ppureheroiine

[ppureheroiine]

James talking about E. Edward Grey. This is one of the most beautiful reflections I’ve heard from an actor about a character they’ve played

[ppureheroiine]

The Bolter

Sirius Black x fem!reader who meet again [5.5k words]

prompt: poly!wolfstar or just Sirius x reader in which they were friends with benefits but it was obvious they loved each other even though they acted like they weren’t. Then, reader finds out shes pregnant and before telling them, they do something stupid. so reader runs away for a few months. When she comes back (only bc she had to for some reason) shes like 6-7 months pregnant

CW: secret pregnancy, angst, FWB to strangers to lovers, second chance fic, post war trauma, both Sirius and reader are meeesssssssssssyyyyy in this! I don't approve of what they've done but I understand it

“So…she’s coming back?” Sirius asked cautiously, focusing more on the condensation pooling on the coaster underneath his pint than the concerned gazes of his two best friends. 

“Well, I don’t know if she’s coming back, but she’ll be here for Harry’s birthday.” James mollified, sharing a nervous look with Remus.

“Right.” Sirius murmured around a swallow; throat tight and dry though neither the pint nor the pitcher of water in front of him looked as though they’d be able to help him with the matter. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Remus queried, and Sirius offered him the most arrogant scoff he could muster; he missed by a long shot.

“Of course I’m going to be alright.” He huffed. “Why? Can’t two friends see each other after five and a half months of silence?” 

“Sirius-” James started, but Sirius carried on. 

“She’s the only one who’s been silent, you know?” Though he knew that they did indeed both know. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried reaching out.” 

“Pads.” Remus offered consolingly, looking frustratingly like he was going to reach a hand out to Sirius as if he were some over tired toddler on the brink of a meltdown.

“Stop, no I- I’m fine, honest.” He insisted as he took a steadying breath. “I- you… talked to her, then?”

James and Remus shared another look before James allowed the segue.��

“Mostly by owl, but she has spoken on the phone with Lily a few times.” 

Sirius nodded as he considered this; considered the number of owls Sirius had sent that had gone unanswered - perhaps even unopened if the silence meant anything at all.

“She’s…okay?” 

Remus let out a sigh as he shot Sirius a tight smile that looked more like a grimace. “She’s…vague.”

“She doesn’t share a whole lot.” James agreed. “Says she’s fine, things are good. Mostly asks about…all of us, Harry.” 

“She’s still staying with that great aunt,” Remus added, “helping her with the property.” 

“She seeing anyone?” There was no point in pretending that wasn’t the most pressing matter in Sirius’ mind; of course it was. And as angry and bitter as the idea made Sirius, it would have been his own fault, his own doing. He had no one to blame but himself. 

And he’d have to live the rest of his life knowing he was the one who let you slip away - pushed you away - right into the arms of someone else. 

“Not that she’s mentioned.” Remus responded honestly; he couldn’t say for sure that you weren’t, but if you were, you clearly hadn’t said anything about it. 

“Right.” Sirius offered shortly. 

“Pads, I…we would understand if it's too hard for you to see her. If you can’t come-”

“Don’t be daft.” Sirius scoffed deploringly. “I’m not going to miss my godson’s birthday. If anyone should be missing it, it should be her; I’ve been here for the past four and a half months, she’s the one who fucked off for good.”

“Sirius-”

“I don’t understand why you had to invite her!” Sirius shouted then, startling even himself when he realised how breathless he sounded all of a sudden. 

James smiled at him sadly; Sirius wished he’d stop doing that. “We wanted all of Harry’s uncles and his aunt to be there, Sirius…it’s important, yeah? We…we almost didn’t get this chance.”

Sirius could feel a wicked migraine coming on; between talking about you, the close calls and the fact that the group of you were all alive following the war by nothing but chance, and the fact that the person Sirius was most angry with was himself, he downed the rest of his pint and flagged the server in favour of having to look at the pitiful gazes being shot at him by Remus and James.

Sirius couldn’t tell if he was eager for Harry’s second birthday or dreading it. But like it or not, Sirius was going to be seeing you again. 

It had felt like a good idea at the time.

It felt beyond foolish now, but it had felt like a good idea at the time. 

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

“Sirius, we just won. We just won, why do you have to leave now?” You practically begged as you followed Sirius through his flat. 

“Because if I don’t get out now, I’m going to be stuck here for eternity.” He all but spat at you as he shoved articles of clothing into his duffle rather haphazardly. You felt like grabbing the bag from him and folding them properly if the act wouldn’t leave you feeling like you were aiding and abetting his abandoning you.

“But what about James? And Remus? What about Harry? You fought this war for them, and they for you - we just got them back!”

“And they’ll be here when I’m ready to come home!” Sirius shouted; turning to look at you with wild, red rimmed eyes. 

“What about me?” You asked quietly, hating how small you sounded.

“What about you?” He asked; face falling painfully neutral. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he was occluding. 

“I…I don’t know.” You started awkwardly, shrugging one shoulder. “I thought…maybe we’d have a chance now. To try?.”

“Y/N.” Sirius sighed as he rubbed harshly at his eyes; entire being oozed exhaustion at having to have this conversation with you. “Have I not been entirely clear about what this was between us?” 

“Right.” You agreed quickly, biting roughly on your lip and looking anywhere but at him as he let his hand fall away from his face. 

“It’s…it’s not you, doll-” but even your humourless scoff didn’t derail him “I’m not the kind to settle down and be content I- I wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“I’m not asking you for any more than what we have, Sirius-”

“Yes you are.”

“-I just want you to stay.”

“That’s too much for me.” He stated; his voice never raised though he may as well have screamed it at you. “I cannot sit here and play house, I cannot be that guy for you.”

“Cannot or will not?” You asked quietly, regretting the question the second it came out of your mouth and he looked at you with nothing but pity in his eyes. 

“Y/N…”

“I’m sorry I asked.” You let out with a chuckle as you harshly wiped tears from under your eyes. 

“It’s…it’s not forever, yeah? I just…I can’t see myself being happy here…not right now, at least; not for a while.” 

“Where will you go?” Your voice grated painfully as it came out, but you tried to keep an air of nonchalance about you. You wouldn’t look at him, but you could see his shoulders shrug helplessly. 

“I don’t know…everywhere. Anywhere.”

Anywhere was better than stuck here with you, apparently. 

“I hope it’s nice, wherever it is.” You offered, and you found that you meant it. As much as it hurt to say, you really, really meant it. Sirius had been fighting and running his entire life, and he finally won. If he wanted to celebrate his victory by taking off to be that rich, vague uncle who popped by with lavish gifts every so often, who were you to deny him? 

You loved him.

You were in love with him.

You loved him enough to let him go. 

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

He had sent James a postcard a few weeks later. Turns out he started in the South of France; his family had a home there that had been left untouched by the war, and Sirius was going to start by figuring out what to do with the property. 

And you? Well, you found out you were pregnant. 

You suppose it was a small mercy that Sirius wasn’t here to know; you’re sure it would have hurt more hearing him tell you he was leaving if there were two of you he couldn’t find it in him to love. You would have hated it even more if he felt trapped into staying with you just for this.

But all this meant was that you couldn’t stay, either. 

You supposed that was alright, though; the life you wanted to build here was with Sirius. You loved your friends, but you had a little one to think about now, too. 

You made up a story about a great aunt needing help tending to her property and wishing to be closer to your relatives now that you could be, now that it was safe. No one questioned it, likely because Remus had done the same following the war; moving back home to help his dad and ailing mother tend the property in whatever ways he could. 

You found yourself a little cottage, you wrote to the boys and had the occasional phone call with Lily, and you grew.

It had felt like a good idea at the time. 

But now you were almost six months pregnant and returning home for the first time since you moved to celebrate your nephew’s birthday with all of your closest friends, the love of your life whose child you were carrying, and none of them knew. 

You wondered if you should even go, but the thought of missing out on sweet Harry’s second birthday that the lot of you almost never got the chance to see made your throat constrict with tears you refused to shed since the war. 

You wondered if you should tell everyone before you arrived, but the thought of them all discussing you and your pregnancy without you being there left you feeling small and ashamed. 

You wondered if you should tell Sirius, but you looked over at the stack of unopened letters he had sent to you in the past four months - the first thin, perhaps a postcard, the second and third were thicker, the fourth was by far the thickest (like he had drafted an autobiography that he wanted you to proofread for him), the fifth was similar to the second, whilst the sixth (the last) couldn’t be more than one page - and wondered how the hell you’d even start that conversation after all this time.

Hey, remember me? Yeah, the bird who caught feelings during our friends with benefits situation that we both agreed would remain platonic amidst a battle for survival and then begged you to stay with no success? Well, whilst you’ve been off probably shagging every beautiful woman across the British Isles, I’ve been pregnant. Right, with your child. How was France, by the way? 

You swallowed around your gag reflex and groaned at your image in the mirror. You put on a pair of gingham pants with the baggiest band-tee you could find, planned on sucking in the best you could if anyone (when everyone) insisted on a hug and hoped to every deity that they all just assumed you’d been eating really well since the end of the war. 

You smoothed the fabric over your bump one last time before you left - looking at the proof that, if nothing else, you were protecting more than just yourself, and you let that be enough - before you grabbed Harry’s birthday present and called for Potter Manor, throwing a fistfull of floo powder into your fireplace and travelling by way of the flames. 

You could hear Harry squealing in delight in one of the adjacent rooms as you stepped into the floo reception room at Potter Manor; a smile taking over your face uninhibitedly at the sounds of the people you loved more than life itself, happy and celebrating.

How could you have gone so long without this? 

“Y/N!” Lily shrieked as she made for you, and you sucked in before returning her hug. “Merlin, you're glowing! Where’s your aunt's place again?” 

“Erm. Killarney.” You offered; not entirely untrue - you did have an aunt in Killarney. 

“Well,” she let out with a breath, eyes turning a touch glassy as they darted across your face, “it seems that Irish air’s been for you.” 

You smiled back at your friend before pulling her back in for another hug. “I’ve missed you, Lils.”

“Don’t let it go so long next time, yeah? We can come to you, too; I’m teaching James how to be a muggle, and Harry’s only had the odd burst of accidental magic yet. We could play the part in front of your aunt.” 

“I’d love that, Lily.” You responded earnestly. 

“Y/N!” James hollered then before you were being bodily tackled by the former quidditch chaser, a brief flash of anxiety at his hold around your stomach abating only when he relinquished his hold on you. “Where in the sodding hell have you been!?”

“Killarney.” Lily answered for you. 

“I love Killarney!” 

“Have you ever been to Killarney, Prongs?” Remus asked then, appearing in the door as he leaned against the archway. 

“No! But I love it there! I just know it!” 

“Hey Moony.” You greeted, quickly accepting his open arms and breathing him in.

“We’ve missed you.” He murmured into your hair, and you couldn’t help the traitorous hitch in your heart that he might��ve meant-

“Uncle Pafoo!” Harry squealed, suddenly standing right underneath you. 

“That’s right, Haz!” The voice that haunts your dreams called out. “Auntie is here!”

“Hullo, Harry!” You cheered as you picked him up, sucking in before settling on your hip. “Happy birthday, little dude.” 

“Am two!” He announced as he held up four fingers. 

“You are two! Way to go!” You laughed. “Is everyone here?” You asked the room, shooting Sirius a tight smile so you couldn’t be accused of hostility when your heart stuttered for an entirely different reason. 

He looked tired - a bone deep tired that no amount of sleep could rectify - and the bags under his eyes seemed to be chronic. But he was still so beautiful; his hair had grown slightly longer since the last time you’d seen it, the last time you’d run your fingers through it, the last time you’d brought sheers to it, and he donned more than a few new tattoos if the few you could see were enough to go by. 

You had to look away.

“Reg’s going to be by after work; his part-time student called in sick so he needed to be there to close the shop himself. Thankfully, they’re only open in the morning on Sunday’s.” Remus explained kindly.

“Good, it’ll be nice to see him.” You offered, and the room fell slightly awkward.

“Uncle Pafoo, aeroplane?” Harry asked then, and whatever exhaustion seemed to be plaguing Sirius vanished as he beamed at his godson. 

“Absolutely, little man!” He agreed, holding his arms out and taking Harry’s weight from you.

“Do you want something to drink, Y/N? Wine? Beer, Cider? Juice? Water?” James rapid fire, causing Lily to groan. 

“We just got her back, Potter. Do try to control yourself.” 

“Water would be great, Jamie. Thank you.” You laughed, following the group into the open concept kitchen-to-living room. 

Save the fact that you and Sirius seemed to be doing acrobatics to avoid each other, you were almost stunned at how easy and natural being back here felt. Regulus returned and the two of you shared friendly jibes, Lily caught you up on all of the drama at the Ministry, James strong armed you into agreeing to join them for their next pub quiz night, and Remus said that your old professors all wished you well. 

You loved your cottage - the home you’d built for yourself and your little one - but you found yourself feeling homesick for here, and you hadn’t even left yet.

You were leaning on your elbows against the kitchen island, watching Sirius and Regulus pretend to be knights in shining armour as they fought off a fire breathing dragon (Harry) to save the princess (James) when Remus appeared beside you and mirrored your stance. 

“It’s not the same without you, you know?” He murmured then. 

“But they seem to be alright.” You responded simply, and Remus allowed the two of you to fall into silence for a few beats.

“How far along are you?” 

You stood up straight and turned to stare at him in horror, only to see him smiling kindly at you. 

“How do you-”

“Lycanthropy - I could smell it on you.” He said with an embarrassed wrinkle of his nose. “I knew Lily was pregnant before she did.”

You shushed him and looked over your shoulder to ensure no one else could hear you.

“Come.” He said with a sigh, gently taking you by the elbow and ushering you out of the sliding doors to the back yard and closing it behind the two of you. 

“Remus-”

“Is it his?” He cut you off; his face held no judgement though perhaps just a touch of concern. For you or his best friend/virtual brother-in-law, you weren’t sure.

“Yes.” You whispered, not bothering to clarify who he was talking about; you both knew. 

Remus simply nodded as he looked you over. “Is that why you left?”

“He left first.” You hissed petulantly.

“He left you, but you left all of us.” Remus countered somewhat sternly. “Besides, I didn’t ask about him; is this why you left?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because, Remus!” You shouted, tears flooding your vision as you turned to look at him. “Because he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want me. I wasn’t going to force him to come back just because… just because.” 

“Don’t you think he should have been able to make that choice for himself?” Remus asked gently.

“He chose! He did choose! He told me he couldn’t play house, he told me he couldn’t be this person for me. I loved him enough to accept that. I loved him enough to let him go.”

“Loved?” Remus asked with a tilt of his head. “Past tense?” 

“Remus.” You groaned. “Please.”

“He came back for you, you know.” Remus pointed out. “He left you, you left us, but he came back for you.” 

“Stop it.”

“It’s true, Y/N.”

“And so what if it is?” You nearly sobbed. “So what if he did, Remus? What can I do? I can’t go back in time and change my mind, I can’t go back and fix this. He made choices, I made choices, and here we are.” 

Remus heaved a sigh and looked at you sadly. “I don't think either of you realise that your choices don’t have to remain permanent; there can be an expiration date on them.” 

You were catching your breath from your mini temper tantrum when you heard the glass door slide open, both you and Remus turning to see Sirius standing there almost shy - far shier than you’d ever seen him before.  

“Just talk to him? Okay? You..don’t have to tell him now, just…talk to him.” Remus whispered before heading towards the door, clapping Sirius on the back before disappearing back into the house. 

“Hey.” Sirius offered cautiously after a few beats of silence, coming to stand beside you as the two of you looked over the railing of the patio to the rest of the manor grounds. 

“Hey.” You returned dumbly, clearing your throat before continuing. “You…you look good, Sirius.”

Sirius scoffed, and you could feel your shoulder rising before you saw him smirk at you - if not somewhat sadly - cutting you a playful glare from the corner of his eye. “Did you take up lying there in Ireland?” 

You let out a breathy half-laugh. “I’m not lying.” 

“Then you need glasses. I look like shite.”

“You look tired.” You amended. 

“I’m exhausted.” He agreed, and the two of you lapsed into silence. 

“You look good, though.” He continued. “Healthy.”

You hummed in agreement. “Funny what not having to run on rations and broken hours of sleep on military cots does for a person.”

“Why haven’t I heard from you, Y/N?” He blurted then, turning his entire body to face you. 

“Sirius, I-”

“Everyone else has. You’ve spoken to Lily on the phone. James and Remus have gotten letters. Even Reg got a postcard for his birthday.” 

“I’m sorry.” Was all you could manage to say.

“I wrote to you.” He continued. “Letters, a lot. Did you get them?”

You nodded your head yes shamefully.

“Did you read them?”

You felt your heart splinter at how hopeful and heartbroken he sounded over it. You felt like scum of the earth when you shook your head no, and he let out a sigh.

“I guess that makes me feel a little bit better, then.” He said as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. 

You found yourself taking a step away from him when you asked “why does that make you feel better?”

He let out a humourless laugh that forced smoke from his lips. “At least now I know that my begging for a second chance, begging you to come home, professing my love for you isn’t what kept you away.”

“Sirius-”

“I messed up, Y/N.” He declared earnestly. “I…I was fucking scared, terrified. I’d spent so much of my life living with one foot on the threshold of hell that after the war, I didn’t know how to live amongst the undead.”

He took a moment to catch his breath as if he’d run all the way here just to tell you something. “And I ran. I bolted, I…”

“You left.” You finished for him. 

“I left.” He agreed. “I… I didn’t know, Y/N.”

“Didn’t know what?” You asked as you choked back tears.

“Didn’t know what I had, or what I wanted. Or that I had everything that I wanted.”

“And you do, now? You know what you want?” You asked, and a look of determination painted his features as he met your gaze head on.

“For my entire life, I had never known what family meant, so I wasn’t even aware that I’d created my own with all of you until I’d risked it all. I was so sure I didn’t want to be like my parents that I never realised I may actually…want to be a parent someday. I was so sure I didn’t want to be my father that I never realised I actually did want to be a partner someday. I was so certain I’d never know what true love felt like that I didn’t even realise I had it right here all along with you.” 

“Sirius-”

“I messed up. I left. But what I don’t understand is why you did. Or why you stayed away.” He took a step towards you with his cigarette long forgotten in one of his hands, the ash threatening to burn his fingers before you plucked it and stubbed it out on the stone railing. He barely flinched. “Why’d you go?”

“I didn’t want to sit around and wait for you, Sirius. I- it hurt, I was hurt. And then-”

“I’m sorry.” He offered quickly, but you shook your head.

“I’m not telling you this for you to be sorry, I just-”

“I came back for you.”

“But it wasn’t just about me anymore, Sirius!” You shouted then, and you watched his brows furrow before his face fell in horror. 

“You’re seeing someone.” He asked, though he phrased it as more of a statement; like he’d been expecting it.

“I’m not seeing anyone, Sirius.” You sighed.

“Then why’d you leave? Why’d you stay away?”

“Because I’m pregnant.” You blurted, and Sirius fell silent. “I’m almost six months pregnant.”

“Six-” He started, eyes falling to your stomach still hidden behind the baggy article of clothing before you smoothed the fabric over your ever rounding bump. “Six months. Six…”

You let him do the maths in the head as he stared hard at your stomach like he was sitting in divination and it was a crystal ball that might just give him the answers if only he stared at it long enough.

“It’s mine?” He finally concluded.

“Yes.” You whispered.

“It’s mine. You’re pregnant, it’s mine.” He murmured, before his eyes met yours again. “You’re pregnant with my child?”

“Right.” You agreed, and he crumpled to a heap on the floor. 

“Sirius Orion Black,” Sirius heard Remus hiss, clearly hovering somewhere over him, “I swear to Godric if you do not wake up and eat some of this godsdamned vanilla cake you bought, your brother is going to skin you alive.” 

“It’s true.” James agreed from somewhere on Sirius’ other side. “He actually ran to the store when he found out you bought vanilla because he knew Remus wouldn’t eat any of it. Remus is going to get his chocolate cake, and you’re going to get egged.” 

“Shut up.” Sirius hissed as he scrunched his eyes closed. “Fuck.”

“How do you feel, mate?” James asked rather jovially as he clapped him roughy on the shoulder.

“Like hell.”

“Why’s that?” Remus joined in.

“Because I was in the middle of a dream and you sods woke me up going on about cake.” He muttered as he opened his eyes, realising then that he’d been propped up on a number of cushions in one of Lily and James’ spare rooms.

“S’he awake?” Lily whispered, and Sirius craned his neck to see you and Lily poke your heads into the room.

“Oh my gods.” Sirius breathed as he sat up, likely far too fast for someone who fell unconscious mere moments ago. “Oh my gods, you’re actually here?” 

“Did you hit your head, mate?” James asked as he prodded at Sirius’ head, causing Sirius to swat his arms away as he shifted towards the edge of the bed.

“You’re here.” He whispered as you slowly made your way into the room.

“I’m here.” You offered cautiously, eyes darting around at your oldest friends like there might be some secret threat lurking in the room.

“You’re pregnant…” He tried then, punching the air right out of Lily and James who both spun to stare at you in shock.

You smoothed the fabric of your shirt over your midsection again to expose a very obvious (now that everyone could actually see it) baby bump. 

“Oh my gods!” Lily and James chorused, causing Remus to snort.

“You knew, didn’t you!?” Lily accused Remus who held his hands up in surrender. 

“Only when she walked in, and not a second sooner.” 

“With my child.” Sirius continued, and you nodded at him. 

“Y/N.” Lily winced. “You-”

“You sodding scared me!” You shrilled then, grabbing one of the throw pillows James had dumped onto the ground to make room for Sirius and swinging it at him.

“I scared you!?” Sirius shrieked right back, much to the delight of Harry who started banging on the throw pillow that had landed beside him. 

“I thought I killed you!”

“Oh, well I’m terribly sorry that finding out the woman I’ve been in love with for years and pining hopelessly over for months - who was missing for all intents and purposes, may I remind you - is pregnant with my child happened to be a little shocking.” Sirius sneered sarcastically. 

“Well I only went ‘missing’ because the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for years and pining hopelessly over for months took off an-” The abrupt end of your statement nearly gave the room whiplash as you cut yourself off mid sentence and stared at Sirius like you’d never seen him before. 

“What…what just happened?” James whispered carefully.

“Years?” You whispered then, and Sirius hated every version of himself that deigned to let you go without knowing just how loved you were.

“Probably when we were still just cosmic dust.” Sirius smiled sadly. “I’m sorry I didn’t always realise, I’m sorry I didn’t make sure that you knew.”

“I take it to guess there isn’t an aunt in Killarney?” Lily offered then, smiling kindly at you when you turned your attention towards her.

“No, I- I think there actually is an aunt in Killarney, I just don’t live with her.”

“Where do you live?” Sirius asked eagerly, wondering if you could hear it in his voice or even see on his face just how desperate he was to know everything about you.

“Near Tintagel.” You offered abashedly as Remus slapped his hand on his thigh.

“You minx!” He scolded you. “You lived basically across the channel from me this whole time!”

