, his pubic bone surging against your clit with every stroke.

“Yes, Ben, make me come again, please; I want them to see me impaled on your cock, screaming your name,” the filth tumbling from your lips unfiltered as he spirals you higher.

“Oh god, yes,” his voice stutters as he thrusts hard. “Please do it; I've come so many times wanting to hear you scream my name, fingernails scratching my back, your cunt convulsing hard around me; god, please come for me again, please.”

His words and pleading and harsh movements is just the cocktail you need to push you over the precipice. Body going completely stiff, legs battling against his hold, so you scramble against the glass, smearing sweat and fluids as you fight the convulsions. Screaming his name, uncaring of his ears, the neighbours, anything but the feel of the snapping, blinding sensation and waves of bliss pulsing out of your core across your whole body. A static hum in the base of your skull at the release of every fibre of your being. You barely register the words and noises he makes as you feel his whole body stiffen, his mouth hooked on your shoulder, curled against you, as he holds you speared deep as you feel him coming powerfully inside you, a blooming warmth coating your insides.

“Fuck,” you pant in unison. Which makes you both giggle, faces pressed together, a light and intangible moment shared, as he lowers you slowly to your feet, his lips finding yours in a chaste kiss.

You keep your arms snaked around his neck and lean your head on his shoulder, listening to his thundering heartbeat, the shaking in your legs subsiding slightly.

“I can’t believe you held me up for that long,” you smile.

“Made every hellish gym visit worth it,” he returns, laughing gently, 

“Oh yes, the triathlon. When is it?” You sway gently in his arms, enjoying the easy intimacy you have.

“In about six more weeks,” he calculates, kissing your temple and slowly turning you both around, so his back is to the glass.

“Can I help with any training? I’m not a bad swimmer, you know,” you offer with a shrug.

His eyes glitter as he leans his forehead against yours, walking you back towards his bedroom. “I have to be in the pool first thing tomorrow; I would be delighted to have you join me.”

“I don't have a swimming costume with me,” you pout.

“I’d be happy for you to skinny dip,” his eyebrow shooting up in a way that makes your stomach somersault.

“I’ll do it if you do it,” you tease.

“Hmm, tempting y/n, but I doubt we would get any actual training done,” he says pointedly.

“Fair,” you concur, squinting comedically, and he chuckles as he backs you into his bedroom.

“Are we going for round two already, Mr Bridgerton?” Your tone is coquettish.

“Hmmm, I’m not Superman,” he replies playfully. “But I am now in need of another shower, so I thought perhaps we could do that together and then let’s see, it's still early after all.” 

He spins you around and walks you forward into his ensuite bathroom, wrapping his arms around you tight from behind and kissing a line down your neck. He only breaks away to flick on the shower, then leans back against his sink cabinet, pulling you into his arms as you await the warm water.

You glance over, and you spy a pair of tiny black Speedos on a towel rail.

“Is this what you wear in the pool?” You ask, snagging them between your fingers and twirling them around.

“Of course. Why?” his voice laced with intrigue.

“Fuck it; I’ll borrow a costume if I have to. You in these? That I have to see.”

He laughs. 

“It’s an early start. 6 am.” His lips warm on your shoulder. “I was just going to leave you sleeping in my bed then return to ravish you at a more decent hour, perhaps with some coffee and a croissant for you?”

“I changed my mind. Fuck yes, that please,” you declare. “But I will need you to model the Speedos for me at some point, Ben,” you warn with mock sincerity.

“Duly noted,” he chuckles and pulls you under the warm spray of water. 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

this monkey is so silly 🐒 😺

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