“I hope it’s nice, wherever it is” You offered him then, smiling through your tears as Sirius swallowed around his bile threatening its way up his oesophagus.

“I hope it’s nice.” Sirius blurted suddenly, and Sirius thanked the heavens for Remus John Lupin who seemed to understand that the conversation delved beyond the need of an audience, scooping Harry up and closing the door behind Lily, James, and himself to give you two some privacy. 

“It’s nice.” You offered wetly. “It’s quiet.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgement. “In Tintagel, near Merlin’s cave?”

You laughed, which saw Sirius smiling. “I’m not right in Tintagel, just outside. My neighbours are mostly sheep.” 

“Does it have a picket fence?”

“To keep the sheep out of my garden.” You nodded with a smile.

“Flowers; lots of them.” Sirius deduced, you nodded again though Sirius watched your smile falter.

“You’d probably hate it.”

“Are you there?” He asked quickly.

“Well, usually, yes.” You offered, and Sirius shrugged easily.

“Sounds as though it might be my favourite place in the world, then.” 

The next breath that left you shuddered on its way out, and Sirius finally stood and met you in the middle of the room; close enough to touch but not daring to. He hadn’t earned that right yet. 

“Take me with you?” He all but begged then, and your face crumpled in misery.

“Sirius, I don’t want you to follow me because you have to, I-”

“I don’t have to though, I know I don’t; I know you’d never make me.” He assured you then, lifting a hand but pausing to wait for you to nod at him before he placed it on your upper arm. “The letters, Y/N, I- I’ve been looking for you for months.”

A sob tore through you as you lowered your head, and Sirius allowed himself to catch it in his free hand. 

“I don’t want you to feel bad; I’m not telling you so that you feel bad, love.” The endearment falling off his tongue so easily now that he had you in his arms. “But I need you to know that I want you - any of you, all of you - and have for a very long time.” 

“It’s just…you said-” and Sirius knew exactly what he said; he had played that conversation over and over and over in his mind until he found himself sick over it more than once. But we waited for you to tell him anyhow; he’d always wait for you. “You couldn’t settle down and be content, you couldn’t play house; you weren’t that kind of guy.” 

“I know, doll. I know.” He whispered. “I…I didn’t think I was capable of it. I didn’t think I deserved everything I wanted and I knew that you deserved better. That you deserve better.”

“But?”

“But I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life trying to prove you otherwise; trying to give you everything you deserve.”

“Sirius…” You sighed, and Sirius could see your walls cracking. “I…I’m-”

“Take me home? Please?” He begged then, words interrupted by a sob of his own. “To Tintagel, to Killarney, to bloody fucking Azkaban or the bottom of the sodding ocean, I don’t care where it is just as long as it’s with you, please. Please.”

Your hands landed on Sirius’ chest and he was sure you could feel his hummingbird heart beating under your fingertips. He only hoped you knew how it beat for you. 

“Please bring me home?”

James didn’t know if he could consider this a success or not. 

His motivation was not singular; it was a ‘hit two fairies with one gobstone’ sort of scenario, so to speak. Was his son turning two? Indeed he was! Was James throwing a party for said son’s birthday? You’re damned right he was. But was it also a really good excuse to force two of his idiot best friends into the same room again? Absolutely.

Except James seems to have gotten slightly more than he bargained for; Sirius falling unconscious in his childhood backyard, you sobbing into Lily’s shoulder out in the hallway as he and Remus tried to bring him back from the dead, Remus sneering at a slice of birthday cake like it personally offended him and Regulus threatening to defend his boyfriend’s honour, and - apparently - a new niece or nephew coming in the next three-ish months. 

But when he looked over to see you and Sirius emerging from the spare room - both of your faces tear stained and puffy from the grief and torment you no doubt put yourselves through - hands intertwined between your bodies and your hand resting protectively over your growing bump, and a spark in Sirius’ eyes James had thought he lost in the war but now realised he only lost when he lost you…

…yeah, James figured he could probably consider this a success.

[ppureheroiine]

our names in the paper - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader

wc: 11,151

cw: swearing, fade to black but suggestive moments?, smoking, slut-shaming, kissing

info: r and james are about 24, set in 2007ish solely for the romcom vibes. james is the equivalent of like David Beckham in his prime, all pics are for vibes only, not reflective of r's appearance etc

me: i've been working on this for soooo long i am so happy it's finally done!! if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms and i am honestly so proud of it so praying it doesn't flop LOL

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

"James, James! Over here! What's the defence strategy this season?"

If you had to hear James' name one more time you might scream. Unfortunately, you were locked in a room with nothing but that. Worse, you were part of the problem.

"Mister Potter, what do you think about your striker's goal-to-game ratio falling rapidly this season?" You called, begrudgingly hoping for a moment of the soccer star's attention. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his glittering eyes settled on you, singling you out from the room of hungry journalists.

"I think that you miss one hundred per cent of the shots you don't take," He said, smirk turning to something challenging, "And as long as my team is training and working together, I'm not gonna cry over a bit of spilt milk or missed goals. And, as far as I'm concerned we're still winning games, aren't we?" You rolled your eyes, scribbling down his answer nonetheless.

You continued the catfight of trying to get answers for your newest article, keeping the balance of vying for James' attention and showing him you didn't care for him personally, unlike the other journalists you were pushing against. The conference room was full of men and women who wanted to be James or be with him. Aside from the professional questions, there were certainly several invitations to the pub thrown around, and you were sure you saw one woman try and give him her cellphone number. You rolled your eyes again at that, James was nothing to fawn over.

He might be a big shot now, but you'd known him almost all your life. The two of you had gone to school together and had bickered through every interaction since then. James had always wanted to be a football star, and you a journalist. You'd never believed in him and vice versa, both of you taking every opportunity to tease the other or cut each other down. Maybe it was just clashing personalities, two people too ambitious to be friends. The rivalry had lasted past school, and unfortunately, the two of you often crossed paths in your respective careers.

The press conference wrapped up soon after your question, and you ended up lingering in the room trying to finish your notes. James was still over at his podium next to his coach, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and arduously texting on his flip phone. Seeing you hovering by the door he called your last name, sauntering up behind you. You rolled your eyes and braced yourself for the encounter.

"Potter." You smiled curtly, moving to leave.

"You don't have to call me 'Mr Potter' during the conferences, you know. James is perfectly fine, everyone else calls me that."

"Just trying to stay professional," You said through gritted teeth, aware his coach and a few others were still around you. It could cost you your job to snap at him.

"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.

"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold," You whispered, glancing around anxiously. James laughed at your distress which only annoyed you further. Maybe he could get away with anything, but you had to fight for your place in your field as a female sports journalist, you couldn't afford to take it lightly.

You couldn't help the physical reaction to being trapped between James and the wall though, your breathing shallow and quick, face tilted up slightly to look at him. You felt a bit like prey, caught in the predator's territory and resigned to imminent death.

"Let her go, will you? She's just doing her job," Remus Lupin said, entering the conference room with his nose crinkled from the smell. You couldn't blame him, sweaty players and hungry journalists didn't make any kind of utopia together.

"I wasn't doing anything!" James cried, hands up in surrender, "Come on love, I was just giving you the scoop, right?"

"First of all, if you were giving me 'the scoop' right now I'd certainly be accused of sleeping to the top by all the blokes waiting out there," You gestured to the group of other reporters still lingering in the hall waiting for any scraps of information, "And secondly, I work for the bloody Sunday People, not the BBC. I honestly think they'd rather I just write about your 'dashing good looks' or a drug scandal than your games," You complained, falling back into the ease of conversation now that Remus was there. He'd been at school with the both of you, growing up to be a physiotherapist, but was always much more palatable than James.

Both men laughed at your plight.

"If you ever need a more detailed look at my dashing good looks just ask, sweetheart. I'd be glad to show you, you know, for your articles." You rolled your eyes at James' attempt to be charming, snapping your notebook shut.

"Alright, I think that's my cue to go," You said curtly, smoothing out your work trousers. "Remus, I'll return Dracula next time I see you; I'm almost finished." You remembered you'd had his novel for quite a while, sparing him a smile on the way out.

"You lend her books?" James asked incredulously, hazel eyes curiously following your figure down the hall. Remus just shrugged, patting James on the shoulder and attending to his actual job, checking up on the players after the match.

James was still hung up on the fact when he returned to the apartment he shared with Remus and Sirius, flabbergasted as he hung his coat on the rack.

"Since when are you two close enough to be sharing books?" He cried as he paced through the kitchen, "Have we not all been in agreement that she is stubborn and hard-headed and annoying and has been since school?"

"No," Remus shook his head, "You decided that, and I daresay she feels the same about you. I've always rather liked her."

James was unexpectedly dumbfounded at the realisation that you weren’t the common enemy he thought you were. Even Sirius didn’t seem to dislike you, always stopping for a chat when you were around the stadium and giving you extra comments with a flirty wink.

James didn’t need to think about you for another few weeks; his team hadn’t played one week and you’d been assigned other matches for the others — he read your very amusing pieces on lawn bowls and chess-boxing, partly because he knew you’d hate the assignment.

You were blissfully apart until one Saturday night. You were out with your friends and a few coworkers and James was out with his. He’d started in the local pub while you were at a fancy cocktail restaurant for Lily’s bachelorette party, however, your groups crossed paths in the depths of a nightclub.

Maybe you were getting too old for them, waking up with sore backs and knees after nights of dancing, but it didn’t mean you wouldn’t give it a red hot go. And with a few cocktails in your system, nobody could convince you it wasn’t a good idea.

You'd been shaking what your mother gave you for the better part of an hour before it was your turn to get another round, telling the girls you'd be back before stumbling through a sea of sweaty bodies.

Some gross man who was definitely too old for you obstructed your path, grabbing your arms to make you dance with him. Your face crinkled in disgust of its own accord, trying to wiggle yourself free. He continued to encroach on your space, forcing you around despite your persistence. Finally, a man's hands landed on his shoulders, yanking him away and subsequently freeing you from his grasp. The momentum sent you tumbling in your strappy heels, right into something warm and solid. You cringed, having been there before. You turned slowly to meet your unwitting saviour, huffing when you realised it was James.

"Oh, fuck off," You grumbled, mostly to yourself, producing a quick apology to not seem totally impolite.

"Alright?" Sirius asked, revealing himself as the one who'd gotten you away from the creep. You shrugged, fixing your hair.

"Been better," You told him, preparing to leave before seemingly their whole team had surrounded you, all greeting you loudly. You weakly waved at them, feeling dreadfully underdressed and professional. You were used to seeing them in the stadium and press conferences where you were much more modestly dressed. The strapless mini dress wasn't giving you the same layer of protection.

"Right," You said when there didn't seem to be any more productive conversation happening, "I'm off to the bar then."

"Let me buy you a drink, to make up for the freak," One of the players, Frank, said. You smiled but shook your head.

"I'm buying for several, it wouldn't be fair. It's Lily's bachelorette." You directed the last sentence to those who knew her, the football and journalism professions having considerable overlap due to events and the never-ending scandals and interviews. James covered his face in mock-devastation.

"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?" He moaned, earning some shoves from the rest of the group. You and Lily had been friends since uni, and you'd introduced her to the boys at one of the terrible house parties you'd endured over your three years studying. James had developed a thing for her right away (no one knew how much of it was serious and how much was for comedic value) and had been loudly pining for her ever since, despite her long-term relationship with Dirk Cresswell, an economist who worked in the building down the block from your office.

"I think you missed your chance the first time," You retorted with a snort, a little drunk to have any ferocity in your tone. You both made a face at each other, ignoring the laughter of those around you. You dismissed the group and danced away, shaking your arse over to the bar.

A few rounds later and you were not in your best shape. The girls had been absolute menaces, feeding you shots and deceiving colourful cocktails that actually held like seven standards in them, and you were certainly feeling the effects. You excused yourself from the group to find a loo, bile rising in your throat as you pushed past dancers, not even sparing a comment for James as you saw him.

That confused both James and his friends, becoming used to your insistent teasing over the years. He exchanged a look with Sirius, following you through the crowd and to the bathrooms.

He figured something was wrong when you burst into the gender-neutral bathrooms, not bothering to lock the door behind you. James and Sirius silently fought about who was going to follow you in and check on you; James found you insufferable, Sirius had severe emetophobia and would probably throw up himself if he had to be close to you vomiting. James rolled his eyes, it was his responsibility. Sirius clapped him on the back gratefully, leaving him to return to the others. James sighed, reciting some affirmations before he cracked the door open, calling out to you.

When you responded with a disgusting wretch, James slipped inside, gagging a little as he saw you leant over the toilet bowl, bare knees on the grimy tile floor.

"Alright?" He asked for lack of anything better, unsurprised when you replied with another gag.

"I feel ill," You said pathetically, head hung low in the bowl which James knew you would resent tomorrow. He laughed quietly, getting closer to you.

"No shit, idiot," His tone was light as he began to rub your back softly, making sure your hair was away from your mouth. You vomited a few more times, your body reacting in violent hurls as James tried to be both soothing and as far away as possible.

When your stomach was finally empty you slumped against the toilet, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.

"Woah," James pulled you up to a sitting position, "That cannot be good for your skin. Let's get you home, okay?" You nodded petulantly, letting yourself be led out through the club, James telling Lily he'd make sure you got home (and congratulated her on the upcoming wedding).

"Can we get some gum or something? My throat tastes like vom." James looked down at you from where you were lodged into his side, legs shaky as you wobbled down the street. He sighed and steered you in the direction of a convenience store, picking out strawberry gum for you since it tasted better than mint, your words. Good you thought when he paid for it, the football star can shell out 2 pounds, makes more than you anyhow.

You chewed happily, stumbling down the pavement as James held onto you, keeping you upright.

"You're so muscly," You said, somewhat in a drunken haze.

"Thank you?" James laughed, patting you softly on the forearm he was holding. To be fair, you weren't quite sure if it was a compliment either. Your words were admittedly oddly nice but your tone made it confusing, drunk thoughts not completely translating to sober dynamics.

You meandered for a few oddly peaceful minutes, neither of you starting an argument or picking a fight. It was a nice break from normal, the two of you even sharing some peaceful small talk -- discussing a movie you'd both seen recently.

Of course, nothing good lasts.

"James!" A voice yelled from the other side of the street, a short man with mousy mannerisms. James groaned beside you.

"Peter Pettigrew," He whispered to you, trying to pull you along faster, "We used to be mates but turns out he was just using me to get team secrets out into the papers." You whipped your head around to look at him. Oh! You knew Pettigrew, unsurprising given you both reported on essentially the same topics, but he had a bad name even in your circles. He was closer to a paparazzi than a journalist, going for the cheap stories and ad hominem approaches rather than searching for any meaningful insights. Simply put, in an already sleazy career, Peter Pettigrew was the bottom of the barrel.

"Later, mate. I'm in the middle of something right now." James put his arm around your shoulder, better shielding you as he tried to make a getaway. The telltale flash of a camera reflected off the grey pavement, making both you and James whip your heads around to face Peter, looking hardly ashamed of himself. After a moment of shock, you both covered your faces, stumbling down the street as fast as you could manage. The damage was already done.

Suddenly you didn't feel as drunk, navigating the cobblestone streets with unanticipated nimbleness. James might've had the athlete's advantage but you were on home turf, leading him through local shortcuts and to the front door of your apartment building.

On the journey over you'd attracted a few more photographers all fiending for a scandalous picture of James, a small mob forming as you tried to punch in the door code despite your shaking hands. James was right behind you, front pressed to your back, holding his Adidas windbreaker out in a position to shield your face from the prying eyes.

You slammed the door shut, the nosy questions and camera clicks immediately muffled. James let out a long sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, processing what had happened.

"Make yourself at home then." You cringed as you surveyed the state of your flat; clothes flung over chairs and dishes still in the sink. Your only option for living alone was cramming all your stuff into what was essentially a shoebox, so any amount of mess made the place look chaotic.

"Nice place," James said and you immediately rolled your eyes, snatching up a stray bra strewn across an armchair. "No, I mean it! It's cozy. Very you." He gestured up at the colourful, mismatched glassware in a kitchen cabinet and the beaded curtain separating your bedroom. You blushed slightly; you didn't often take men home, your flat staying a girly paradise just for you.

You put on the kettle, comforted by the familiar sounds of water beginning to boil. James sat awkwardly on an armchair near the window, anxiously peeking out from behind the curtain every few minutes. His reactions told you the paparazzi were still loitering outside.

James took his tea gratefully, surprisingly still agreeable despite all the terrible things that had happened in the course of a few hours.

"Do you have a back exit or something? Somewhere I can slip out and get home?" You shook your head with a grimace.

"Only the fire exit, but that still goes out near the front. Otherwise we're surrounded by other buildings."

"You must be exhausted after everything. Head off to bed, I'll wait until the gits outside fuck off then lock the door behind me. We don't have to ever mention this again if you don't want." The orange lamp light made James' eyes look unfairly soft, highlighting the golden flecks amongst the brown. You steeled your nerve and shook your head.

"I'm not that bad of a host," You tried to joke, "Besides, don't you have training tomorrow? You're already up later than I'm sure you intended to be. I couldn't live with myself if I ruined England's star player by making him stay up all night, you take my bed and go to sleep." You were both very carefully trying to keep things light, not wanting to spend any more of the night miserable and fighting.

"Well, I'm not taking your bed, that's just impolite. I'll take the couch, if you're being so generous as to let me stay." He had a cheeky smile on his lips as he said it, both of you dancing around the fact that in any other circumstance James wouldn't have been allowed within fifteen feet of your flat.

"That couch? No way." You pointed at the teensy vintage sofa sitting in front of the boxy television. It had space for maybe two and a half arses to sit on it, maybe horizontally extended legs if you were short-ish, but there was no way the goliath James Potter was getting any decent sleep on it. "You take the bed. I'll survive the couch tonight."

"Don't be stupid, I can't sleep in your bed. If not the couch I'll take the floor."

"Speaking from a purely medical standpoint, I haven't cleaned these floors recently enough for it to be safe to have your face in such close proximity. Take the bed, Potter."

You bickered for a few long minutes, both of you trying to outdo each other's respect as host and guest, respectively. You didn't miss the irony that even when you and James were getting along you were fighting.

"I'm not letting you go without, that's final." You turned away to go fetch a pillow for your night on the couch when James said something you never ever thought you'd hear from him.

"Then sleep with me."

"Excuse me?" You all but shrieked, immediately cringing as you thought about your poor neighbours.

"Look, it's basically morning, we're both shattered and I'm sure your bed is much comfier than whatever alternative you're planning. We can even go full pillow-wall if it'll make you feel better." You stared at him for several moments, lips actually agape. Never in your life did you think James Potter would be asking you to share a bed with him, and never in your life did you think you'd be considering it.

"Fine."

Twenty minutes later and you were both ready for bed. You'd found James an old pair of an ex-boyfriend's long abandoned pyjamas, stuffed in a bottom drawer. They were slightly too small to accommodate all his muscles, the t-shirt sitting a few inches above the pants' waistband, giving him a very '90s crop top and exposing his happy trail.

You were almost definitely more embarrassed than James. You were in a similarly aged pair of pyjamas, a cartoon of Spongebob over your chest. You couldn't tell if you'd prefer to be in the lame pair that you were wearing or a cute pair -- no, it would probably look like you were trying too hard. Which you weren't. You didn't care about looking cute in front of James Potter, why would you?

He was already in bed when you'd returned from your skincare routine, face fresh and moisturised, and though you knew he was going to be there, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of James Potter in your bed. Tucked up to the chin under your frilly floral grandma sheets, he looked the picture of cozy.

"Don't bloody touch me, I mean it. I want to feel alone in my own bed," You snapped, sliding under the covers, pulling the doona similarly high up to your chin. You turned over to the centre of the bed to find James already on his side looking at you. You let it be for a moment, surprisingly enjoying the sleepover vibes you'd created.

"Okay this is weird now, the pillow's going up." You slammed a long decorative cushion in between the both of you, secretly smiling at the sleepy giggle James let out.

The first time you awoke it was hazy, still early in the morning with golden sunbeams streaming through your curtains. Warmth enveloped you, keeping you cozy despite the winter morning outside. You shifted to burrow deeper into your blankets when a groan came from behind you, startling you more awake as you recognised the feeling of muscular arms wrapped around your middle. It suddenly all came back to you, James walking you home, the paparazzi, you making an absolute fool of yourself. However, James was a portable heat source and extremely comfortable so you let yourself ignore everything that had led up to it, allowing yourself another few hours of blissful sleep.

The second time you woke up James was gone. That wasn't surprising given he definitely had early morning training, but you would reluctantly admit that it was a little lonelier in your bed than it usually was.

You didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, finally cleaning your apartment after much too long. Turns out all you needed was to be embarrassed in front of a guest to get you motivated.

Monday morning you weren't hungover anymore, but you were mourning the weekend that had passed much too quickly. Still, things were running smoothly enough; you didn't miss the tube and had snagged a seat, and your makeup was looking absolutely grand. You were absolutely thriving.

That was, until you crossed the threshold of the Sunday People offices and the jerks from the politics columns started bothering you, as if a Monday morning wasn't punishment enough.

"Meet anyone nice over the weekend, sweetheart?" One crowed from his desk chair, looking positively dickhead-ish in his too-small button-up.

"Or still on the clock maybe? We know you're always hunting for a good story." The combination of both remarks confused you, but you strutted past them with a quick glare in their general direction, your clicking heels producing enough attitude that you didn't need to say anything.

As you approached your own desk area, you had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at you. You couldn't think of why, but subtly wiped the edge of your lips in case it was foolishly smudged lipstick.

You even swore you heard one of the royal writers -- an awful woman maybe twenty years older than you -- say something about your 'promiscuity' and 'unprofessionalism'. You didn't know where it was coming from. You weren't friends by any means but you usually just stayed out of each other's way, you didn't throw around insults at your workplace. You glanced down at your outfit but nothing seemed especially revealing, the same button-up and pencil skirt you always wore if you weren't doing field work.

You were really starting to wonder why everyone was looking at you when even Lily was sending you pitiful glances. You had just made up your mind to say something about it when your boss came striding towards you, anger emanating in a way which only middle-aged men can do.

"What is this?" He slammed a Daily Mail tabloid down on your desk. The office was dead silent. You looked down at it, wholly confused as to what it could be -- your last article was approved without any troubles.

THE 'INSIDE' SCOOP? POTTER GETS COZY WITH REPORTER ON NIGHT OUT

And there, right under the brazen headline, was the stupid picture that Peter Pettigrew took. The two of you out on the street, you tucked into James' side with his arm around you. Your face wasn't totally visible, but anyone who already knew you would recognise the figure and fashion.

You could feel your face drop as you read the article, a barrage of slut-shamey insults and reports of how intimate you and James were out on the streets of London -- all entirely false, of course. When you'd finished reading the piece the whole office was staring at you, waiting to see how you'd react.

"It's a lie," You said quietly, trying to stop your hands from shaking as they rested on your lap. There was a pregnant pause as your boss processed what you were saying, clearly confused. None of your coworkers dared to speak.

"Bullshit," He replied, face blooming red as he decided you weren't being truthful. "That's you and that's James, there's no denying that. The whole bloody country will be able to see you two getting cozy on the street. How do you reckon this reflects on me, having your name and workplace published alongside your completely unprofessional affair?"

"I understand that it looks bad, but it's not what you think at all. J- uh, Potter was just helping me get home after a chance encounter because I wasn't feeling well, then he hid at my place because of all the paparazzi. Nothing happened." It was a weak explanation, even you could tell, even though it was completely true.

The arseholes over in Politics were already sniggering to themselves and you wished you could have ripped them a new one. Instead, you were cowering underneath your brutish boss.

"It's your word against Pettigrew's, and only one of you's been printed. You've been publicly humiliated and we're getting bad press for it."

Your boss had left you with the threatening promise that the issue would be brought up with your superiors and the whispered opinions of every single person you worked with. You choked out an excuse to get out of the office, taking the lift up to the rooftop to cry.

You had peace for a few minutes, getting the most embarrassing of the sobs out alone.

"Did you actually sleep with him?" If it was anyone else you probably would have snapped, yelling at them for being so insensitive. Marlene said it with such earnest curiosity and sympathy that you turned to face her instead. You were met with her and Lily, your very best friends who you were feeling especially lucky to work with at that moment.

"No!" You told them the full story, about getting sick at the club, James just being polite and walking you home, and Peter Pettigrew's terrible betrayal. Both women listened attentively, taking it all in.

"I thought you hated Potter," Lily said finally, "How'd it get that far in the first place? Usually you'd have ditched him in the first five minutes of being in his presence."

"I don't hate him." You studied your hands intently, observing the peeling red nail polish you should have reapplied yesterday. "I think he's annoying and obnoxious and I've always hated that he's never believed I could be a serious writer, but I don't hate him. He has his moments. Besides, why would I waste energy on hating Potter when I could hate Pettigrew with all my heart?"

"What a snake," Marlene spat, lighting a cigarette as she got comfy next to you. You and Lily both nodded. Peter was not only now a backstabber, but he'd been becoming increasingly insufferable over the years you'd all been writing.

He started out quite nice and was in your periphery of friends in the same way Remus and even James were, but as he'd gotten the job at his shitty tabloid magazine he'd become downright intolerable, always twisting what you'd said both in official articles and when gossiping with other friends. You had all had enough a few years ago and stopped inviting him places. Clearly, he'd held onto the grudge.

At his own work, James was facing the same rumours, though not nearly to the same peril. As he rocked up to his home pitch for the morning training session he was received with catcalls and high fives which made him nervous. No one was ever that happy to be working out on a Monday morning.

"Thought you hated her, mate."

"Maybe all she needed was a good shag to get the stick out of her arse."

"Woah! Can we take it back a few steps and not talk about women that way?" James sent a look over to one of his teammates.

"Sorry bud," He held his hands up in surrender, "Thought you wouldn't mind since you're always moaning about her." James' eyebrows knit together as he tried to piece together what the men were talking about, finally giving up and asking for a plain explanation.

He was met with a copy of Peter's article, outlining the flirty touches and 'electric chemistry' the two of you shared. Scanning it quickly James felt his face screwing up in disgust. Never mind that it obviously wasn't true, what a disgusting violation of privacy. He'd only recently launched into the spotlight, working his way up into the Premier League and then team captain in the last few years. He still didn't know how to handle the fame, especially invasive press like this.

His first priority was setting the ruth straight for his team, explaining exactly what happened and outlining strict instructions not to bring it up the next time they saw you.

"This is going to be a lot worse for her than me," He said, ending the conversation there.

He was correct. Rumours only spiralled from Peter's article. You'd stupidly created Google Alerts for your name; as a journalist, it made sense to keep track of where your writing was being shared. One day of this nonsense and you had all alerts silenced, not wanting to ever visit the internet ever again.

Apparently, this alleged affair was the most interesting thing young British people had ever experienced. The football star and the sports journalist. As you packed up to leave at the end of the day you were feeling sick to your stomach, already overwhelmed by the attention you never wanted on you.

Your face blanched as you approached the dizzying glass windows, a mass of reporters swarming the door. You didn't have to think hard to know they were waiting for you. You retreated to the restroom where they couldn't see you to rearrange your exit appearance. Pulling your coat tight against you and scarf up to cover the bottom half of your face, you plugged your iPod nano in to appear busy (and touched up your eye makeup for the inevitable photos that would make it back into the news cycle).

Physically and emotionally prepared you braved the crowd again, moving through with a polite but firm shove, making yourself a path down to the tube. You only snapped at one particularly rude paparazzi, giving him an instruction of where to 'stick it' as you hopped down the stairs to your station.

You ate a haphazard dinner by your computer, obsessively clicking through the various articles (and now personal blog posts) that had mentioned you. Every link made you feel worse about yourself.

The articles themselves were bad, most of them degrading you and congratulating James. Some had even produced old school photos of the both of you, even a few from your uni days when James was just starting out professionally and you were attending similar parties.

The articles were one thing, at least they usually had to be somewhat impartial. The blog posts by James' fangirls were downright cruel, calling you a slag based on a singular photograph and dragging your name through the mud.

You were drawn from your doom-scrolling by your cellphone ringing, Britney ringtone at least drawing a smile from you.

"Hello?"

"Get off the internet," Sirius Black said from the other end of the line.

"How'd you know?" You exited the webpage dutifully, already feeling the weight of the world's ugly words lifting from your shoulders.

"I figured. First time being written about isn't easy."

"It's certainly making me grateful I've never been so bitchy in my articles," You produced a hollow laugh, "I don't know how people can say these things about someone they've never met."

"That's why we like you," He said, "Mostly, at least. You stick to the sport and not our personal lives."

"Don't inflate my ego, Black, it's just because I don't like you guys," You joked, your mood already blooming back to somewhat more chipper.

"That's what I've been telling him!" You heard Remus call from further away, probably the other side of their living room. Sirius made an offended noise.

"Is Potter there?" You changed the topic, swirling your mouse around the window aimlessly, too afraid to check your work or personal notifications.

"He's out right now, calling someone official -- a publicist or lawyer friend. He's tearing his hair out about this, he feels awful for you." Both men explained, bickering about who exactly he was talking to.

"Yeah, I'm noticing only one of us is getting called a slut." You rolled your eyes even though they couldn't see you, balancing your cell between your shoulder and ear as you made a cup of tea. Sirius' barking laughter crackled through the speaker.

"Don't worry about it, love, everyone knows The Daily Mail is full of shite. Besides, I got that all the time."

"Yeah, in school! Not when you have a grown-up job to save face at!" Sirius conceded, apologising lightly. You shrugged him off; he was not the target of your anger at all.

"James'll be back soon, do you want to stay on the phone?" Remus asked and you answered without hesitation.

"No. I don't want to talk to him right now. We'll just find something to fight about, it's not worth it."

"He wants to make things better," Sirius offered, "He feels terrible."

"Maybe when I'm not so angry at the world." You left them with the offered compromise, hanging up to pity yourself for a few more hours before bed.

You didn't end up being fired over the incident, your bosses couldn't find a good reason to cite, but everyone in the office knew you were on thin ice. Most weren't afraid to highlight that fact. You were really starting to hate the Politics guys.

You just tried to keep your head down, diving into your articles and trying to keep in the higher-ups good graces. Amidst the drama though you'd been taken off all football coverage for the time being, banished to the irrelevant 'sports' you never even knew existed.

The week had taken you out of London to cover bizarre rural events like cheese rolling and bog snorkelling; not uninteresting but a big change of pace to the Premier League drama you were used to.

It did take your mind off of James and the media shitstorm for a day or two though. Being in a small town was much preferable to London, at least for the moment. The paparazzi weren't going to make the drive to find you for a single day when there were plenty more interesting figures to find in the city.

Plus, you were meeting the most interesting people. Though it was no Premier League final, everyone around was so wholly invested and excited by the competition that you couldn't help feeling the same, despite your initial hesitation.

Throughout the day it was just you, your notepad, your camera and the few thousand people who came to participate and observe. You'd already met and interviewed the woman who made the cheese, the previous year's winner and you were waiting impatiently to see who'd prevail now.

The paper was paying for you to stay overnight so you could chronicle the post-event celebrations, and you'd never been so glad to be working late. The key players in the day, organisers and competitors had all convened in the town's old pub, basically heaving under the weight of you all.

You held up your beer with the others despite hating the taste, grateful to be included in their toast to the day. You laughed as you tried to down it quickly, wanting the taste out of your mouth as soon as possible without refusing such a kind gift. Holding the pint up in the air victoriously you accepted the cheers of those around you, including the lovely middle-aged lady who made the ceremonial cheese and the man only a year or two older than you who'd won earlier.

"Finally letting your hair down!" He laughed and you smiled back, trying to remember his name. A glance down at your notepad said Drew. "Can I get you another?" You hoped he didn't notice your eyes widen, not expecting attention like that, not when you were allegedly working no less. You opened your mouth to agree when someone else answered for you.

"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You asked, jovial politeness abandoned.

"You didn't remember that my family comes to watch every year?"

"Respectfully, why the fuck would I remember something like that?" You snapped, moving to leave and follow the much nicer Drew to the bar. James grabbed your hand lightly, stopping you from leaving.

"Wait, can we talk please?" You just looked at him for a long time, considering how much patience you had after a full day of work, then shrugged half-heartedly.

He led you outside and away from the crowd, both of you letting out a huff as you noticed the change in temperature.

"I liked your story on the bog snorkelling -- interesting stuff," James broke the awkward silence and you rolled your eyes aggressively.

"As if you read my pieces."

"I do!" He insisted, silently refusing the cigarette you offered. "I've read all your pieces, honest."

"But... huh? You're the one who always said I'd be a shit writer, I've spent years trying to get the negative internal James out of my head! You absolute dickhead!" You shoved his chest, turning back towards the door to return inside.

"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"

James' words rang heavy in the air, the street otherwise silent. You stared straight ahead of you for a moment, his words settling on top of you as you focused on the orange street lamp.

This whole time, this whole time, you'd been fighting the image you believed James had of you, striving to be better, never being satisfied, for nothing. This whole time you and James had been bickering and trading insults for nothing? And all his flirting... James' annoying charm and ironic compliments and innuendo-filled teasing were all genuine, after all this time? Suddenly your whole world had turned on its axis.

"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.

"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

"Jesus Christ," You muttered, "So what, you thought all my arguing back was just flirting?" James' silence told you all you needed to know.

"Come on, don't act like you didn't like it a little bit! As I recall you were always up for the fight, weren't you? You never avoided me or ignored me. Let's face it, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He stepped closer to you, breath visible in the cool air.

"I didn't enjoy it, what the hell are you talking about? Why would I enjoy trading schoolyard insults with some arrogant, idiotic football player who discredited the one thing I wanted most in my life?" Suddenly you were inches apart, heat emanating from both of you as you fought.

"Like you never said I was stupid for wanting to be a footballer? Face it, love, you're just as bad as me."

And suddenly, despite all your better judgement and every bit of sense in your head, you were kissing him. You didn't know exactly how it had happened, and if anyone were to ever ask you you would absolutely pin the blame on James but there you were, out in the middle of the street without a care in the world.

Every one of your senses was on fire, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his soft curls under your fingers. Everything about James felt like he was made for you, like all the years of you revolving around each other, playing off the other's insult was just a lead-up, preparation for the very moment you kissed for the first time.

James' arms around you were warm, strong from years of working out and protective like a weighted blanket. One hand wrapped around your midsection and the other firmly on your neck you felt wholly surrounded by him, isolated in your own bubble of James.

It was probably a bad idea, but you weren't overly concerned with addressing that fact in any rush. It didn't come as you tilted your head to bring him even closer, it didn't come as you said hurried goodbyes in the pub and collected your coat, it didn't even come as you closed the door to your hotel room, undoing the buttons to James' shirt like they had a personal vendetta against you.

The admittance only came as you lay entangled with him, faces millimetres apart.

"Was that a bad idea?" You asked, genuine self-consciousness mixing with pragmatic anxiety.

"I mean, I quite enjoyed myself, love. Did you not?" James' cheeky smile made you snort out a giggle but you sobered up quickly, hitting him lightly on his toned chest.

"Don't turn this into a joke!" You ordered, "Have we just fucked everything up?" James just looked at you for a minute, taking in the sincerity in your voice and the depth of your eyes.

"Of course we haven't," He assured you. "Do you like me?"

"But--"

"Ah! Do you like me?" He reiterated and you paused, nodding shyly. "See? You like me and I like you. We'll figure everything else out. Start slow; baby steps."

"Baby steps," You agreed, sharing his smile. It really only hit you how much you actually liked James once you'd said it, finally noticing how he might've been looking at you the whole time.

You sent James off early in the morning, both of you needing to make it back to London quickly. You had to get your article written up and James had training. Thankfully there was no awkwardness in your goodbye; James had to rush to meet his parents to drive back by car and you had a train to catch. The only moment of hesitance came as you said goodbye, waving at each other with a giggle as James hopped down the steps. He hesitated halfway, turning to look at you with the glint of mischief in his eye that you'd become very well acquainted with.

In a moment he was at the top of the steps again, swooping in to steal another kiss. You rolled your eyes to hide an embarrassing smile, pushing him back in the direction he came.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" You asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. James mimed twisting a knife in his chest but continued down the stairs nonetheless, giving you one last smile before he turned a corner and disappeared from your sight. You sighed like a schoolgirl then laughed at yourself, packing the last of your things to get home.

As you sat on the train, green landscapes passed you through the window and you felt your cell phone buzz from the minuscule pocket of your work trousers.

thinking of u :P <3

You grinned, looking out at the scenery so the people around you wouldn't be able to figure out your embarrassing secret. You felt like a teenage girl again, blushing over a text from the guy you had a crush on.

Everything turned to shit in a matter of hours after returning to London.

First, James' publicist made his statement. It wasn't necessarily terrible, but it really had no regard for you. No statement declaring you both on good terms, no coming to your defence or asking for the press to respect you. James looked like the hero saving a stupid drunk girl, and you still looked desperate for the most popular footballer in the country. You were decently sure it wasn't James' fault, but it did significantly dampen your lovesick giddiness.

The office was half-empty when you arrived, kitten heels clicking against the ground. You said a quick hello to Lily, still dutifully typing away at her computer. You followed her lead, exporting your notes to your desktop computer, formatting the piece and going through edits to have it ready for the next paper.

The sun was setting, sending orange and pink streaks through the sky when the door to your boss' office slammed open, echoing above the cubicles.

"You kissed him?" He yelled and you paled, knowing exactly what he was talking about but not how he knew. That problem was solved when he slammed the magazine down in front of you, no doubt just delivered by the skittery young receptionist running back to the elevator.

FACT OR FICTION? POTTER AND REPORTER CAUGHT SNOGGING AMIDST PUBLIC DENIAL

Fuck. That could not be worse.

The whole piece was essentially dragging your name through the absolute mud now that they had the confirmation there was something going on between you and James. The whole world thought you were sleeping to the top, or for the best scoop, and everyone hated you for it.

You looked up at your boss, words dying on your tongue.

"Please tell me that's not you," He said, grasping at the thinning hair on his head. You couldn't deny it.

"I..." You trailed off, searching for anything you could say to make it better. "I didn't mean to. And I'm being completely honest when I say that the first article was all bullshit. Things have... happened since then." You were already on the verge of tears. Even on an optimistic day, you couldn't have denied that this was utterly shit.

"Jesus." Your boss muttered, beginning to pace. "Look, I like you, you know? You do good work and you're never outta line, but I reckon the higher-ups are gonna be done with you. They wanted you out over the first article but I convinced them it was all speculation. This is proof and makes us all look bad that you're sleeping with someone you interview every other bloody week. Look, I'll do what I can in damage control, but I'd be bringing your stuff home tonight. I'm sorry."

How could he have just left you with that absolute bombshell? Effectively firing you, just like that? The tears had made their way up to your waterline, sitting there mocking you as you refused to let them fall. You submitted your piece and shut off your laptop, angrily stuffing your sparse personal decorations into your shoulder bag to get the fuck out of the building as fast as possible.

The paparazzi were waiting again, of course, like that was what you really needed. You pushed past them, making sure to land an extra hard stomp on Peter's foot, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile as you heard him curse.

You sat on the tube, staring intently at your feet and trying desperately to think of anything but your current situation. You'd already been approached by someone who'd coughed out "Skank," which really hadn't done anything for your sour mood. All you wanted was to crawl into your bed and never emerge.

You wandered down the street between the metro station and your flat, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

"Hey!" Someone called and you glanced over on instinct, senses drawn by the interruption of an otherwise quiet evening. "You're the girl who kissed James Potter, yeah?" It was a girl still in her school uniform, probably sixteen or seventeen. You thought through your options quickly and shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wicked. How was it?" She asked, chewing on pink gum. There was an aura about her that you liked, not judgemental like everyone else you'd met. If you were still in school you thought you might've been friends with her.

"Pretty good, I'd do it again." A cheeky almost-joke between the two of you, ironic given the shit that it had caused for you.

"We were talking about it at school. Pretty shit how they've treated you. Like they all wouldn't jump at a chance to get close to 'im." You liked the way that she didn't get any closer. Just the two of you standing face to face, divided by the empty road.

"Exactly what I've been saying," You agreed, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"If it was the other way around, if you were the famous one, James would be getting congratulated for getting with you, not ridiculed by the mindless gossip columns. All my friends think it's utter bullshit, stopped buyin' 'em and everything." You could have kissed her if that wasn't tremendously creepy. In five minutes, this schoolgirl had vindicated everything you'd been saying for the past week in a way no one else had.

"Thank you," You said, with more sincerity than you probably should have had for a complete stranger. The girl just shrugged with a smile, nodding before continuing down the street, the sound of her leather school shoes growing quieter with every step.

You felt it in your whole body every time you thought of the interaction for the next few hours, warmth spreading through your chest as you were reminded there were still good people around.

Your other reminder of that fact came with the sound of your buzzer, the laughing of Lily and Marlene echoing off the stone of your building. As you let them in curiously they presented armfuls of takeout, the smell of Chinese food immediately floating through your flat.

Lily took the responsibility of setting out the food while Marlene took control of your little television, flipping between channels until she found a suitable romcom starting.

You didn't speak about what had happened, no one mentioned James Potter or the bloody Sunday People. Yet, there was an air of tenderness that let you know the girls knew exactly what was happening and how you were feeling about it.

Still, there was something bothering you. You couldn't give it a name immediately, only a tugging in your stomach while the girls were entertaining you, but persistent nonetheless.

It wasn't until you were all crammed into your bed, the other two peacefully asleep, that you could identify the sensation. It was an overwhelming desire, a need to write that you hadn't felt in ages. It was the same feeling that had pushed you to be a journalist in the first place, an inspiration you typically only felt watching a magical soccer final.

You crept out of your bedroom, switching on your computer at the kitchen table, squinting at the aggressive blue light. And when a blank Word document appeared before you, you started writing. Obsessively, feverishly, words poured out of you at a rate that hadn't happened since you'd started at Sunday People.

The words of the school girl fresh in your mind, you started an article vastly different from your usual kind. Instead of strategies and highlights you dissected your own experience of the past week, saying everything you hadn't let yourself unload to the paparazzi outside your office (though with fewer curse words than they would have received). It could have been minutes or hours that you were writing and you wouldn't have noticed, eyes glued on the screen in front of you.

You didn't realise you'd fallen asleep until Lily woke you gently with a hand on your shoulder, offering a steaming mug of tea. It was light outside, the world already up and awake. You were glad it was a weekend as the girls didn't need to rush off to work, cooking a simple breakfast for you all to share.

"What've you written?" Marlene asked, the second part of her sentence unnecessary: since you don't have a job to write for. You shrugged, taking a bite of some eggs.

"Just something I had to get off my chest. Might see if I can sell it to someone to tide me over 'til I figure out what I'm doing with my life."

"Can we read?" You made a 'go ahead' gesture, the computer already open to the screen.

A WOMAN'S UNWILLING WEEK IN THE PUBLIC EYE:

How a woman always loses.

You sat in mild discomfort as Lily and Marlene read your piece in silence, anxiously awaiting their reactions. They weren't what you were expecting.

When they turned back to face you, Lily had tears in her eyes, red tones brought out in her skin. Even Marlene looked uncharacteristically moved, not at all the reaction you were expecting. Firstly, it was completely unedited so you suspected it was somewhat of a mess from your midnight haze. Secondly, it was more of a vent than anything, getting your hatred for invasive paparazzi off your chest. You thought you'd all laugh about it then move on with your days.

"Lils, what's wrong?" You didn't mean to laugh, it was more out of surprise than anything else.

"It's just, it's so raw and real. It's so unfair," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.

"Jesus, you don't have to cry," You said lightly, "I'm fine! I hated that bloody place anyway."

"That's not the point," Marlene pointed out, "And Lily's right, this is really confronting stuff. It's great."

"Thanks," You mumbled, studying a lamp for something to do.

"Can we talk about James?" Your head snapped back to look at her.

"What about him?"

"Clearly there's been some... developments in your relationship, which we don't have to talk about--"

"Yet," Marlene interrupted.

"The point is that it looks like there's feelings involved now. What are you doing about them? Because if you publish that, it's putting everything out there, and even I can't tell how you feel about James right now," Lily finished.

"I don't want to talk to him," You said quickly, "I know it's not his fault but I can't think about him without getting mad. It's like I wrote; he ends up fine while I lose my job over one kiss."

"Understandable," Marlene nodded, "But if I know James at all, he'll be going crazy every minute that you ignore him."

You had much to consider when the girls left. The state of your career, your feelings for James, everything felt too big and overwhelming to make any decisions about. So, you took a nap.

The rest of your weekend was spent sending your then-edited article to as many newspapers and blogs as you could and hiding out in your flat, dodging James' calls.

Unfortunately, you liked him. You'd figured out that much. More unfortunately, he hadn't done anything to help you out in all this mess, benefiting from the press in a way that only England's favourite footballer could.

On Monday morning your piece was published. Not the biggest or most reputable newspaper, if your name hadn't still been trending it probably would have gone largely noticed. Instead, it blew up.

It had mixed reviews, of course, a tell-all so blatantly feminist would always attract its haters, but you were floored by the support it was receiving. Women were validating your experiences in a way you hadn't expected even a few days ago. It made you not so scared to leave the house anymore.

On Tuesday morning, Remus called you. You had the thought that it might have been James calling to grovel on Remus' phone, but you thought it was a smart enough idea you'd indulge anyway. If it was Sirius you wouldn't have picked up.

Instead, it was actually Remus.

"Come to the media room this afternoon," He said, evidently not wasting time with pleasantries.

"What?" You asked, caught off-guard.

"Just do it. Two o'clock."

"Remus, you know I don't have a job anymore, right?"

"Come off it, you know anyone on the team would let you in. You've got quite a name for yourself," He chanced a joke and you rolled your eyes.

"What, whore?" You retorted, only a little worried it would be true.

"I'm hanging up," Was all he said before the line went dead. You huffed, snapping your phone closed with all the attitude of a spoiled private schoolgirl.

Yet, at two o'clock you were standing in front of the media room at James' team's stadium, questioning all of your life choices.

The room seemingly went silent when you entered, dozens of pairs of eyes staring you down as you nervously stuck to the wall. You felt the derogatory, leering stares from all the sleazy men who'd been accusing you of sleeping with players since you first started in the field. It made you want to drop dead.

James made his way to the lectern up the front of the room with a cough, quieting down the chaos.

"Afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here, I've got some things I'd like to address.

"As you all well know, I've been a frequent face in the papers lately, and not for my brilliant playing as it usually is. I recently got followed down a street after a night out looking after an old friend who happened to be a colleague of yours. Now I know that my godly good looks lead you to believe that I don't feel the same as all of you, but I do. And I'd like you all to consider how you'd feel if a man with a camera followed you all the way home after you'd been out for a night with your friends and a few cheeky drinks. It's pretty invasive if you can't imagine.

"Now, all this press hasn't really affected me. However, my dear friend has been subject to misogynistic articles, slut-shaming and harassment all because we were seen out together and a few hateful words from someone I used to consider a mate." You had no idea where this was going, but you were absolutely fascinated. James was more well-spoken, more mature and solemn than you'd ever seen him, though he still had his audience in the palm of his hand with his casual jokes. It was a masterclass in public speaking.

"If you haven't read any of my friend's pieces I would highly recommend them; she's got a brilliant voice and I personally read everything she publishes. However, I'm not here to talk about her work; I'd actually like to talk about her if you all don't mind."

What the hell was happening?

"In the midst of all these articles over the last week, I know you've all seen various pictures of us, including from secondary school. A few come to my mind, our graduation picture is a highlight, but I'd really like to talk about this one." James brandished a printed-out photo you recognised instantly.

"This photo was taken when we were twelve or thirteen years old at someone's party. That night, as you tend to do when you're young and bored, we played spin the bottle and ended up being each other's first kiss. I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm telling this story now, and it's because ever since that night as I have recently realised, almost a decade later, I have been embarrassingly, stupidly in love with her."

Your life wasn't real, it absolutely could not be.

"And though I've done some incredibly dumb things over the years, somehow she's managed to like me back -- at least a little. So I'm setting the record straight right now, she is not 'sleeping to the top' or trying to get a secret scoop out of me because I'm the one who's been chasing after her for twelve years.

"I know I've been rambling on for far too long so I'll wrap it up here, but I just wanted to end this little conference with a warning that if I see any more disgusting, hateful articles about her, you won't be getting another comment from me again. So nice to see you all!"

The room started to trickle out but you were stuck to your spot against the wall, frozen in absolute shock. You hardly even noticed the dirty looks you got from some of the people you'd been working alongside for years.

You spotted James in another corner, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and messing with his hair. A nervous tell.

The room was almost completely empty when you approached him, heels muffled by the carpeted floor.

"Hey stranger," You said softly, feeling way out of your depth. He turned in an instant, smile lighting up his face then melting away as it was replaced with an insecure frown.

"Was that okay? I didn't want to embarrass you but I wanted to step up and do something and protect you and--"

"Have you really loved me since we were twelve?" You cut him off bluntly.

"Every day since, as I've figured out," He agreed with a slight nod, glasses slipping down his nose slightly.

"What about all the flirting with Lily? The other girls over the years?"

"So obviously fake. Distractions. It's never been anyone but you, love."

You could only stare at him for a moment, your whole world shifting beneath your feet. James' face became increasingly worried, brow furrowing more the longer you remained unresponsive.

"If you don't feel the same that's totally alright, I still stand by what I did and I don't want you being harassed for--"

You'd always thought that cutting someone off with a kiss was ridiculously cheesy, reserved for shitty Hallmark movies with grown-up child actors who never got their big break. Turns out though, when you realise that your girlish crush on the star footballer has actually been a complicated love of twelve years, you don't really want to waste any more time.

When you woke up on Wednesday morning with James next to you, body heat keeping you cozy, you were convinced you had to be dreaming. When you eventually got up to check your emails and start your day the hypothesis was only solidified by the impossible email waiting in your inbox.

The fucking BBC wanted to hire you as a football commentator and sports writer. Your dream job at your dream company. If you let out an embarrassing squeal then that was none of your business.

You were still convinced you were hallucinating the whole thing until James came in with his biggest smile and that look in his eyes that told you he probably had a hand in getting your name on the BBC desks.

Even a few weeks ago you would have been mad at him, assuming it was mocking or he had ulterior motives. But it wasn't a few weeks ago anymore, and James Potter's whole, endless heart belonged to you. You weren't letting that go anytime soon.

[ppureheroiine]

ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄᴇ ꜰʀᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ ᴀᴜ ✦ ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ

you foster a hot and cold relationship with your desk buddy, James, until things start to change, and you both fail to ignore your new feelings. fem, sfw you and James have to share a bed you slip outside of the office you offer the very first olive branch James defends you from a coworker James assures you that you’re pretty James pretends you aren’t cute at karaoke you faint at the office you realise James isn’t fully insufferable you fall asleep on James’ shoulder James forgets why he doesn’t like you you buy James a new smiski for his desk you come onto your period unexpectedly James accidentally calls you lovely you and James get stuck in a lift James hates when people flirt with you James jumpstarts your car, you ogle James is upset when others treat you badly you call James ‘Jamie’ for the first time James antagonises you into a kiss you and James hide your feelings James takes you out for coffee

[ppureheroiine]

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight OUR BATTLES FOR US! It is not in my blood, Thorin.”

[ppureheroiine]

i am my father's daughter - declan o'hara x rupert's daughter!reader

synopsis: you knew you shouldn't be doing this, flirting with your dad's friend and business partner. but he's so irresistible!

content: age gap relationship (ages not specified), maud doesn't exist au, not very canon compliant just ignore it, nsfw themes, dbf trope, accidental tense switching (ignore it)

author's note: declan is sooooo hunky #needthat also this is a rather short piece but if you'd like to see a continuation of dbf declan, i would absolutely provide <3

you're quite positive that nobody has looked as good in a t-shirt as declan o'hara does now in the front of the priory's living room, leading an open discussion about what is next for the budding production company. his biceps flex underneath the thin material when he lifts his arm in a gesture and despite your efforts to remain focused on the conversation at hand, it's difficult when all you've been able to think about since he moved in is declan.

for a month or two after he and his two daughters moved in, he had been the sole object of your daydreaming. he was so strong, so intelligent, so witty on the television, so...everything.

however, there was little that you could do on that front, considering the last name that appears on your birth certificate and the fact that rupert campbell-black, your father, and declan hated each other. it was a rather difficult watch, the night declan interviewed him, but with rupert bonding with declan over their love for their small families, it became much easier to slink your way into his presence. thankfully.

then, it became regular to see declan in your home, or to see you and rupert in his. he was hard to depart from, what with his deep, thick accented voice and his wavy hair he kept running his hands through, and that t-shirt, that damn t-shirt. you lived in pure, unending agony for a while, having to be so close to him all the time without being able to give in to this torturous desire.

but then he started blatantly running a large hand over your back as he passed behind you and then he started making eye contact with you across the room and then he helped you with car troubles where he stood tantalizingly close behind you while showing you how to check your oil.

your father doesn't need to know that you've kissed and made out with and sucked off his friend and business partner. right?

when declan finishes his speech in the front of the living room, he makes his way through the crowd to the table in the back with a few drinks and refreshments laid out by taggie where you just so happen to be standing.

his eye contact with you is unwavering as he comes closer and closer to you and there's a smirk growing on his lips.

"could you be any more obvious with your ogling there, dear?" he says quietly once he reaches your side.

you scoff, but you know what he's saying is true. "i wasn't doing anything of the sort, mr o'hara. i'm just admiring your leadership and passion for venturer, is all," you whisper.

he leans against the table, then, watching as the crowd before him mingle with each other, completely oblivious to the conversation happening between you and him. even your father seems to be swept up into conversation on the other side of the room. he turns his neck side-to-side, clearly aware of the way that his shoulders and back tense underneath the tight shirt. your eyes betray your previous statement as they immediately flick to the sight, then flick downwards.

he chuckles and takes the smallest of steps closer to you. "so you like the shirt, then, i take it?"

a small blush overtakes your cheeks and you refuse to meet his eye. suddenly, you feel his body tilt towards yours, lips just before your ear.

"i can let you take it off me if you come over tonight."

his deep voice reverberated through your body, sending chills down your neck and spine. subconsciously, your back arched from the table you were learning on and he let out another laugh.

a few hours later, you found yourself slipping quietly out of penscombe, positively giddy. the walk to the priory was one you had done plenty of times and you knew it like the back of your hand, really. slowly, the centuries old building came into view and several feet up the wall was a window with its lights still on. declan's.

as he'd done before, he met you at the back door of the home, one that leads into the kitchen, a smug look on his face.

"you took my offer quite readily," he said. his big frame leaned against the door and he crossed his arms. still adorning him was that damn t-shirt.

"as if you weren't kicking your feet waiting for me," you retort, then come to stand before him.

he shakes his head then and a sly smile tilts the corners of his mouth up. he removes his body from the frame and steps to the side to let you inside. as you pass him, a firm hand comes down on your ass, making a small yelp escape your lips.

you turn suddenly and shoot him a glare. he just pats you again, a gesture to keep you moving forward. "get on up there, little minx. before your daddy realizes where you've gone, huh?"

you turn then and head for the stairs that lead up to his bedroom. declan didn't have to tell you much twice.

[ppureheroiine]

I'm so excited you're taking requests for Rupert Campbell-Black!!

Do you think you could maybe fo #15 from your prompt list about him showing up for the reader bc they don't have anyone else?

Idk if just love that trope and I think it works with him.

If you don't feel inspired by that one no worries!

Someone in the crowd

prompt15 Rupert Campbell Black x fem!reader

word count: 5.3k+

warnings: parental neglect, mild swearing, hurt comfort, FLUFF

AN: Ahhhhhhh ANON I love you this is my fav prompt I was initially planning on the same one anyways thanks for platform ing my Rupert obsession you’re the first one

The chronicles of the country side for a veterinary sciences PhD student included more than just animals, main reason she selected a university so far from the hustle and bustle of the city. Peculiar animals in their natural state, she came across more than just peculiar animals.

Trespassing loses its meaning for the engrossed researcher, she didn’t realise when she passed the forest to a private estate land whilst following the slow worm. The most advanced high end camera, that Rupert had only seen with those media folks and proper film production. However he assumed the girl in a camouflage jungle vest to be an intern in a tabloid firm, trying to prove herself to be ever so efficient to her superiors by sneaking in to his property for a few pictures. Too naive to realise he could sue her for all her fortune perhaps. Rather an amateur at her job perhaps, she was there to snap him yet her attention didn’t avert to him on his horse before he approached her himself, “Young lady” he cleared his throat sternly “You do realise you’re trespassing here?”

“Oh?” She looked out of her camera lens to the voice that called out her and in an instant she lost sight of the slow worm she was following. “Fuck!”

“And if you don’t delete the pictures and get off of this land right this second I will be suing you for all the jobs you don’t already have.” Rupert threatened, he truly misliked this breach of his privacy to no end. But because the girl seemed unskilled and gullible to her supposedly first job he felt he could let her get off easily.

“I’m not deleting any pictures I barely got two” she said with a heavy sigh, her eyes frantically searching for her subject within the grass again not too bothered by his threat. “And I don’t have any job as it is”

“Oh” he amused, getting off of the saddle of his horse to level with her, “are you one of those fans then? How many times do I have to tell you people-“

“What?” Her attention broke from her subjected reptile to the man this time, “a fan? I don’t even know you…”

“Oh right” he scoffed placing his hands by his hips, “surely you don’t.”

“I truly don’t. I was following my subject for today from the forest lands and I ended up here it was an honest mistake” she explained herself as she opened her camera to show him the pictures, they were all reptiles and not…him.

“You were following a snake?” He asked rather confused and somewhat intrigued as to what would bring her to this.

“It’s not a snake, it’s a is a legless lizard. Anguis Fragilis” she corrected the man, ever so casually as if it were the most common of knowledges to attain.

The man just burst into laughter letting go of the horse chain to contain it, his hand on his chest he could find the joke in the name and the scenario extremely comical. “You have got to be kidding me!”

Y/n felt a bit embarrassed as if she’d said the wrong name so she went through it in her head again and she wasn’t, wrong. It was perhaps like college again, info dumping on the wrong set of people who poke fun at peculiar passions. But the man seemed to be too old to be like those immature college kids who mock others so she was left rather confused “what is so funny?” She asked hesitantly, “it’s rather rare and native to this area we don’t come across them in the city…” she trailed off trying to fill in his boastful laughter with something to feel less uncomfortable.

“Oh is it now?” Rupert asked as his laughter subsided and he realised the girl was an enthusiast in a true fashion. He just found the name of the godforsaken reptile to have a double meaning to it, he thought she made it up but when she got awkward and explained further he realised she wasn’t joking. “My apologies, are you new here?”

“Yes Ive actually moved here for research, I’m studying veterinary sciences for PhD… ” she said still feeling a bit self conscious after he’d laughed like that.

“Anus Fragilis huh?” He repeated trying his best to suppress another set of laughter but he failed at it ever so evidently.

“Anguis…er-slow worm.” She cringed as she picked up on the joke that had him loosing his composure like that. Perhaps she judged him to act his age which he looked so fast. “It’s also called slow worm. I lost him regardless, so I’ll get going. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, no hang on a second darling” he said gripping her elbow as she attempted to leave but as she returned to face him again he left it just instantly. “Since you’re already here, allow me to indulge you in a coffee or so? It would be very disappointing if I don’t get to learn more about…” he wanted to say it, the joke. But the awkwardly offended look on her face of feeling small wasn’t worth it so he kept it to himself “slow worms and legless lizards”

“They’re the same.” She briefed him feeling his ignorance, the PhD aspirant did not seem to have time to entertain his indulgence. “Forgive me but I have to go, I’ve walked too far from my car.”

“Well then allow me to drop you?” Rupert offered with his usual charm which didn’t leave to phase a lot.

Not her perhaps, “It’s not that far” she said curtly. Packing her camera equipment in a hurry. “Thanks. And sorry for trespassing.”

Rupert watched as she hastily packed her lenses and the rolls. Just when he thought he could work on himself to not offend people on first impressions, he generally didn’t do so with ladies so perhaps this was a first. “I’m Rupert Campbell Black” He put his hand forward for a handshake, “Sports Minister.” He introduced himself.

She had both her hands full with her books and camera, which she could rearrange back in the bag to accept his handshake but she’d rather not so she just nodded shortly. “Yes, Mr. Rupert, so nice to meet you.” She said with half a smile, then paced away not even waiting for his reply.

“I suppose I’ll see you around?” He said with his usual grin but she was already pacing away back to the path she’d come from.

That is how the two first met. Not her most memorable nor pleasant interaction but surely intriguing for the minister. The next time he met her, late early evening at a cafe. It took a second to recognise her with her head down in a book but there was enough lighting cast on her against the window where she sat. “Slow worm!” He exclaimed as he approached her causing her to avert her attention from the book to him.

“You…” she trailed off however her tone didn’t match the same enthusiasm as his. “Hi.” She said as he gestured to the chair across her on her table, asking if someone was there but she shrugged and nodded “Please, go ahead” she said being polite, internally bracing herself for another awful interaction.

“I was hoping I’d run into you” he told her leaning forward on the table crossing his arms, “turns out, your little bugger is a frequent visitor of the stable sheds back at the estate.”

“That explains yeah” she nodded closing her book, the size of it gigantic and hardcover it made a small thud, “it eats slugs and snails, spiders too…”

“Wonderful aspect” Rupert complimented, under informed on the subject he didn’t know what to say. “Did you get proper observations for your research?”

“Superficially yes” she nodded, “I’ll run into more of those one of these days.”

“You can always just visit my place again…I would be honoured to help out a bright mind.” Rupert offered leaning back in the chair, unbuttoning his blazer.

“That is so kind of you, I’m very sorry for trespassing that day” she said it again, obviously not friendly enough with him to take him up on that offer.

“Well you could make up for it by telling me your name.” He shrugged as his lips formulated a smile.

“Y/n.” She told him. As the conversation progressed, learning more of him, telling him more about her research and the subjects she’d come across so far. For someone in a vastly different field he was such an attentive listener. She’d told him a lot, about the animals, her thesis, her lectures and sessions, being a TA, moving here.

“And what of your friends?” He asked her over his second cup of coffee in the same conversation because he wanted to keep it going.

“I don’t live on campus so I don’t have roommates to be friends with, then I’m a TA but everyone else is a bachelors and third year student. Had I done college here I’d have those friends…I do have friends from college back home but as of now it’s only my professors.” She informed him, very casual with it but as she formulated the picture in his head it seemed to be a rather isolating experience.

“And what do you do for fun around here?” He asked her to see if it was as isolating as he realised.

“Trespass estates.” She joked with a small giggle, but in truth she did absolutely nothing for fun because there wasn’t anything.

“Greatest hobby ever” he joked back. But as she didn’t follow up with another activity he realised that if he pried about it he’d just force her to admit she led a boring and somewhat lonely life. He wasn’t judging her, she was fresh out of college and had to move a whole place and seemed to have no friends here. Well except for him if she’ll have him. “Are you struggling?”

“Of course not. I love my work, I can easily afford rent too it’s not a problem.” She replied honestly, if only financial was all of her struggles.

“Don’t you think you’d save more if you lived on campus?” He questioned unsure of her choice to stay in a boutique flat in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods.

“My father wouldn’t allow it. He’s a bit of a tone deaf classist that way.” She admitted, rather casually.

“Allow?” He repeated, surprised. He didn’t know her precise age but by her educational status and the looks of it someone in their early twenties didn’t need their father’s permission on how to live.

“It’s just a bit complicated, he wants all of his children to take the right step that is work in our family business, his company. I tried, it’s soul draining and very unlike me” she sighed “So I just extended education.”

“To get far from him?” He perceived, perhaps not the way she saw it.

“—To explore my options. I don’t want to disappoint him when I can avoid it.”

“And is this the way to be?” He asked, his tone guarded and expression curious.

“Perhaps.” She replied, but on the inside she was so hyper aware that anywhere farther from the family business as all the way to be. She didn’t want to distanced from her father nor her family, she may not be the golden child but she wanted him to be ever so proud of her even though she didn’t walk on the road he chose for her.

“Your spirit likes the fight doesn’t it?” It was more of an observation than a question.

“I don’t indulge in self awareness that well” She replied with a bemused shrug and he just let out a low laugh that. And that was her first friendship in Rutshire. To Rupert’s likeness the cafe was another one of basil’s side quests but he visited there less frequently given the bar was his primary. Regardless, Rupert got him too. The prime customer and his newest friend, studied there most of the time because she lived close by and Rupert felt drawn to her company.

She had no other and he found her growing to be his favourite one. He fancied the conversations with her so much, in her absence basil teased him about it. This one afternoon, Rupert visited as his usual time, or perhaps y/n’s usual time which he picked up on but she wasn’t there. “The coffee can’t be that good.” Basil said with a small scoff, as he found Rupert with a disappointed expression in the girl’s absence.

“I’m just trying to reduce the alcohol intake” Rupert said nonchalantly, well aware he didn’t the caffeine he’d been consuming just for the conversations with her.

“I wasn’t talking about the coffee” Basil added with a devious grin hinting at the double meaning joke he was referring for.

“Piss off” Rupert rolled his eyes at the man with a heavy sigh of irritation sitting down at the table, rolling up his sleeves and facepalming. “This is her usual time to come and study here” he mentioned.

“Which you don’t let her do.” Basil said, the entire time indulging the poor girl in conversations and spontaneous outing plans. “She’d have to be extraordinarily brilliant to keep up with her courseworks with all the detours you put her up to.”

“She is extraordinarily brilliant.” Rupert briefed him.

“I suppose you’d know.” Basil shrugged leaning against the table where he was sat, “Does she have a boyfriend?”

Seemingly offended at the mere thought of that Rupert’s expression disgusted, “Of course not!”

“Of course not?” Basil repeated surprised with his affirm expression. “So you are sleeping with her.”

“I’m not sleeping with her.” Rupert emphasised on the word ‘not’ and it was probably the tenth time that Bas had asked him that this moment.

“Of course not” Basil humoured him mimicking his tone when he said that.

“I’m not, it isn’t like that with her.” Rupert tried to explain that to his friend who found that to be such a foreign concept. It was a very strangely unknown and unspecific feeling for Rupert himself too.

“You don’t want to sleep with her?” Bas questioned not believing nor understanding the prospect “she’s rather pretty.” besides he’d sleep with anything.

“She isn’t just pretty Bas, she’s beautiful, a bit too much even on the inside.” He paused “She is precious.” Rupert spoke with such genuine passion that basil had to lay off of the joke he was brewing.

“And what of you?” Basil asked, it was something Rupert hadn’t even questioned himself for well not yet anyways.

“What of me?” He answered the question with a question feigning innocence. Before basil could further explain himself, even though well aware that Rupert understood him. The bells of the door jingled announcing upcoming presence in the nearly empty cafe causing the men to turn at the voice.

“Hello-Hello, Gentlemen!” Y/n exclaimed in the most enthusiastic Sunday morning tone possible but it was a cloudy afternoon on a Tuesday. To Rupert she always sounded like a Sunday morning with her little giggles and all the mannerisms but today she seemed way more lifted with spirits.

“Want to bet a tenner she ran into a coyote.” Basil said as she made her way to their table sitting across Rupert whilst basil was still leaning against the table.

“I bet you a twenty its a pine marten.” Rupert said, he picked up on everything from their conversation. This week she was in search of that specific animal from her list or so, he kept track somewhat subconsciously.

“It’s neither” She said with a smile still plastered on her face as she sat her bag down to the side placing her hands on the table. “I’ve got great news, well not great but perhaps good, great to me.” She went in an adjective discourse and shook her head coming back on track “My professor submitted my thesis to this government honorary publications department and I’m getting an in-kind research grant!”

“The government is giving you money?!” Basil matched her enthusiastic tone leaning forward on the table.

“No, no it’s an in kind grant…as in-they present me with an award but the big thing is that I get policy access, lab space, government authorised datasets…” she explained further with her eyes so lit up Rupert wanted to bottle this warmth of emotions he felt in just seeing her happy like this and drink it like water.

“You are getting an award?!” Rupert said with loud earnest passion for her excelling. “Y/n! That is marvellous news!”

“You fucking genius!” Basil added further, giving her a side hug and kissing the top of her head, giving her hair a ruffle as he walked across the cafe, “this calls for a celebration!”

“Thank you” She replied with a toothy smile. Feeling very heart warmed. Then Rupert took both her hands in his, he looked just as lit up as if it was his award.

“My darling, you absolute mastermind. Your mind is a wonder, y/n I am so so proud of you!” He said, he didn’t have to reaffirm or reassure more so because out of everyone she’d come across, Rupert had been so supportive, a subject and felt so unfamiliar yet he’d reassured and let her know it so constantly that she’d always have him to be cheering so hard for her. “You deserved this!”

“Rupert, that is so kind! Thank you, seriously” she replied with a glint in her eyes he could feel coloured by. Just about on time, basil blasted the confetti cracker he happened to have lying around. He turned the open sign to closed at the door of the cafe and returned to the table, slowly she let her hands out of Rupert’s.

“Didn’t have champagne in the cafe but this should do” Basil said as he presented their table with a small cake.

“You didn’t have to close the place” y/n said with a small giggle as she saw the cake, a sign in red jam crossing out the name ‘Einstein’ and Y/n in its place. Classic Bas.

“Oh please love, I deserve this celebration.” Bas said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, any reason to not work was reason enough.

“Right of course since he worked so hard.” Rupert joked clearly forgetting he owed the man in staying the cafe for him to keep it open just in case y/n might come in. They kept congratulating her over and over again as the trio dug into the cake.

“So when exactly is the award function?” Rupert asked, it was going to be event of the week for him more than it was for y/n.

“It’s on this Friday, I get one visitor pass and my father is flying out to attend it!” She said, ebullient. It did irk him somewhat because he’d wanted to see her receive the award but he knew how much her father’s approval meant to her so he was happy in her happiness regardless.

“That is great news, what did he say?” Rupert asked keeping his disappointment for not being able to see her at bay.

“His assistant put me through in the very second call so he must really be impressed, he asked me about the function and he sounded very positive of it.” She told them about the seemingly brief phone call.

“You have to talk to an assistant to get to your fath-“ basil was quickly interjected with a small shove on the leg from Rupert to take a turn in that observation. Rupert didn’t want it to rain her parade, “It’s so nice he’s coming all this way.”

“He’d probably stay a day or two after that you should meet him!” She added, it seemed as if she was somewhat more joyous with the fact that her father was pleased than the actual award to her name. It was a grey line.

“I would be delighted to.” Rupert said, he would be. At least for her sake despite having his internal doubts towards the man.

-

The award function was an extremely formal event, you could barely tell apart the professors from the bureaucrats. Rupert could tell the difference easily though, he simply knew the later group, almost all of them. But he wasn’t there for any of those people. Taking his seat at the round table, next to the faces he knew very well but he was way too focused on the happenings of the stage to indulge in small talk. And then there it was.

The lady of the evening. At least for him, her research dissertation was called out and he recognised it was her turn before they presented her name as well. White shirt with several pins of animal welfare and her educational institution. Simplicity and grace, ever so precious. As she received the medal and the award plate Rupert clapped perhaps the loudest, standing up even. The stage wasn’t so far but she didn’t spot him because her eyes were searching another direction and the procession was short lived before she could avert her gaze.

Finally after all the names were done, she was free from the stage back to the softly mingling crowd. “There she is!” The enthusiastic exclamation caught her attention from her lost trance.

Adhering the man in suit with flowers in his hand, surprised and radiated expression, “Rupert?!” She was baffled and so relieved she didn’t understand the later feeling. She rushed to him, their distance getting closer as he opened his arms for her.

“Congratulations, darling” he said bringing her into a tight embrace both of them so joyous, hers was rather infectious. He easily lifted her from the ground out of glee, kissing the side of her face. “You were wonderful out there!”

“When did you get here?” She asked once he put him down and she pulled away yet kept her arms entangled with him. Enough to just see his face, “also how?”

“I’m an MP you thought I wouldn’t be able to get into a government function?” He amused, surprised she did not see it coming, perhaps she wasn’t expecting him but her reaction seemed as if she would rather prefer him. “I got here an hour before yours was announced.”

“I am so glad you made it!” She told him, the effort was so heartwarming to her. He’d came to an event which wasn’t initially his, making more arrangements to even get in for her. She didn’t want to voice it because he’d always reply with such a strange concern as if being loved more than to be sustained wasn’t optional, she wasn’t used to this concern nor sentimental support.

Rupert could tell her kind, wide eyes in a sort of turmoil of something she couldn’t figure out by even herself but he didn’t pry on it, “where is your father?” He asked looking around shortly.

“Oh he…he isn’t here. He could not make it.” She said with a small shrug, that is how casual his absence was to him.

“—How come?”

“Probably his flight, I forgot to notify him about our time zones or so. If he were skipping he would’ve called prior” there was a small hope tugging at her heartstrings trying to believe this wasn’t like the other times. “He would be here anyways, would just be missing the event.”

“I suppose” he replied curtly, being presented with two choices of either being truthful with her of her father’s harsh and uncaring constitution or hold the hope she held out for the man with her. None of the two seemed befitting to him. As the event progressed she introduced him to some of her professors and people that she worked with, he did the same with the other officials that he knew of. She grew tired of the socialising and asked him if they could leave the event, she wasn’t as tired as she was growing disappointed of a man who wasn’t even in the room.

Even though Rupert and her came to the event from a different place and were going back in difference directions it was a given that they leave together. At least to him it was, she’d just informed him she felt like leaving and he stood up in an instant. He was dropping her back to her place because she didn’t driver herself to the function. The two were walking, to his car in the chilly night with his suit blazer draped over her shoulders, flowers and his hand in her hand, he carried her award with her bag for her and a light hearted conversation. Serenity which ran away once they came across a pay phone call booth. “Do you mind if I go make a call?” She asked him, he nodded but he was well aware who that call was intended for.

Rupert leant against the phone stand with the small door of it open, close to her as she pressed the numbers inserting coins. Anxiously awaiting the other line to answer she replied when a voice answered “Hello, this is me, y/n. Did dad leave yet?” She asked, he hated to see her in such distress and was afraid the conversation ought to make it worse. “What? What do you mean—the event, my award he was going to be here for…like he promised.” Rupert could only hear y/n’s side of the conversation but he could pan out the other side, which wasn’t even her father just some office assistant. “Just let me talk to him…please…two minutes perhaps?” It was difficult to watch, begging for the scraps of her father to an assistant. After a few moments the call ended and she couldn’t even stomach the courtesy of a goodbye.

As she walked out of the booth he searched for her to meet his eyes, narrate to him the happenings of the call. “His plans changed” she said but nothing further. He could tell she didn’t feel like talking so he stopped walking and also held her back from the track, pulled her into his arms. Resting his chin on top of her head as he held her, enlacing his arms around her tightly. He could definitely stay like this for rest of the night. Even life? A small voice suggested and he quickly dismissed it as he was pulled back to her, she didn’t feel relaxed in his arms even though she hugged him back and her face so steady, he felt his shirt getting sprinkled with dampness, as if in smallest portions.

“Y/n…” he trailed off pulling away to confirm if she was crying, “are you crying?” He asked as she lowered her face so he couldn’t see it but he leant in her direction to see. “Hey..hey, it’s alright” he pulled her back to him letting her weep onto his chest as he ran a hand through her hair.

“I don’t understand why I feel so bad” she said through her tears, holding onto him like she would fall apart even more if he let go. Perhaps she would.

“It is alright darling just let it out” Rupert said as he continued to sooth her in his arms, trying to provide a present, grounding support.

“He promised me…” she trailed off crying harder, all those events where her father should’ve been present but wasn’t came back to her. Fancy dress competitions at school where the chauffeur that dropped her off would have to attend the show out of pity for the child, birthdays where he would have to be bothered a multiple times to come attend cake-cutting, evidently sad over a test but he simply couldn’t be bothered to ask his daughter if she was alright. So much life spent in I-promise-you-I’ll-be-there. So much disappointment and you’d think one would learn. “I just feel stupid-I thought this time would be different.”

Rupert held her face in his hands “look at me” he said forcing her to meet his gaze. “You are not stupid for what you feel, you are not at fault for someone so detached and irresponsible towards their own child.” He spoke whilst wiping her tears, “he will forever be an incomplete, deficient man for the kind of father that he is. But you my love are beyond him and how he treats you, you’re brilliant and kind and funny and you have a heart big enough to hold a planet. You are going to go so far, your suffrage of his conditional love and inflicted anguish will heal for the better. I promise you that.”

This was a better hope than the one she was always latched onto, hoping that he would change, come around for once. But letting go and a promise for a softer tomorrow seemed so much more beautiful. “But I am so tired”

“You have been so gentle through so much…you must have been tired too. But persevering is constant and you, you always do. There is so much life within you, those around you are infected with it, I know I am.” He confessed, he hadn’t voiced it out especially not like this even to himself but she was more than a lively feeling, more than a chase or a rush for attraction. No. She was life.

Such admission made her heart flutter, she felt the drumming in her ears and it wasn’t the anxious kind. This felt like a sunrise after a good dream, but she had no words for it because her eyes spoke enough and so did his that wandered down to her lips and back to his. Reciprocating the course of gaze when he leant forward, face so close she didn’t move even by the slightest tired of awaiting him to inch to the closest extent she caught a soft grip of his shirt, lowering her gaze right when he crashed his lips onto hers. She kissed him back and it felt heavenly, as the kiss deepened he felt like he had reached there.

Smiles glued to their faces once they pulled away to catch a breath, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear he said “you are not the only one who’s won something tonight.”

“That means I’ve won twice” she said with a small giggle adding to his exaggeration that kissing her felt like a win.

“That isn’t the same.” Rupert corrected her, going in to kiss her again with a slower passion, taking his time letting the sweetness of it linger “for me this is centuries worth of wins.”

—

IVE SO MUCH MORE OF HIS STUFF COMING SOMEBODY SEDATE ME…next his enemies to lovers let me know if you want to be tagged

PLEASE comments are my fuel I am HUNGRY for validation please if you like this please please let me know

[ppureheroiine]

❞ ᝰ .ᐟ stepdad(dy)!art

TW: smut MDNI - p in v, not proofread, so so much swearing, so much dirty talk oops, fauxcest/stepcest

word count: 2301

¡! ❞! a/n aka post-nut clarity : yikes! i am down BAD

“where the fuck have you been?” art's voice cut through the empty front foyer, his eyes narrowed and arms crossed as you stumble through the front door.

just a few years ago, art was nothing but a familiar face in tennis circles, your mom’s high-profile client from her days as a sports agent. you remembered watching his matches on tv when you were younger. hearing his name murmured around the house—art donaldson, the untouchable tennis star and his wife, tashi. but that marriage had fallen apart, fast. 

and then one day, you came home to find him at the dinner table, leaning back in his chair like he’d always belonged there. they were dating, your mom had said, not hiding the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as if she’d snagged the catch of the century. you never asked how it started, only watched as art slowly slipped from the screen into your everyday life.

art liked it—a family that wasn’t a media-fueled whirlwind, even if the kid was closer to his age than to being an actual child. 

the past few years had gone smoothly enough. art had settled into this new life, used to the late nights your mom spent at the office . . . and then you turned 18. and you were a rebellious mess of late nights and tight dresses and barely concealed fluttery eyelashes.  

whatever you were doing — if you meant to or not, was working. you were turning heads, catching eyes. and art’s mind had begun to shift as well. darken. 

he had begun to become infected by this feeling, creeping under his skin like poison. it bloomed inside him, a constant, gnawing need that he hated himself for. his thoughts spiraled, to you, to your body, to the way your mouth moved when you smiled, when you spoke. worst of all, the way the word daddy slipped from your lips effortlessly, so innocently.

“you reek. are you drunk?”  

you shake your head ever so slightly as you stumble towards the couch. "no, daddy, don't be ridiculous," you giggled, your words slurring. you adjust up the hem of your sleeveless dress as you spread on the couch, hair falling into your face. "i'm . . . tipsy at best."

art clenches his jaw at the sound of that forbidden word on your lips. his heart pounds in his chest, and he feels it low in his stomach, a jolt of heat straight to his groin.

he knows this is wrong, knows he shouldn't be picturing all the filthy things he wants to do to you, sprawled on the couch under him. "tipsy, my ass. who were you with?" he managed to choke out. 

you roll your eyes as you look up at him. "my friend sierra. went to a party." you lick your lips slowly, foot reaching out to graze against his leg. "my neck hurts from looking up at you, daddy. si'down." 

fuck, what are you doing? trying to drive him crazy? it's working. his cock twitches traitorously in his pants, already starting to stiffen at your casual touch. his body moves before his brain can catch up, sinking down onto the cushion beside you. "there. happy now?" he tries to keep his tone gruff, unaffected. 

you nod slightly, a small smirk tugging at your lips before you lean back with a pout, your eyes heavy. "so . . . what're you gonna do? hm? ground me?" you rest your legs across his lap.

it takes every ounce of his self-control not to reach out and touch you. all he can think how soft your skin must feel, how you would taste if he leaned in and ran his tongue along your inner thigh. his hands clench into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "maybe I should call your mother. let her deal with you. this is ridiculous. "

but even as the words leave his mouth, he knows he won't do it. knows he'll take the fall for you, like always. because despite his better judgment, despite the sickness churning in his gut at his own twisted desires — he can't bear the thought of disappointing you. 

you just giggled at his scolding, apparently too far gone to care. you shift on the cushions, arch your back slightly. making the flimsy sundress ride up even higher on your thighs, giving art a peek of red lace that he should not be seeing. art swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

 the room is silent for a few moments, art’s confrontation long dissipated. 

“mom’s gone a lot, hm?” your slurred, shaky voice snaps him out of his daze. you shift closer to him, foot brushing right against his crotch. 

art inhales sharply, his cock twitching as your foot grazes his straining erection. a flicker of panic passes over his face before he could hide it. "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked defensively, crossing his arms, trying to steady himself.

you just smirk up at him, eyes glinting mischievously even through the drunken haze. "oh c'mon, daddy, you know exactly what i mean." you draw out the forbidden word, letting it hang in the charged air between them. lick your lips. bat your lashes oh so innocently. "y'know, 's just that she’s never around anymore. mus' get real lonely for you.”

“don’t . . .” he choked. art dragged a hand over his face, trying to collect himself. "just go to bed," he stammered wearily, unable to meet your eyes. "we'll talk more about this in the morning when you're sober."

but you don’t listen, continue on as if he never said anything — lips curling into a knowing smirk. "mm, poor daddy," you murmur, a soft, taunting lilt to your voice. "don’t get much action, i’m sure."  

art exhales sharply, his eyes flicking to yours, then quickly away. “you need to go to bed.”

you scoot closer, your legs brushing against his. "i don’t want to sleep," you murmur, leaning in just enough for him to feel your breath against his ear. "maybe i want some attention. i know you do." 

“fuck,” he croaked. “stop.”

but you just smile up at him. lean in just a little. "must be hard, having so much to . . . hold in,” you whisper, your fingers trailing lazily along the edge of his sleeve. 

“please," he rasped. "we can't. i'm your father, for fuck's sake.” the words sounded weak even to his own ears. his resistance was crumbling by the second, defenses worn down by months of pent-up lust and longing. 

“not really.”

"go to bed," he repeats. this time his voice is barely more than a whimper.

"yeah, i'll go to bed . . .  but i’ll be thinking about you."

art's eyes slid shut as your fingers worked their way beneath the hem of his shirt, nails raking lightly over his abs. a low groan escaped him, the sound foreign to his own ears. he was in so deep, drowning in a sea of forbidden lust. 

“mhm, i’ll be thinking about you, daddy. are you gon’ make me take care of this myself?”  

art's breath hitched as your fingers trailed lower, brushing against the waistband of his jeans. his hips jerked involuntarily, aching for more contact despite the voice in the back of his head screaming at him to stop this madness. 

you pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow, wet. he wants to turn his head, to capture your lips with his own. to claim you, to ruin you for any other man. but he can't. he shouldn't. 

"please," he begs, but he's not even sure what he's asking for anymore. for you to stop? or for you to keep going, to grind against him until he explodes?

"i think you want this jus’ as badly as i do, huh?" your hand slid lower, brushing over the bulge straining against his zipper. "so why don't you stop fighting and just give in?"

and that's when art's careful control shattered. the last thread snapped, and a ragged curse tore from his throat as his hands shot out, grabbing your hips and hauling you onto his lap. capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, he scrabbles at your dress, rips it down.

he kisses you like a drowning man gasping for air, devouring you, pouring all his pent-up desire into the heated embrace. his fingers tangled in you hair, tugging roughly as he angled your head to deepen the kiss. you moan into his mouth, your own hands frantically roaming his chest and shoulders. art feels you grinding against him, the heat searing him even through his clothes.

he broke away from her lips to trail open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. down the column of her throat. "fuck, you drive me crazy," he growled against your skin, nipping at your pulse point.

your head lolls back, a wanton moan spilling from your lips. "please," you whimper, fingers scrabbling at his shirt. "i need you so bad."

art's mouth latched onto a pebbled nipple, sucking and biting as he ground his aching cock against you. his hands found your mouth, and he shoved a finger in. your tongue instinctively curling around the digits, lapping at them greedily. you mewled around his fingers, the sound muffled and desperate as arched into him, your own hands frantically working to undo his belt and zipper. art hissed in pleasure as your freed his throbbing member, stroking him slowly while he continued to ravish your chest. " 'm gonna fuck you so good." his hips rock into your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction.

he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. "i'm going to make you mine," he growls, fingers delving into your panties to stroke your slick folds. "gon' — fuck. gonna stretch this pretty pussy out. yeah? . . . yeah, 's that what you want?"

it's filthy, degrading, everything he knows he shouldn't want. but god help him, he can't stop. you nod desperately as you groan into his touch, grip on his dick loosening for a second when he teases your entrance with a finger. another light brush and he lifts his hand to your mouth, slipping it back inside between your lips before scooching back. pressing his cock to your entrance through your lacy panties. "pl — please," you cry, eyes wide and watery. "fuck me, please."

art groans, grinding his cock against your soaked panties. the heat of you seeps through the lacy fabric, making him throb with need. he rubs his tip against the practically see-through fabric, soaked through with arousal. relishes your needy, breathy moans. he hooks his fingers around your panties and rips them away, baring you completely to his hungry gaze. "look at you," he rasps, drinking in the sight of you spread out beneath him, glistening. ready. "so fucking perfect. fuck — 'm gonna . . . i'm gon' wreck this pussy, baby. make it all mine, yeah?" he slaps his length against your clit, smirking crookedly at the way you whimper. "make you forget about all those other — other little boys, yeah?"

and with that, he notches the head of his dick against your entrance and surges forward, burying himself balls-deep in your tight, slick pussy. you cry out, back arching off the couch as he fills you. stretches you, claims you.

he sets a punishing pace, fucking into you like a man possessed. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by your pornographic moans and his grunts of pleasure "fuckkk," you whine into him languidly, hands scrabbling against his thick arms. "fuck, daddy. you're — you're so fucking big."

he leans down to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue. swallows your cries of ecstasy as he pounds into you. he grunts, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "you like this, huh? like daddy's big . . . fuck — big cock splitting you open, hm?"

you nod with a sob, thighs shaking at the relentless snapping of his hips into yours. his fingers find your clit, rubbing mercilessly. pushing you closer to the edge with every touch.

"gonna cum," he warns breathlessly, hips stuttering. "gon' fill your cunt up, baby. breed this pussy."

he leans down to bite at your neck, sucking dark bruises into your skin. marking you as his territory.

"cum for me, baby," he demands, voice strained with impending release. "milk — milk me fuckin' dry."

the filthy words send you over the edge, your walls clamping down on him like a vice. you cum with a scream, convulsing around his shaft as he empties himself inside you with a loud moan.

he collapses on top of you, both of you panting and sated. for a long moment, he just holds you, nuzzling into your neck. you smile at him like you'd just won the lottery, legs wrapping around his hips.

"am i better than mom?" you whispered into his ear.

he lets out a real, honest-to-god bark of a laugh. "jesus christ," he pants. "you're fucking . . . you're amazing. fucking intense."

understatement of the century. he just fucked his stepdaughter senseless, filled her with his babies, and he's already craving more. fuck, he's in deep. so fucking deep. literally and figuratively.

¡! ❞ © sstargirln 2024

[ppureheroiine]

All That Matters [Sherlock Holmes | Reader]

white calla lily (zantedeschia) - innocence, purity, faithfulness

“If I wasn’t your enemy, would you have feelings for me?” Crossed legs and a steaming cup of black tea you’d very politely requested of your host. Sherlock Holmes was looking at you, confident yet calm, placid like your self-proclaimed profession of a criminal hadn’t ruined countless lives and your current inquiry wasn’t making the consulting detective quirk a quizzical brow at your jovial countenance. His cup of tea was placed down with a distinct clink as his sharp eyes narrowed in a dismissive manner.

“You are my enemy, so it doesn’t matter.” A proud statement laced with spite to further emphasize the sincerity its beginning held. You’d always liked Sherlock’s candour - blunt and emotionless, so straightforward in its conceit it held no regard for the damage it often did to others. The cunning spark in your eyes reached for the corners of your mouth and twisted them upwards in a facetious smile that made the male frown, bright orbs following the curve of your lips askance as you inwardly admired the cute furrow of his dark brows with fondness he would regard as a joke.

“That’s not an answer.” You held back a chuckle as your dainty fingers - not knowing the hardness of calluses despite the work they often did - lifted your cup to your lips. You waited for Sherlock’s response with patience your subordinates and enemies seldom came to see, knowing very well he wasn’t likely to answer your simple question despite his infamous frankness. You still waited, a ludicrous smidge of hope burrowed in the crevice of your clipped nails as they brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. The tall male sat in his black armchair, reclined against its leather back with his orbs straying towards the fireplace to his right. You didn’t know if a person like him subconsciously sought comfort from a place created to offer warmth and cosiness like the majority but you’d leave that question for some other time.

“And that wasn’t a good question.” His deep voice came and with it - the expected evasive response meant to undermine your constant state of comfort and confidence. A fleeting chuckle slipped past your lips before you stood from the red armchair John normally occupied and approached the desk by the window. Sherlock’s gaze followed the movement of your hands - the gloved one opened the laptop and the bare one logged into the doctor’s blog using a nimble index finger that left no prints. “What are you doing?” The dark-haired detective’s shoulders tensed as he readied himself to stand so he could retrieve his best friend’s laptop from you.

Keep reading

[ppureheroiine]

The Mistletoe Test (Sherlock Holmes x Reader)

The Mistletoe Test (Rated T)

Pairing: BBC!Sherlock x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k+

Warnings: Brief language, Sherlock being a Scrooge

Summary: It’s your first Christmas at Baker Street and you’re determined to make it the best one ever. When your brother tries to warn you about his flatmate’s aversion to the holidays, you start to see a whole new side to the consulting detective. Will it affect your friendship?

“That is absolutely pointless.” You heard a thunk of porcelain being placed back onto the counter beside you. It was accompanied by the third exhausted sigh you had heard in the past hour alone. Your brother had apparently finished his morning tea, but still made no effort to assist in your plans. “He’s not going to buy into it and you know it.”

Your tongue poked past the corner of your lips in concentration. The small step ladder you had been perched on wobbled under your movements, but you still managed to keep your balance. “Why must you always be such a Scrooge, John?” you retorted, arms outstretched toward the top of the doorframe. There was a smear of something sticky on the wood and you did your best not to imagine its origin. “I think you might just be afraid that you might get caught under the mistletoe with a certain someone and have a bit of an awakening.”

“I’m not ‘being a Scrooge,’” your brother’s hurt bled through his tone. “And again, I’m not gay. I just don’t think you recognize how…against Christmas Sherlock really is.”

“How can anyone really be against Christmas?” You frowned as you attached the sprig of the plant to the doorframe. Leaning back slightly to admire your work, the step ladder groaned against your movements. “It’s a time for family, for light displays…for God’s sake, it’s Christmas!”

“Careful,” John’s hands reached up to your waist to steady you. “You’re going to fall and break your neck if you’re not careful. Besides, I think that is exactly why Sherlock doesn’t like Christmas. Have you met Mycroft?”

You shrugged as you took a step back down onto the messy kitchen floor. “Doesn’t he have parents, though?” you asked. “Surely he enjoys spending time with them.”

“They’re simple minded,” came a familiar deep tone from behind you. Its presence startled both you and your brother, causing John to remove his hold from your waist. Still perched against the edge of the step, you wobbled before falling backwards without warning, sending you toppling against a strong chest. 

Sherlock peered down at you with an unamused expression as his arms snaked around your waist to set you down. “Just being around them longer than twenty minutes causes my IQ to decrease significantly.” Without so much as another glance at you, he made his way over to the cabinets to grab a cup for some tea. “It’s especially worse around the holiday season. Positively dreadful time.”

You risked a glance over at John in silent question. What just happened? Your brother merely shrugged in response, shaking his head and raised his eyebrows with lips set in a tight line. Like always, it was obvious he had no clue. He lifted his own cup of tea and set off toward his chair to flip through the morning’s newspaper. 

You hadn’t been residing at Baker Street long, but you could tell this was the boys’ typical routine. Every morning, John rose early to have his breakfast and read the paper before trudging off to work. Sherlock, on the other hand, would stay up until ungodly hours playing his violin, staring at the bullet-ridden wall, or doing the Lord knows what before sleeping until noon. 

The truth was, you found your brother’s detective flatmate to be a whole mystery in his own right. He was the dark and mysterious stranger who you had only vaguely known secondhand through your brother’s stories. Seeing and interacting with him in the flesh gave you a different perspective. Sure, he drove you mad as all hell, but you couldn’t help but be enticed by his demeanor. You didn’t plan on falling for him. It was just almost attractive how he acted. His tone was sharp and to the point, he didn’t care to be bothered by trivial things. Yet underneath the harsh exterior, you knew he had a soft spot when it came to those he cared about. 

So that’s how you came about hatching the plan. It was the infamous mistletoe test, according to your coworker. If one hangs a sprig of mistletoe and stands underneath it. If the object of their affection walks by and doesn’t notice, the attraction is one sided. A kiss of the cheek assumes a platonic connection. Finally, the most obvious sign of shared attraction is a kiss on the lips. It was a stupid idea. You felt it in your bones as you stuck it up on the doorframe. But with John there, it was too late to back out. 

Besides, what could possibly happen? If Sherlock really was as opposed to Christmas as John said, there was a good chance the mistletoe wouldn’t even mean anything to him. He could just walk under the plant with no knowledge of the tradition at all. It wouldn’t be a big deal, right? You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment in your stomach at the thought. Would it really be that big of a deal?

“What the hell is this in my lab?” Sherlock’s voice cut through your thoughts and snapped your attention toward him. He was staring at the small wooden trees and garland wreath you had placed in the center of the kitchen table as though it was about to explode. You had needed to clear up the surface a bit after his constant experiments, but you had been proud of the end result.

“They’re Christmas decorations,” you started, but the private detective was quick to cut you off. 

“You have your own flat,” he spat back. “I suggest you use it and place your rubbish somewhere that matters to you, hm?”

Your whole frame stiffened as he began to pick up and shove each trinket into the box. He hardly spared you a glance while he continued through with the task. You watched as his upper lip practically curled in disgust at the garland shedding across the table, pinecones rolling out of the wrapped decoration onto the floor below. “Bloody mess,” he muttered to himself.

Like it was any better before, you wished to shout back. Instead, you merely took the box back from him and headed back downstairs to your flat without another word. As soon as the front door shut behind you, you tossed the box onto your coffee table and sunk to the floor. How could you have been that stupid? You were just trying to do something nice for your brother and his friend. You should have known it wouldn’t have ended well – John had clearly warned you. 

The next few days, you decided it may be a better idea to spend your holidays doing the things you enjoyed instead of worrying about your brother and his flatmate. So you repurposed some of Sherlock’s discarded decor within your own flat, making sure to help Mrs. Hudson with the garland on the outside banister (she was more than pleased to say the least). Things had been going well, especially after you silenced John’s incessant text check-ins with a simple, I’m fine.

Two days before Christmas, you decided to indulge yourself in a little holiday baking. The idea was to bake gingerbread, brownies, and little Christmas puddings to give out as last-minute gifts for the rest of your friends and coworkers. Molly had been hinting about a craving for gingerbread earlier that morning, so you couldn’t think of a better sign to get started. 

Donning your most festive “kiss the baker” apron, you pressed play on a Christmas radio station and got to work. You were so engrossed in your process, you hardly noticed the sound of someone knocking on your front door. It wasn’t until they knocked for the third time– at an increasingly more frantic pace– that you registered the sound and wiped your flour-coated hands on your apron before unlocking the door. 

To your surprise, Sherlock was standing outside your doorway, hands behind his back. His glassy green-blue eyes searched your face in what you could only describe as desperation. He seemed almost nervous as he cleared his throat. The private detective lifted an eyebrow before gesturing with his right hand in a silent question as to whether he could enter your flat. When you gave a small nod, he stepped inside and raised an eyebrow yet again at both your attire and surroundings.

“You haven’t been by the flat in two weeks,” Sherlock spoke after a moment, tone unreadable. 

“I’ve been…busy,” you replied, arm outstretched toward the kitchen. “You know, with simpleton Christmas celebration things.”

Sherlock stiffened at your response, eyes darting around again. “I see.”

“Why would you care how long I’ve been away anyway?”

The private detective before you cleared his throat. “John is also far less irritable when you visit the flat. I’ve counted that he has checked his mobile roughly twenty-two times this morning alone to check for any missed texts from you,” he explained. “I suppose I’ve also come to find your presence rather…tolerable. I function better with a challenge. ”

The two of you stood in an awkward silence for a moment before Sherlock parted his lips to speak again. “We’re having a small get together at Baker Street on Christmas Eve. It was John’s doing, really. I’ve been instructed to invite you to attend.”

You bit into your lower lip and gave a slow nod in return. “Right. Well, with an invitation like that, however could I possibly refuse?!”

“...I detect an element of sarcasm.”

Yeah, no shit, you thought to yourself. For a self-proclaimed genius, the man before you was fairly clueless. “What time does it start?” 

“Seven.”

You gave a small nod and began to lead him back to the door. “I’ll be there,” you said. “Now I really do need to get back to my baking before all I’m left with is ash. Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

“I suppose there is one more thing,” Sherlock mused as he stepped backwards in the doorway. He moved his hands in front of him, opening his left hand. “You left this behind at our flat the other day. I’ve only just thought to bring it round.” 

You frowned in concern as you peered into his gloved palm. Nestled inside was a small sprig of mistletoe – the same plant you had hung in the kitchen doorway, no doubt. You hadn’t thought much of it since your dramatic departure from your brother’s flat, having just assumed Sherlock would have thrown away whatever remnants of Christmas you had left behind. “You didn’t need to bring it,” you replied smoothly. “It’s inexpensive and won’t do me much good.”

Sherlock gave a silent nod, eyes now locked onto yours. “Most likely not,” he agreed. “However, there is a…tradition.” 

You watched as his gaze flickered from you, to your apron, the doorframe, the mistletoe in his hand, then back to you. Your breath hitched ever so slightly as you tried to decipher his meaning. Surely you must be mistaken. Before you had a chance to comment, Sherlock lifted the plant above your head and pressed a quick kiss upon your lips. It was soft, gentle even, but just so Sherlock. It had an air of elegance, yet was commanding enough to be orchestrated perfectly. 

When he pulled away, you needed to blink a few times to reorganize your thoughts and look at the man before you – truly look at him. He gave you a smug little smirk and stepped out into the hallway. “Might want to check your oven,” he mused as he placed a foot on the first stair and began to make his way upstairs. Suddenly, he paused and turned his head to face you. “And merry Christmas.”

You gave him a soft smile before stepping back into your own flat and shutting the door. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you whispered to the wood and made your way back to the oven. 

Maybe that test wasn’t so strange after all.

===================

Author’s Note: Well, I meant to post this before Christmas, but I just didn’t get a chance to with my schedule. So why not make this my final fic post of 2022? Damn, that’s weird to say. I haven’t watched Sherlock in forever, but I plan to before I head back to uni for the next semester (hoping it’ll give me inspiration to get back to The Last Three Years). There’s just something about how Benedict portrays this character that makes him so fun to write. Especially around the holidays (:

Like always, if you enjoyed this fic and want to see more like it, make sure to leave a comment, tag a friend, even reblog. Likes are appreciated, but it’s interactions like these that spread the word about my works and motivate me to keep writing/posting content for you all.

Until next time, my little sparks <3

Taglist: @bakerstreethound, @theelmgrove, @severuined, special tag for @sobeautifullyobsessed as a holiday treat 💙

[ppureheroiine]

experimenting for friends

part 2 - hair-pulling

part 1

Sherlock Holmes is a man prone to addiction. In means of trying to finally set an end to his substance abuse by finding something equally stimulating, he is eager to do his share of research - and of course, it's your help he's requesting. Another experiment entails.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, mentions of relapse, penetrative sex, mentions inexperienced/virgin Sherlock, questionable sexual favours, fwb (?)

A/N: this is definitely not how you (should) treat substance abuse, but hey... it's Sherlock

"I have a request."

You were just sorting through some paperwork, a whole clutter of important documents you figured he should keep, neatly organizing them in binders and folders, something Sherlock thought was too mundane and boring to do, when the detective came to approach you, downright startling you with one of his spontaneous verbal outbursts.

"Fire away", you had said, looking up from the piles of paper to find him standing in the doorway, hoping that he wasn't just going to ask for another walk so he could have yet another cigarette. You'd managed to get him down to three a day, which was a huge success, considering he had only relapsed recently, heavily abusing substances far worse than nicotine. It had been your agreement from the get go – you'd turn a blind eye to Sherlock smoking a limited amount of cigarettes as long as he stopped using otherwise.

However, it wasn't a cigarette he was asking for.

"Obviously my desire for substances mostly stems from how they affect the release of chemicals within my brain, chemicals that stimulate and influence the way I process my thoughts. They minimize the often overwhelming sensations I experience and are inhibiting my natural urge to deduce everything. They manage to calm my mind, a rather positive effect, which is why I have always relied on getting high if I needed a moment of peace. Can you follow me?"

Sherlock was speaking as rapidly as you were used to, not even allowing you the slightest opportunity of uttering a single word, "Of course you can follow me. You're not an idiot. I know you've done your research and I explained it to you plenty. My point is that I have been researching with the intention of finding something that will have a similar positive effect, in order to...not having to use."

"Let me guess", you replied with a sigh, processing what he was telling you, figuring quickly why he came forward with a request, "You're suggesting another experiment that I will have to be part of? To research and find out whether any theory you have might be correct?"

The detective nodded, striding over until he was standing next to the table, gaze drifting over what you were currently sorting, before giving it a dismissive look and focusing back on you.

"Yes. Exactly. I knew you would get it. I have... reconsidered that time when we... um...uh", he began almost awkwardly, all the sudden stuttering in a way very unlike him, "...when you touched me and when we were close... I felt good. In a way that might be comparable to a high. But I need to figure out what kind of effects it has on me from an analytical point of view to make sure I am right about my assumption."

So very clearly, Sherlock was suggesting you gave him another sexual favour – like once before in an experimental setting, needing to gather 'information' before he could confirm his assumption.

You had no doubt that a sexual high could be comparable to a drug high in some way – you wouldn't know though – and you would have liked to help him, but also considered it risky.

As much as you would have wanted him to find something, anything, to stop him from using ever again, you didn't know whether that would be the right way.

Leading Sherlock to another kind of addiction was risky, considering he was definitely prone to developing them, may it be his evident addiction to the thrill of his work, trying to keep up with and challenge the dangerous minds of criminals, or the substance abuse itself.

Besides that, you didn't want to put your friendship at risk and you were also not going to be some object for Sherlock to figure out whether sex could make him feel similar as a high on drugs.

The man sensed your initial reluctance, continuing his lengthy explanations, so typically like him, so casually like only Sherlock could as he seemed to have found his grip again.

"But at the same time I know it wouldn't be fair of me to continue requesting those things for my own gain. You are your own person and I would never try to guilt-trip you into something that could possibly set an end to my habitual substance abuse. I am very aware that I am the one owing you a favour for your help in the first place. I do not want to further strain our friendship with my demands, but I need you to know that... if I can share and research this with anyone, I would want it to be you."

You sighed. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous that you were even considering this in the first place.

Could you have refused Sherlock? Possibly. That's what you should have done anyway.

Did you want to refuse him? Certainly not.

Last time you had decided to work on an experiment with him, you had gotten to see a very different side of Sherlock, soft and submissive and gorgeous. You had kissed him, touched him, not to mention you had absolutely jerked him off too. You had praised and cherished him. Sherlock had sounded wonderful, looked beautiful, so raw and open and honest – you had definitely not forgotten the sight. And yes, you might have masturbated to the memory itself too.

The instance had been hard to forget.

But ever since then nothing else had happened between you two. For good reasons.

Sure, you had sought out his presence like you usually did. You were friends, comfortable around each other, spend time with one another, though Sherlock wasn't necessarily an affectionate person. He didn't hug, didn't cuddle. He certainly wasn't interested in being anything but friends.

So you had figured that first time was just going to be a one time thing, just an experiment for research, and tried your hardest to get over the fact that Sherlock didn't harvest feelings for you other than appreciation for the friendship you offered. Romantic and sexual attraction were a rarity for him, so you knew, and you had never pretended you might be the exception.

Nevertheless you couldn't help your own feelings. You liked Sherlock a lot.

It pained you to see the detective on edge and all sombre, to see him lost in drug addiction and throwing himself into dangerous case work, just to escape from his own mind for a moment. You hated to see him hurt and so bloody lonely.

Of course it also made your heart ache to know you were nothing more than a friend to Sherlock, so you should have been wiser, refusing to partake in the experiment, because you indeed weren't some test subject and this was a recipe for disaster, something that would likely hurt you and potentially harm him in the end – which you did not want.

But the idea of being close to him again, of being able to potentially help Sherlock get his mind off the drugs, to ensure he would be feeling good and okay, even if just for a little while. You couldn't quite escape your own track of thoughts, your own wants, your own conviction that you might the person meant to save Sherlock Holmes from himself.

"Do you want me to... uhh... you know?", you asked, followed by a very specific hand gesture, unable to ignore the certain awkwardness, you sitting there, Sherlock standing there, a mess of case and paper work all around, as you kept looking at each other.

There was no distinct expression on the detective's face save for slight expectation and a bit of redness on his cheeks, blushing as you suggested giving him another handjob.

"I have not determined any specifics", Sherlock admitted to you, though not in refusing, "Meaning... I don't know what I would want, what would work. The things you offered me last time have had a positive effect on me. I know that I want to be close to you. I don't know what would suffice."

You contemplated, gnawing on your lips like you always did when you were a bit nervous, breaking his gaze for a moment as your glance fleeted over the table, even though your head was undeniably full of Sherlock.

You were both only human. While the detective craved something to ease his mind, you craved the physical intimacy and emotional connection to him. Neither of you should have taken use of the other, but since you were both consenting adults, you allowed yourself to be weak and stupid.

"We'll try to figure it out then", you agreed, "Let me finish this first?"

"Of course", Sherlock nodded, "Don't be too long, Mrs Hudson has invited us downstairs for dinner and I was suggesting we watch an episode of that ridiculous show you like afterwards. Before we... um... do anything?"

Evident surprise must have crossed your face and for a moment you had a hard time searching for the right words, not knowing what to think. It was kind of him to suggest, almost domestic.

Of course, having dinner at Mrs Hudson's wouldn't be like dinner at an actual restaurant, but Sherlock didn't want to go anywhere public in his current state of body and mind, so soon after his relapse. His landlady made impeccable food and she was even went out of her way to make it for the two of you, so you were amenable.

"Yes to dinner. We don't have to necessarily watch the show though", was all you replied, "You'd never be able to shut your mouth during the episode anyway, making comments about it the entire time. That's why we never watch TV together, Sherlock.”

"I comment on everything and you usually don't seem to mind", Sherlock stated and the slightest sign of a smile snook onto his lips.

And you smiled right back at him, not needing to have the last word and returning to your paperwork, while Sherlock continued his usual pacing and casework.

Needless to say, any attempt of continuing this work was useless anyway, since you were entirely incapable of focusing on the stack of files before you, unable to shrug off your nervousness as your thoughts went spiralling about what you had just agreed on.

You eventually came to the conclusion, while you were brooding over payment checks from clients, this might actually make for a nice time together.

Having dinner with Mrs Hudson was nothing unusual for you two and always made for an enjoyable time. Sharing a bed wouldn't be weird, as you had done so before, if only for a couple of danger nights, with a distance appropriate for friends between you.

What was appropriate for friends by definition anyway? Hadn't that line already been crossed by the one sexual favour you had given him? If you followed through with this today, closing that distance between you once again and going even further than last time, every possible line you could think of was going to be blurred forever.

It was very hard to not think about the possibilities, not the consequences, but how far Sherlock would be willing to go with you, what he would allow and ask for.

You wondered whether Sherlock would want to kiss you again, whether he would want to give as much as receive, whether you would actually have sex and how it was going to be, whether he would ask you to stay afterwards and share the bed with you.

Even thinking about what your evening would entail made you a little nervous.

Thus you were more than grateful for having dinner beforehand, considering it was so much easier to keep your doubts at bay and just stop thinking so damn much as Mrs Hudson was bustling around the two of you. She was as chatty as always, kept you entertained with stories from her past and her good food was a welcome distraction. Once again, she expressed her gratitude over you getting Sherlock back on his feet and voiced how glad she was that her tenant was doing much better with your assistance, going on about how happy she was he had found an actual friend, even though she still heavily insinuated your romantic involvement with each other.

You neither denied nor confirmed the idea in the moment, finding it rather amusing how flustered Sherlock got at the mention, though not bothering to say a word about it either, and after helping Mrs Hudson with the dishes, the two of you eventually headed upstairs together again.

It was fair that she had her suspicions. Probably many people had.

After that last experiment and tonight, rightfully so.

You ended up taking turns in the bathroom.

Admittedly, you were more anxious than expected while in the shower, scrubbing yourself clean everywhere, not knowing what to expect, what you were going to do, if Sherlock would even want to touch your body or if he just required you to touch him – and you were just as nervous while Sherlock was in the shower, sitting on the bed, fidgeting with your glasses, scrolling mindlessly through your phone as you kept thinking about what you wanted the man to do to you and more so how you were planning on bringing him pleasure.

If he'd let you.

You had dressed down to what you usually wore to bed, a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, being so bold as to forgo underwear altogether, curious how Sherlock would react to such a clear proposal, if he took note of it at all. Glasses still perched atop your nose, you turned your head when you heard the door to the bathroom open again, eyes following Sherlock as he came back out to join you on the bed, shrugging off his housecoat to reveal his choice of pyjamas, not so different from what you had decided on wearing.

"So, what did you have on your mind?", you dared to ask again, courageously, placing your phone on the bedside table, before turning further to Sherlock, who was now just sitting there, right next to you, neither seeming expectant nor nervous by any means, "I know you said specifics weren't clear, but I'm sure you have a fair amount of imagination."

"That is correct", the detective agreed, "I came to the conclusion that perhaps it would be wise to... begin like we did last time."

You shot him a smile. "So, you'd like to kiss me?", you asked, arching your eyebrows at him, hoping that Sherlock would take the bait and just go for it. There was nothing he could've done wrong. The thought of getting to kiss him again made you awfully excited.

"I'd like you to kiss me, yes." Though seeming slightly reluctant and reserved, his words were clear. He wanted you to kiss him.

And you definitely were going to kiss him, but most importantly you wanted to give it time. There was no need to rush and hopefully, neither of you were going anywhere any time soon.

So you reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand. Instead of climbing him like a tree and slipping onto his lap right away, kissing him like your life depended on it, you were deciding for the two of you to take this slow, beginning with something as simple and innocent as touch.

Perhaps this would allow Sherlock to gather information better, how he responded to affection, how he responded to you initiating, how the simplest things would influence him or perhaps how they wouldn't. Whether it would leave him hungry for more, driving him mad with anticipation, or whether it wouldn't do anything for him at all.

This was an experiment after all. Might as well just do some experimenting.

You slotted your fingers together, marvelling how your hand fit into his so smoothly, so perfectly, and pulled them apart again, letting your fingertips dance over the expanse of his hand, tracing those long, skilled fingers with simple fascination. Fingers you had watched so often, whether it was them dancing over the fret of his violin, preparing samples for his microscope, picking up evidence at a crime scene. Wonderful and careful hands.

Eventually linking them into one another again, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze and looked at him, finding him glancing back at you. Of course you tried to read Sherlock's expression right away. There was some curiosity, he seemed attentive and receptive, the grip of his hand tightening instinctively, a response. He was just looking at you, observing, perhaps contemplating.

Your own heart was beating a little faster, sensations heightened by the sheer intimacy of the moment, time seemingly standing still all around you, so you couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment when you decided to move further. Perhaps it was the synapses in your brain finally snapping, perhaps it was just the need to break the tension that had come up between the two of you, perhaps it was a mutual silent agreement to do this all of the sudden.

Whatever it was, you leant into Sherlock, who met you halfway, pressing your lips together, responding to one another immediately.

As your mouths slotted together, a rather gentle brush of lips at first, you could feel how the grip on your hand was instinctively tightening, holding onto you more, in fear you might be slipping away any second again. But you certainly did not, would not, wrapped up in Sherlock's taste and warmth and his smell, licking along the seam of his lips, sliding your tongues together as he let you claim his mouth, as you let him explore.

You didn't know what had gotten you so hungry all of the sudden, but you knew you needed more of Sherlock. Speaking of addiction. So you decided to get more of him, who seemed compliant to your every move, absorbing every little bit, every touch, you allowed him.

Even those moments apart, when both of you had to catch your breaths, small gasps of air between you, he was quiet and observant. He let you shift around, slipping onto his lap again, greeting you with another sweet kiss after having you perched on his thighs.

Reaching up, you gently cupped Sherlock's face in your hands, tracing his jawline, those high cheekbones, before sliding them all the way up into his dark curls, tugging on his hair.

The reaction was imminent, the kiss broken immediately, a groan slipping from Sherlock's mouth, leaving the two of you a bit startled at the sudden response.

"I need you to do the exact thing again", the detective requested then, his tone demanding and firm, before smacking your mouths together again, a kiss hot and downright desperate for more, and you gladly obliged, fingers tangled in his locks, giving them another pull, which caused a reaction not so different from the first time.

Apparently praising wasn't the only thing that got Sherlock going.

So you continued your eager advances, seeing how far you could take this, brushing through his curls before gently tugging on them again, letting Sherlock's moan break the kiss, tilting his head back by his hair and baring his throat.

"How are you doing this?", the man groaned, almost hissed when you began mouthing at his neck, "I don't understand how you can have this effect on me."

But there was no explanation you could have possibly given him. Perhaps you just clicked with Sherlock and that was why.

You only knew how addicted you already were, how you couldn't get enough of the man's taste, the warmth of his body, the sweet noises from his throat and the thought that perhaps he really wanted you too.

Making sure to not bruise the skin, you kept nipping at the expanse of his throat, pulling on his hair times and times again, dragging more moans out of him. Your name passed his lips after a while, the softest sound, then a "Can we stop for a moment?"

Raising you head again to look at Sherlock – a delectable sight, slight blush on his cheek, lips swollen red from kissing, pupils dilated with need, a dreamy expression on his face – and waited for however long was necessary.

"Are you okay, Sherl?", you asked immediately, hoping you hadn't made him uncomfortable.

Apparently he just wanted to elaborate though.

"I am more than okay. I just need to tell you something", Sherlock replied, holding onto you by your hips, a steady grip, "As you have... um... figured, I respond quite heavily to your advances. I am puzzled by the effect you have on me, because I was always very convinced that I simply was not interested in things of a more physical nature. But you keep kissing and touching me and I'm not entirely sure what it means that my body reacts like this."

Quite passively, you continued to stroke the back of his head, listening to him as attentively as you could, trying to ignore your own arousal. You were going to work through this with Sherlock, not questioning his worries or uncertainty for a single moment, allowing him to take the time he needed in order to understand himself and what he wanted and most of all, why he did.

Of course, you had wondered before and you were still asking yourself the same question now. Had Sherlock even had sex with anyone ever? Everything about his words and his behaviour was indicating he hadn't. But he didn't seem to be all too nervous, instead content and collected.

Maybe you were even more nervous than him.

"You're turned on, if I had to guess. Which I find really flattering. And it's more than okay that you're feeling like this. I want you to enjoy this experience, so please don't let the unknown hold you back", you advised with a soft smile, "I like you, Sherlock. I enjoy being around you and doing this with you... it turns me on too."

"You know I don't experience and approach things like most would do. Sex has never been the focus of my interest, so I... I have never done this. I have done research, but I'm not going to know exactly what to do", Sherlock admitted, eyes flicking over your face, the look of consideration, as if he were searching for the right words, "You're... absolutely endearing. It's nice to have you around and I trust you. And I want to do this with you."

"So do I", you responded, unable to stop the smile slipping to your lips, thinking it was lovely how Sherlock entrusted you with his mind and body, how he wanted to share this moment with you and no one else. "We can sure figure out what you like best", you added, "Would you want me to take the lead?"

The man seemed to consider your question, although you were partially convinced that he was more so enjoying the quiet of the moment, your fingers brushing over his scalp, basking in the closeness, though simple affection usually was something Sherlock didn't like. Not with anyone other than you apparently.

"Would you want to participate in penetration? If so, I suppose I have no clear knowledge of which position would serve best, but I am interested in learning. Since you are the one with more experience, I find it only logical you are the leading part", he spoke up eventually.

"Fine with me", you hummed, "I have no preference either, but I find it quite comfortable on your lap, so perhaps we can work around that?"

Admittedly, your wet dreams always tended to drift in a direction similar to this. There was something submissive about Sherlock, something that made you want to take him apart, lay him out on the bed, mount him and fuck him silly until he was a desperate mess begging to come, and you were sure it would have been a beautiful sight to have him this way.

Since you were already sitting on his lap, your crotches pressed together, hands tangled in his hair, seconds away from bringing your lips to his throat again, you wouldn't mind it sweet and gentle either, letting him explore all you had, letting him consume all you offered, letting him take his time to harvest the information he needed.

Maybe one day he would like to take the reins, but you couldn't really imagine him as the dominant part just yet.

You knew exactly how you would take the lead, how you would ride Sherlock all the way to ecstasy, until the brilliant and smart detective would fail to find the proper words and fall apart under you. Oh, how you wanted to hold him close, wanted your bodies entangled and conjoined, wanted to be able to sense and enjoy all of him.

It was a silent and natural agreement between you, so you figured as Sherlock's skilled hands sought out the hem of your shirt.

"I'm afraid you have to stop touching me for a moment", he mused and went on to gently pry the thin shirt off your body as you complied. After all you had been together for all kinds of weird occasions and sharing rooms, you had been close to him before but never quite so exposed, not in a way like this. Never undressed for him to see or touch.

In comparison, you had seen Sherlock bare plenty of times before, naked and vulnerable, so stripping him out of his shirt in return was by no means unfamiliar. There was something about this level of intimacy though, the sensuality of his touch on your skin that already made you shudder with need, winding you up with anticipation.

It was Sherlock then, who so carefully let his lips ghost over the expanse of your neck, exploring bit by bit, spreading gentle kisses, teeth grazing the skin and you supposed he was not entirely distracted from making deductions just yet – how else would he have possibly figured how to strike a nerve within you?

Your hands wound up in the dark curls again, playing with strands of hair, tugging on them, using them to pull Sherlock's head backwards as the advances on your sensitive skin were too much to handle. You too were soon moaning, panting hard, a pretty rosy colour to your cheeks.

"I find it very enjoyable when you pull on my hair", Sherlock admitted to you and while he had previously held his hands very still, he couldn't continue to resist and began touching you more, exploring your body with diligence. He had never touched you or potentially any other person like this, so excessively. If you thought about it, no one ever really had been so thorough as him, trying to map out every inch, every crease, every little mark. It was as if he was memorizing you, cataloguing. Careful with you. Mesmerized by you.

You didn't mind his advances, had never been on the self-conscious side but under the impression you weren't really sporting an exceptionally beauty. If anything you were ordinary, and still... this man looked at you, touched you with utmost adoration, curiosity, interest. Like he couldn't simply get enough from you. Like he didn't want to ever stop again.

"I find most of you very enjoyable", he added.

"Likewise", you smiled at him, hands busy stroking his nape, his upper back, pale shoulders, skin flush with heat under your touch, "I suppose you figured out what's getting me going."

"I think it's fascinating", Sherlock mused, "Because I could feel your pulse quickening and your body tensing up when I began kissing your neck. I imagine these are the exact responses you could notice on me when you tug on my hair. It's fascinating how our bodies respond so impulsively to a variety of triggers in such different ways and..."

Not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to let Sherlock ramble about the creation of personal preferences, you quickly shut him up with another kiss, sealing your lips together promptly, giving a sharp tug to his curls. It certainly earned you a moan of surprise and Sherlock seemed not entirely displeased about your decision, hands returning to your waist to keep you steady, maybe wanting to prevent you from slipping away, afraid of losing what he was just learning to enjoy, kissing hungrily and with the kind of fervour one didn't really expect him to have, every bit of what he had wanted to say forgotten.

Your mind ran quite blank too. You knew that you wanted and desired Sherlock, pressing further up to him, could feel heat pooling in your groin and knew that you were already aching for him within the restraints of your sweatpants, becoming painfully very aware of how you had decided to forego underwear altogether, meaning it was just a bit of fabric between you.

Starting to rock your hips atop Sherlock's lap, because you couldn't hold yourself back anymore, you figured you weren't the only one getting aroused, feeling his hardness trapped beneath the remaining clothing, soft groans leaving both your mouths as you ground down on his bulge, creating a friction that left neither of you unaffected.

"I need you, Sherl", you moaned against his lips, throwing the decision to take this slow out the window, too far gone at this point, wanting nothing more than to feel the man inside of you and ride him to the breaking point. You were so horny you almost whined as you moved atop of him and your obvious neediness seemed to render Sherlock speechless altogether, his gaze just as clouded with lust as he simply stared at you and you lost yourselves into each other, chests heaving hard, bodies melting together.

All he gave was a nod of consent and you started beaming with unrestrained joy, slipping off Sherlock's lap to come kneel on the bed, hands drifting up to the waistband of his pants. "Are you sure this is okay with you?", you still decided to ask. Even though the man had seemed consenting before, you'd rather have him be comfortable too.

Whereas you would have expected a snappy comment or an entire mass of words breaking loose over you, Sherlock remained rather quiet, nodding, the smallest 'Yes' slipping past his lips.

He seemed entirely enticed and you made sure to keep on looking at him, pulling the soft material down by the waistband and stripping him bare, carelessly throwing the clothing aside, once you had wrestled it down his legs.

To have him so exposed and naked before you was a sight to take in, letting yourself simply look at him for just a moment, your hands rubbing over those lean thighs.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous", you uttered, fingers gliding along the inner sides, brushing over wisps of hair, all the way up to his crotch, the hardening cock, taking the member into your hand, watching him twitch and grow in size. You would be lying if you said you hadn't thought about his cock after the first time, never been able to forget the sight, wishing to feel all of him inside.

"I...um... how do we do this?", Sherlock quietly asked, redness burning on his cheeks as his eyes were fixed on the sight before him, "How would you want me?"

"You lay down on your back, get comfortable and let me do the work", you advised and gave him a quick wink, watching Sherlock settle down almost immediately after your advise, more than eager. And wasn't it just the most perfect sight, his lean body atop the sheets, skin reddened with small blotches, traces of his arousal, his cock raging hard in the grasp of your hand, dark curls bedded on the pillow, dreamy look in his eyes as you looked at one another.

"There's... uh... lube and condoms in the bedside drawer", Sherlock muttered, like he didn't quite want to admit to it.

You shot him a pleased, but surprised expression. "Did you plan for this?", you wondered, reaching over to fetch anything you'd need from the drawer, "Or do you just keep them in your bedroom all the time?"

"I was certain that I had at least a seventy-eight percent chance you wouldn't refuse and since I have considered all possibilities that almost meant including the accomplishment of a sexual encounter, I thought it was best to be prepared just in case. As I have however opened up to you that I have no experience with sexual interactions, so no, I don't keep them here all the time, I've purchased them for this purpose... recently", Sherlock answered, his nervousness evidently easing again as he managed to speak mostly unaffected as he always did, the kind of rationality not unusual by any means.

"78 percent? You did the math and all, didn't you?", you grinned, using the moment to slide your own sweatpants off your hips, revealing your full nakedness to the man, whose eyes remained on you, widening, darkening, looking up and down your body, trying to seemingly capture every single little detail of you, lips parted and his pink tongue slipping through as he admired you.

At a lack for words, Sherlock just nodded, watching you return to him and slump down atop his lap again. You gave him a reassuring smile, reaching for those fine and skilled hands, placing them on your body as Sherlock remained a little taken aback, probably slightly overwhelmed with the sight and sensations alone. Though once he dared to begin touching you again, he got this look of fascination on his face, a spark in his eyes, tender touches on your thighs.

"Would you like to help me prepare?", you asked, knowing full well that with a curiosity like Sherlock's he would likely not refuse.

"I understand that it will make this more pleasurable for you, so yes, I think I'd like to", he agreed and you canted your hips forward, towards him, allowing Sherlock to reach out to you, trailing his fingers down your body, lower, across the expanse of your belly before slipping between your thighs, no doubt finding what they were searching for.

A heavy shudder surged through your body when he did, breath hitching in your throat as you felt fingertips circle your entrance. You knew the breach would initially feel unusual, not having had a partner in a long time and not being an avid user of sex toys either, but god, how you ached for him to touch you, how you wanted to just feel him. After adjusting his hand into a comfortable position for the both of you and slicking fingers up with lube, Sherlock slid one into you so easily that all worries were just leaving you at once.

You couldn't stop a moan from leaving your lips, even just one finger in, and wondered how much research Sherlock had actually done as you found yourself arching into his touch. It wasn't clumsy by any means, if a little more careful.

There was a pleasant tingle pooling low in your stomach, your arousal rising to indescribable heights in thorough interest of getting fucked, and your mind went blank when he pushed another finger into you, gently spreading you open with a passion.

"Fuck, Sherl, feels so good", you groaned, looking down at the man, who so gently and kindly fingered you open, like he wasn't doing this for the first time, like he wasn't a stranger to this at all, "Can't wait to have your cock inside of me."

While Sherlock did not seem to be one for dirty talk, remaining mostly quiet and fixed on you, he definitely seemed pleased with your reaction, urged on to continue his advances, fingers already sinking in deep and lord, he had these long and wonderfully skilled fingers that were certainly capable of finding the sweet spot. If you let him continue, he was no doubt going to make you cum like this. You were so obsessed with the feel of him already, bloody hell, his fingers alone, pressing further into his touch and technically begging to be fucked.

Trying to keep your right mind though, you thought it was best to request Sherlock to stop, knowing that as soon as you were going to ride his dick, it would all be over for you anyway.

The small break did you well as he withdrew his fingers again, not leaving you out of his sight for a moment. You shuffled back down on the man's lap, making sure to prepare Sherlock just as much, rolling a condom over his raging arousal, before drizzling a bit of lube on him, coaxing another grunt from him as you rubbed him up and down.

You weren't sure who was more gone on the other – yourself, cock-hungry and needy, positioning the tip of his hardness against your hole, already going crazy at the slightest nudge, or Sherlock, watching you with a dreamy and blissful look on his face, blushing hard, lips parted and breath stuck in his throat in anticipation as you eventually sank down on his cock, taking him all in, slowly.

Bodies combined, becoming one, groans and panting immediately merged into one as well.

"God, Sherl...", you mewled, filled out so sweetly. It felt just right. You began moving once used to the stretch of his length, fully sheathed within you, and tried to keep your gazes locked, save for taking in the entire sight of Sherlock once in a while – skin flush from arousal and the heat of the moment, his eyes attentive and almost adoring, full blown with desire, his chest heaving and sinking hard, hands almost trembling as he let them skim over your waist, your thighs and all he could reach.

"This feels very good", the detective acknowledged, only occasionally and shyly rocking his hips in time with your movements, seeming unsure and perhaps a bit overwhelmed with the sensations, "You feel very good."

You couldn't quite respond anything that would make sense and at a loss for words simply continued to move atop him, supporting your slow motions with hands perched flat against the man's stomach.

There was no need to talk about what was going on, neither for you nor for Sherlock, as unspoken truths were shared between you two, how well your bodies fit together, how good you felt and how much admiration you had for each other. You hadn't expected it to be like that, so intimate and fulfilling – to be honest, you hadn't even had expectations when it came to Sherlock anymore.

There was always this element of surprise about him, something unpredictable, and fairly said you hadn't even expected to get into this situation with him in the first place.

But there was this amount of comfort and trust that exuded Sherlock in the moment, being vulnerable with you, submitting to you, an unusual innocence sticking to him. It made you feel possessive of him and even more so, protective.

Though he never failed to surprise you.

While he had previously held back moving too much under you or daring to explore your body with more bold touches, he seemed to warm up to the idea of intimacy and sex, for that matter. Astonished by the suddenness of his motion, you couldn't hold back a gasp when Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position, sliding his arms around your waist to keep you steady on his lap, his cerulean eyes fixed onto you with curiosity as he observed your reaction, as you continued to ride him with long and deep strokes, one hand shooting up to support yourself on Sherlock's shoulder, the other drifting into his hair.

You swore you could hear him cuss under his breath, once tugging on his dark curls again, but since you were entirely overcome with a mass of different sensations and emotions, it really could have been anything he muttered. And all the same, you found it didn't matter.

Your mouths slid together again, tongues finding each other once more, and you rocked even harder into him, pulling on his hair over and over, wanting to elicit more sweet sounds from him, being rewarded with the most desperate whimper.

You were completely lost in one another, something you hadn't quite awaited, but very well welcomed. That was the thing about Sherlock, always seeming so put together, so closed off and shielded from the outside world, so focused on facts and information and logic - and yet he was far from all that. You only knew all that because he let you see.

Sherlock was sensitive, could be pried apart as easily as made whole again, he lost himself in the smallest things so quickly, searching for things to ease his thoughts and mind, prone to getting addicted to them. Emotions overwhelmed him and that's why he refused most human interaction.

But he wasn't refusing this, wasn't refusing you, because there was an unspoken trust between you. You didn't know where that trust stemmed from or how Sherlock truly felt about you, but this wouldn't be happening if he weren't convinced of you being trustworthy.

On the cusp of pleasure, you were both entirely gone, and all that mattered were the raw sensations, bodies sliding together, obvious heightened emotions pouring out between you.

Head buried in the crook of your neck, Sherlock was breathing hard, moaning into you skin, shaking in your hold as you continued to tug on his hair, causing him to twitch and whine and crumble apart under you.

You spoke the sweetest praises, words mangled with your own moans, your thighs trembling but still riding him with fervour, though you could sense your stamina failing you, could feel yourself being so close to the edge by the way your nerves tingled within your core, the way pleasure heightened immensely with each thrust, something building up, and yet you were only able to let go as Sherlock himself toppled over.

His entire body went tense, not to say rigid, tightening his hold on you like he was afraid of losing you altogether, a moaning and twitching mess as he was overcome by his own pleasure.

"You're doing so good, Sherl, so good for me", you found yourself whispering and it must have been a combination of all things going on, Sherlock falling apart and pulsating inside of you, keeping you seated on his cock with a tight hold, and being on the absolute verge of sexual excitement, that made your own orgasm hit, causing you take him exceptionally deep with one last thrust, rocking out waves of pleasure and arousal.

"Oh, Sherl, my Sherlock", you let out a heavy sigh, coming back to your senses fast, while the man still seemed a little absent, clutching onto you tightly, face pressed to your shoulder, where you could feel laboured breathing and an unexpected wetness against his skin.

You knew they were tears, but didn't mention it, stroking the back of his head with the comfort that Sherlock just needed, comfort that he often refused or wouldn't allow himself to get. Perhaps it wasn't even sadness, but relief washing over him, the sudden overwhelming feel of orgasming.

While his previous responsiveness to affections and especially praising had fired up a curiosity within you, it was this specific moment, just holding Sherlock so close and having him so vulnerable after just having sex with him, that caused your heart to swell as well as ache, mind heavy and clouded with so many thoughts and sensations rushing in.

You couldn't help but feel for him. For his sadness and loneliness and desperation, all things Sherlock would never admit to having, but all deeply rooted within him.

And you couldn't help but feel love. A love that shouldn't be, because that was not what you were to Sherlock. It was not the point of your care for Sherlock, it was not what his older brother was paying you for. It should not be the reason behind your thorough protectiveness of the man, behind you caring, behind... this and all you did for him. But it was. You couldn't shut it off.

Yes, you were Sherlock's caretaker and this shouldn't be happening.

You had already crossed the line of sentimentality and any professionalism by becoming his friend so early on. Any decision you had ever made for Sherlock's sake was painted by your friendship to him and therefore not logical but emotional.

It would be surprising to none that you had developed this love for the man and everything he was. Feelings couldn't be helped, of course not, and you doubted people close to the two of you were unaware of how much you actually liked him.

In the end, it wouldn't matter anyway.

Sherlock didn't feel and love like most people did, not to say that he couldn't, but the way he was and would always be simply differed from the mass – so it would be wise of you to expect nothing and accept things as they were.

And whether Sherlock Holmes could ever feel the same or something similar as you did for him, would perhaps forever remain a question unanswered.

[ppureheroiine]

experimenting for friends

part 1 - praise

part 2

An unawaited opportunity introduces you to the complicated and intriguing man named Sherlock Holmes. Harder to understand than most, you are not quite sure why he reacts peculiarly everytime you spare him a compliment. Well, not until you get wrapped up in one of his "experiments".

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, handjob, praise kink, hints at inexperienced/virgin Sherlock

A/N: listen, I'm so fond of submissive Sherlock and just want him to get the love he deserves :')

When you met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, he saw through you right away.

Straight away, he knew that you were raised by a single mum, who had always tried her hardest to ensure to the happy childhood you deserved, since your father had left the family early on.

That you were living with two cats, one Cornish Rex, one coming from mixed breeding, both awfully affectionate, apparently leaving traces over nearly everything you wore.

That you were ambidextrous, ink from pens on both hands, also indicating you were working an ordinary office job, usually taking down notes with your right hand, though whenever you took phone calls you tended to use your left to write things down – and that you took a lot of pride in your handwriting, which was why you had a knack for using pens with ink in the first place.

But that wasn't all.

He figured that you were short-sighted, working a desk job that included staring at a computer screen far too often, missing out the fact that you were also on your phone a lot.

That your glasses were an old model from the early 2010s, which also told him you didn't have the finances for purchasing new ones, money likely being the reason for you taking this new job in the first place (which however wasn't entirely true). And also that your glasses were, of course, entirely unsuited for your current sight, still making you have to squint an awful lot while looking at your surroundings.

He even found out that you used to take acting classes during your school years, obtaining a compassion for the old bards and newer works alike, but didn't continue playing theatre, settling for your ordinary, time consuming desk job instead in order to make a living in London, more so because you were never confident enough in your skills.

And damn, if he weren't right about that.

Needless to say, Sherlock had been right about everything, his gift of picking up any piece of information nothing short of amazing, his talent for deduction truly unmatched, though you were certain that he might have had a little help on one or two details. It had been impressive, regardless of whether he might have gone through your personal records at least once or not.

Considering that someone definitely had kept a close eye on you, presumably meant that there was a lovely file titled with your name on the desk of your new and well-paying employer, Sherlock's older brother and relentless watchdog, Mycroft Holmes. Who, as you understood, was doing secret government work, keeping the state upright and preventing international chaos from ensuing, when he wasn't busy tending to his slightly odd, self-proclaimed sociopathic brother from a distance.

You weren't sure whether you would have even tried applying for the job if you had known what it entailed. But you hadn't needed, nor planned, to apply at all.

Truth is, you had been approached out of nowhere, a plain call coming through on your work phone. After hearing the rather scarce explanation as to what you were meant to do and the large sum the older Holmes brother offered for this position, you had definitely not wanted to say No. You hadn't asked why you out of all people had been chosen – so you hadn't gotten an answer either.

But since Mycroft Holmes was thorough in all he did, you supposed he wouldn't have gone for someone as ordinary as you if he hadn't had a good reason for it.

And fairly enough, for that much money, the job description didn't sound too challenging – take care of Sherlock Holmes. Be his companion, keep an watchful eye on him, make sure he doesn't get back into a habit of using again. Three simple points.

It might not have sounded too challenging at first, but then you had gotten to meet Sherlock and words couldn't describe how peculiar, how unique, how utterly confusing this man was.

People didn't really get him. Sherlock didn't really get people, though clearly able of picking them apart with deductions or uncovering their motives for all kinds of crimes, having solved plenty of unusual cases in the past. Sometimes people's behaviour clearly struck Sherlock as odd and while he was exceptionally smart, there were some things in the world even he wasn't able to understand.

While you had been worrying you might not get along with each other at first – plenty of people had made it their mission to warn you about Sherlock having a dismissive stance on ordinary people – you quickly figured out the consulting detective was simply misunderstood by those around him and not that dismissive after all.

He was peculiar, unique and utterly confusing. He was thinking differently, behaving and acting by his own logic. It took a while to figure out, though finding yourself incapable of understanding Sherlock as whole, you started to catch glimpses of what he was truly like.

Sherlock Holmes was lonely.

Even though regularly solving cases with his best friend John Watson, he had also gotten significantly lonelier since the man had found himself a wife, a child following not long after, and was not living with him anymore. As a husband and father and doctor, case work was nothing more than a distraction from his ordinary life. His responsibilities often kept him from actively joining cases and therefore, more than once in the time you've gotten to know Sherlock, the detective was out solving them on his own.

While he loved the work and didn't seem too bothered, you figured it substantially dampened his mood when John couldn't be around.

You also learned that Sherlock was actually quite friendly with a few people – especially his very motherly and caring landlady Mrs Hudson (who got regularly annoyed by the ruckus he was making upstairs in his flat), DI Lestrade (who slipped him the cases, relying on his help all too often) and Molly from St Bart's morgue (who provided him with body parts for experiments).

But he never sought them out when feeling some sort of way, more so relying on the exchange – accepting their presence because he deemed them useful. This for that. Never unconditional.

Sherlock Holmes also got bored easily.

Casework and experiments, both sometimes of questionable importance or downright dangerous, could only keep him busy for so long. You figured that he lived for the thrill as much as trying to keep his brain constantly working – he needed the distraction for his mind, needed something to stimulate it or else it would get too loud, too dark, too insufferable in his head.

As soon as he got bored, he took to moaning and complaining and behaving unhinged, desperate for something, anything, to cure him from the boredom, to keep his mind busy.

Having him in a state like that was anything but good.

Because when he was lonely and bored, Sherlock Holmes had a tendency of substance abuse.

It started with a heightened craving for nicotine, especially in the form of cigarettes, which you sometimes gave in to, for the sake of preventing worse – even if it meant going on a walk in the middle of a night to have one, since Mrs Hudson would have strangled you both for even thinking about smoking at Baker Street.

When it wasn't cigarettes, it was something worse he desired. Mostly heroin, though Mycroft Holmes had made sure to slip you a full list of substances Sherlock had abused in the past.

It had been unsettlingly long.

So you tried your very best to keep Sherlock away from those things by simply keeping him busy and well, less lonely.

By the time you would have considered yourself and the odd detective being something like friends, you were also finally able see that Sherlock Holmes – even though not nursing relationships to others like normal people did – was in his own way very sweet.

He wasn't always cold or seemingly incapable of feeling things, just direct and less reliant on sentiment. He was absolutely not a cat person, but still accepted whenever your rather friendly pets decided to climb all over him.

And all the times you had happened to unexpectedly fall asleep after crashing on Sherlock's couch (that man wore you out with his ever changing temper and the way he sometimes talked constantly) while he would still be working on researching for cases or doing his fair share of experiments, you would always wake up covered by a blanket, your glasses perched on the table next to a water cup.

Sherlock Holmes didn't like a lot of people, he struggled with making strong connections and put off a lot of the people around him by the way he was. But that didn't apply to you.

Initially perceiving you an entirely obnoxious obstacle in his thinking process, he had soon noticed you weren't so distracting in a negative way at all and even found himself positively surprised how pleasant you were to have around, beginning to tolerate you in the same room.

For his standards, he seemed to like you plenty enough and appeared to be rather comfortable around you too, in a way seeking out the companionship you were meant to offer to him, even if it was just being around each other in complete silence.

While Sherlock worked best in silence, especially when he figured out a case in his mind, sitting and staring for hours, there were also moments when you couldn't stop him from talking and showing off his knowledge. Often times, he seemed so happy to share his thoughts with someone, even though he was likely aware you usually weren't really able to follow him.

Admittedly, you liked Sherlock too.

You knew a lot of people were blind to Sherlock's humanity and never got to know him well enough to truly discover how much there was to him. He didn't let most in, or at least never far enough for them to really see him. You knew though. It was there, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to prove otherwise with his resenting behaviour, and you caught plenty of glimpses of him being human.

So after a while of knowing Sherlock Holmes, there was this one thing that had caught your attention and remained to be uncovered.

Why he avoided words of praise.

It was something you had brushed off at first, thinking that Sherlock's odd reaction whenever you said something nice to him, his sudden quietness and slow blinking and urge to swiftly leave the room before awkward silence arose, was completely normal behaviour for him.

You doubted that the detective got to hear a lot of niceties or compliments. Obviously his work was impressive, but did most even consider thanking him for it? If they had the chance, that was.

One could have also gotten the impression that Sherlock didn't really know how to nor wanted to take a 'Thank you', or a compliment for that matter.

Therefore he was more likely to escape the situation than accept it with content.

One day, you had asked "Did you compose that yourself?" after having listened to Sherlock play the violin for what must have been a good twenty minutes, without the man even having taken note of you being in the room, though you had walked in and slumped down on the couch normally, like on any other day.

Sherlock had seemed startled hearing your question, only acknowledging you then, but had shaken his head in silence.

"Well, sounded very beautiful anyway. I love your playing. Could listen to it for hours", you had added then, "Always surprises me how bloody skilled your hands are with everything you do."

Much like you had offended him, Sherlock had placed down the violin and the bow immediately, turning to leave the room.

You had let him, knowing that if he needed space, it was best to leave him be. But you had immediately wondered if perhaps your compliment had made him uncomfortable and asked yourself why.

On another day, you had been asked to accompany him on a case – there was no other logical explanation to it than the fact that John was busy yet again and couldn't make it in time – so there you were, looking at different samples of dirt, trying to make yourself as useful as you could (which wasn't much, but you tried).

Sherlock didn't seem to mind that you had no idea what you were supposed to be looking for. Whereas he would have called another one in your stead stupid, small-brained or dull for only having an average mind, the detective had simply begun explaining the necessity of taking dirt samples and how much they could tell the human eye if looked at properly.

Well, what they could tell his eyes, at least – because you still had not an ounce of an idea what he was talking about, even after his explanations.

"How does your brain even work?", you had only muttered under your breath, staring at Sherlock in awe, "It's just...amazing. The fact that you can read people like a book was already pretty mind blowing, but now that you are doing it with something as mundane as dirt, words can't describe how amazing that is."

While usually so quick and rational in his responses, Sherlock had just blankly stared back at you, until continuing with his dirt samples, speechless, not saying another word about ground analysis.

Then another time, you had been flat on your couch for a good few days after catching a cold. While Sherlock had made sure to keep his distance, not wanting to contract anything, he had come by anyway. He had helped you with the cats, had brought you a bag of pills and goodies (that Mrs Hudson had packed, but it didn't matter since Sherlock was the one making time for you, bringing them over) and had chatted away about the latest case, trying to cheer you up while you sniffled into your tissues. Then he had made you tea and warmed up chicken soup for you, before deciding to take his leave again.

"Thanks, Sherl, you're a great friend. A true blessing when you get all domestic", you had sighed with a stuffed nose, trying to joke, although you knew joking around Sherlock was risky business, because... well... he didn't think like most people. That meant he didn't get jokes most of the time either, had problems trying to figure out whether you were actually serious about some of the comments you made or not, didn't know what to make of it.

You had thought that must have been the reason why Sherlock had left your flat in a hurry.

Honestly, you had begun to worry a little about Sherlock's behaviour by then.

Whenever you tended to say something nice, or gave him a compliment for that matter, the man simply went out of your way immediately. It was making him feel some sort of way, negatively you thought.

Maybe he really didn't know how to handle kind words and just couldn't show that he appreciated them. Maybe you had actually made him uncomfortable, but Sherlock never admitted to it, because he didn't want to put you off or hurt your feelings in return – you were friends after all.

Maybe it would take him a while to get used to someone being so unconditionally nice to him.

Things cleared up a little when Sherlock had approached you one day, deciding to start an 'experiment' in order to gain 'data' for his 'research' – he had something along those lines at least – which apparently included you as a test subject as well. He had specifically asked for your help, and though unmentioned you knew it was likely because of the bond and trust between you two.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to share what the point of his research was, but you had no opportunity to ask either after agreeing to it, because before you could open your mouth again, the detective had moved way too close into your personal space for his usual standards, cupped your cheeks and just leaned in to kiss you.

Short and sweet and... a little inexplicable.

"What was that for?", you wondered then, knowing that there always was an explanation to everything Sherlock did. You just didn't really know how he was going to explain this, overwhelmed with wrapping your head around what had just occurred, staring at him in an almost shock-like state and most definitely frozen to the spot.

"I told you, it's an experiment", Sherlock responded, "About... my own responses to... certain stimulus from certain...uh...people. I've decided to start with you, because we are significantly close, you have decided to pester me with your presence today once again and I figured you will not mind."

You only replied with a soft smile. How convenient you happened to be around right now, pestering him, just in time for his experiment. Though you had to admit, Sherlock wasn't wrong about his assumption either: you didn't mind. You were perfectly decent friends and being friends with Sherlock meant partaking in things out of the ordinary anyway. This was a way better experiment than lightening things on fire in the kitchen and causing the house to be contaminated with toxic smoke.

The kiss was tempting you. It made you curious. What was he trying to figure out?

"Alright, let's see what your experiment entails then", you agreed to partaking in Sherlock's personal studies, "Will you kiss me again, to get more data?"

"Likely", the detective mused, not wasting another moment before bending down to capture your lips in another and longer kiss, this time evidently unsure what to do with his hands as he didn't hold onto your face anymore, a little fidgety before eventually placing them on your waist, keeping you close.

He was a surprisingly sweet kisser. You adored the softness of his lips, the slight initial awkwardness, placing your hands on his shoulders, gently smoothing them over the material of his suit jacket, and returning the kiss with equal gentleness.

"Is that...to your liking?", Sherlock asked, upon parting for a moment.

You slid one hand to the nape of his neck, ready to pull him into another kiss, just to feel those lips on yours again. He was endearing and admittedly kind of addictive.

"I thought this experiment was about your responses, so why care what I'm thinking?”, you began, seeing a flicker of insecurity passing his face, since you avoided answering his question.

“Yeah, I love how tender and careful you are. Your lips feel great", you added in a whisper, hoping it would lift the worry from his brow.

An entirely different reaction followed. Now that you had just complimented him and Sherlock couldn't flee the situation like he usually did, you were more than surprised taking note of his reaction, a slight shudder, but not of discomfort.

Thus, you finally understood why he had wanted to avoid praise times and times again: It caused him to react.

"I honestly can't wait for you to touch me with those hands of yours", you added then, fingers carding upwards into Sherlock's curls, trying to push your own exploration to the limit, continuing to praise him with sweet words of affirmation, "Once we get there, I bet your touch will feel incredible. Just like you are."

Standing so close to the detective, you could hear his breath hitch, and there was no doubt his pulse was rapidly quickening too. Pupils blown wide with interest, lips parted, and oh, a little bit of red tainted his cheeks too. He definitely liked being praised.

"What do you want me to do with my hands?", Sherlock asked. He was still holding them placed on your waist and the unexpected question was more out of innocent curiosity, as blandly spoken as Sherlock usually talked, paired with the slight notion that he was perhaps truly a little clueless.

You wondered if he had ever done this with another person before – experimenting, kissing, touching – and came to the conclusion you couldn't quite imagine Sherlock being touchy and affectionate or sexual for that matter.

"I'm sure you know exactly what to do with those hands of yours", you chuckled, however trusting that Sherlock had to know at least a little bit about those things or else he wouldn't have dared to be so bold and just kiss you. Perhaps he had done a different kind of research beforehand.

"It's okay to touch me, I don't bite. There's no wrong and no right, go with what feels natural. Your deduction skills are unmatched, so why don't you just experiment and collect the necessary information?"

Blue eyes mustered your face, a slight look of confusion written all across his expression, and he still didn't move his hands, searching your face for something in return.

If you didn't know any better, you would have said that you might have broken Sherlock.

But then he came to life again, speaking up once more. "I've come to the conclusion that I like you. Being around you, usually at least, does not only calm my heart rate, it also quietens my brain. However being this close to you, I find my heart rate rising and my brain rattling. I just cannot figure out why your words cause me to feel the way I do."

"Well, if I might say so, I think that you're into it", you shrugged, fingers gently brushing through his thick curls, letting your other hand glide down the front of his shirt, feeling up his chest under it.

What would he look like under this? Would he enjoy being touched? How far was this experiment meant to go?

"I kind of enjoy how flustered you get when I praise you. Makes me think that no one has ever cherished you like you deserve it."

"I don't know if I am... interested in being cherished, but you do manage to make me feel like no one else has ever accomplished. I am tempted by your amenability", the detective admitted, finally catching the drift as he pulled you into a tighter embrace, arms sneaking around you, bowing down to capture your lips in a kiss again, this time with a lot more force.

As sweet and tender Sherlock was, you had simply known there was more passion, more curiosity, more hunger within him than suspected at first.

Saying you were amenable was also an understatement. You were more than compliant and sure let him know, responding to his advances with a passion, curiosity, hunger paralleling his.

So you began moving together, stumbling through the living room, careful not to trip over Sherlock's organized chaos on the floor, mouths busy with each other as you clung onto his neck, letting yourself be ushered all the way into the bedroom – a place you had only occasionally caught a glimpse of, neat and tidy compared to the rest of the flat, and while you had never expected you would ever end up in Sherlock's bed, you certainly weren't complaining about the opportunity.

Though technically, you were the one to shove the man down on his bed, wasting no time to climb onto his lap.

As much as you liked Sherlock for who he was, for his peculiarity, for the fact that he did not fit in with the rest of people, what he was being like right now definitely added onto the feelings you had for the man. Looking at him after pulling back from the kiss, you took note how beautiful Sherlock was in a moment of passion, his pretty dark curls, his sharp features, blue eyes watching you with interest, his luscious lips all swollen from kissing.

"You're such a pleasure to look at", you muttered, knowing that your praises would strike Sherlock where you wanted them too, "I've never known someone so graced by both intellect and beauty."

The man under you let out a soft sigh, wanton, perhaps a little aroused even. As you placed a hand on his pulse point, stroking along the curve of his jaw and the crook of his neck, you could very well feel that his heart was beating fast, just like his breathing got more intense, swallowing hard, even slightly squirming.

Sherlock's grip on your waist tightened a little, especially when you, perched on his thighs, slid forward in his lap, carefully pushing the suit jacket off the man's shoulders, before continuing to work on his shirt.

You were more than interested in discovering what Sherlock looked like under all those clothes, most certainly not disappointed, in awe as the man let you continue the quest to strip him off his shirt without a word of protest. You wondered what Sherlock was thinking, could never quite figure it out - because honestly, whoever managed to figure all of him out?

He was eyeing you curiously, occasionally brushing his large hands over your thighs, seemingly trying to take note of all affections given, but completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do.

"I usually don't like being touched", Sherlock spoke up eventually, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he seemed to swallow down a bit of nervousness yet again, "But I must admit that I want you to touch me."

"Good", you mused, sliding your hands over the man's pale skin, along his toned arms, back up to his shoulders, down the plane of his chest.

"Because I like touching you", you admitted, coaxing a moan out of Sherlock, as you just happened to brush your thumbs over his nipples. He seemed almost a little embarrassed after the sound had slipped past his lips, causing him to bite them in a try to repress any further noises.

And even more so, he was blushing a darker shade.

"Don't feel like you have to hold back", you assured him, trailing curious fingers over Sherlock's sensitive and delicate skin, flush with redness, since you had established that touch alone would get lovely reactions out of him, "You sound wonderful. I love how responsive you are."

Yet again, the words of praise caused Sherlock to shudder and he leant forward, asking for another kiss. You gave into it immediately, responding with eagerness as your hands moved over his slim belly, brushing far beyond his belt buckle, which startled the needy detective as he broke away for another moan, fingers squeezing into your thighs.

"Is this okay?", you took a moment of consideration, searching for uncertainty on Sherlock's face, who seemed oddly concentrated and focused on the situation, either of you unable to ignore that he was very aroused.

"I suppose this is a perfectly normal reaction to being touched so...thoroughly", the detective said oddly collected, a little out of breath, perfectly aware that he was responding and while the attention to his body certainly played a part, it undeniably were the words of praise that heightened the experience for him, "So yes, I would consider it okay."

"Do you want me to... go on?", you tried to assure yourself, wanting his consent before you went further, toying with the belt loops of his trousers, deciding to not give any more attention to his growing hardness until Sherlock confirmed that it was fine to continue.

"Yes", was the curt answer you received, rather eager, and you didn't want to deny him anything of what you were promising anymore. He wanted more. You were happy to give.

Opening the buckle of his belt with swift hands, it took a little bit of shuffling and changing positions for a moment to free him from his restraints, pulling his hardening cock out of his pants, wrapping a firm hand around him – no less sensitive, this caused Sherlock to take a deep breath, eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

"Just focus on my touch. I'll take good care of you", you simply whispered, gently running your fingers along the warm skin of his throbbing cock as it was quite responsive to your touch, giving an interested twitch, trickle of precome leaking from the tip.

"Gorgeous. I love how hard you get for me", you started praising Sherlock, rubbing your thumb over the glistening head, and then gently going on to stroke him, his head slumping down onto your shoulder, another desperate moan slipping past his lips.

"I wish you could see how lovely you are", you continued murmuring, pressing your face into Sherlock's soft curls, smiling to yourself. He really was lovely, sweet, surprisingly needy.

You tightened and eased your grip around the weeping cock, changing the rhythm times and times again, sometimes firmly grasping him, sometimes barely applying any pressure.

"You're doing so good for me", another soft praise as you dragged out the sweetest sounds from him, the response a warm and breathy moan against the crook of your neck, "Beautiful, brilliant Sherlock."

It was a huge turn on for you, something about Sherlock being all needy and desperate, whimpering against your own skin, breathing hard, tensing up, even shuddering at times, surrendering to his own pleasure in a way that you had never thought would happen.

Who would have thought the cold, distant detective was so submissive at heart?

Being painfully aroused yourself – your body was craving to feel the same amount of pleasure and attention, because of course it was – you did want to make sure this was all about Sherlock though, pushing your own desperation and need aside.

The man clung onto you for dear life, too overstimulated by the sensations rushing in, not used to this sort of attention, too gone and weak at the knees by being praised and teased and touched.

"I bet you're going to look and sound so beautiful when you come", you muttered, your strokes quicker, more erratic, the man beneath you shaking, panting heavily, face still hidden in your shoulder. Sherlock was getting really vocal, groaning and whimpering, claiming that he was close, so close, that he didn't want you to stop, not now.

It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. A desperate request.

"Are you going to be good and come for me, Sherl?", you asked then, placing a gentle kiss into his curls, lucky to have such composure or else Sherlock's warmth, the smell and touch of his hair, his desperation, his neediness, the sounds he made might have caused you to throw all of your self-composure out of the window and ride him to your own ecstasy.

But this was enough for now. Good enough for you, because when Sherlock did come, it was all for you.

His body was trembling, squirming, bucking under you as he fell apart, his words getting lost in his panting, culminating into a moan of relief – he surrendered, spilled himself so wonderfully all over your torturous hand, guiding him all the way through his orgasm, and between your bodies.

Coming down from the high took him long, shaking and gasping for air as he went completely lax and fell back into the pillows.

It was the perfect moment for you to look at the mess you both had made. The detective's cheeks were glowing with red, before he went ahead to cover his own face in shame with his arm, his curls spread out on the pillow, skin flushed pink from arousal and perhaps a bit embarrassment, the flat of his stomach heaving, his hardness softening in your hand.

He looked downright ethereal.

And you would always make sure to let him know.

[ppureheroiine]

"Can you meet me halfway (I'll meet you halfway)" | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader x Bard 👑 [king's special]

you went out clubbing on new years eve when a gorgeous rich couple hits on you and invites you back to their apartment to finish what you started right on the dancefloor

warnings/tags: NSWF! THIS IS ADULT CONTENT ✋️, modern!AU, threesome, oral sex (male & female), dirty talk, semi-public-sex, soft dom! bard and bratty dom!thranduil, protected sex, fingering, passing out during sex, slight overstimulation, age-gap (reader is of age, though its described that thranduil and bard are older), hairpulling, aftercare,

words: 13,8k

an: this is by far the dirtiest thing i've ever written and my god i'm not a smut writer; i get too flustered over my own writing lmao. Hopefully you can enjoy this out-of-character story even if it isn't new years anymore!

inspired by early 2000s club bangers like Kesha, Britney Spears, Black Eyed Peas (that's where the title came from) and Lady Gaga

+ masterlist + 

🌿 reposts and comments or anonymous messages in my inbox are very appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

"What?!"

"I said," the barkeeper leaned closer and pushed a filled to the rim shotglass over the counter, "this one is from the pretty one to your right!"

With a myriad of people in this club who fit your definition of "pretty" you found yourself on the brink of shouting at the red-haired bartender once more.

This would mark the third attempt, given that the club's 2000s music was blaring to the extent that communication was damn near impossible if you weren't screaming or using your hands trying to get orders across the sticky, littered with neon glowstick wristbands counter.

Before you could ask her who the hell she'd meant, the bartender had turned away, leaving you to figure out the mystery man for yourself.

You lifted the shot glass to your nose and took a deep breath— pure tequila.

At least you would enjoy this one; the last few shots other men had sent over to you had been nothing but disgusting, ranging from vodka to Jägermeister and one you didn't even bother to drink.

The world spun a little when you turned your head over your shoulder and for a second the flashy lights blurred the people crowding the bar into one mass, unidentifiable and mushed together; then your eyes zeroed in on him and pretty didn't even begin to cover it.

Next to the bar, holding out his own shot glass in hands that could've fit three or five of them, stood a man that was intimidatingly gorgeous and decently tall even as he rested his hip cheekily against one of the chairs, elbow on the wooden top while he flicked his fingers against the rim of the glass.

Not even that he was just tall, and he was –surely taller than most of the men standing between you two –, but he had this quality about him that let him stand out of the crowd.

Maybe it was the hair, blonde like starlight and pulled into a long and messy ponytail, with just a few loose strands framing his strong jawline. Or maybe it was the smug look on his face, the smirk that tugged on his lips when you dragged your eyes over the see-through shirt that clung to his well... and oh so– so well-defined chest.

On any other occasion, you would have simply raised the glass and disappeared back into the crowd of dancing people, but tonight felt different.

New Year's Eve had that ring to it. The careless "Fuck it all, it's all going to shit anyway"-attitude.

Any newspaper or media marked today the last day of yet another frustrating, wonderful, soul-crushing, draining, exciting, and overall overwhelming year, full of things you regretted having done, and as you stared at the man meeting your gaze with a questioning arch of a dark eyebrow, you found yourself giving a flying fuck about whether you'll add another mark on that board.

There was a surge of power washing through your body as you toasted the glass in his direction before tipping it against your lips and letting the tequila rush into your mouth.

The alcohol went down burning, hot, and dry and left a warm trail down your throat into your stomach.

"I see you not only bear a resemblance to the devil, you drink like her as well," a sultry voice drawled, sufficiently loud for you to lift your head.

Somehow the man had managed to appear right next to you within seconds and got so close that you were confronted with a very exciting view of his chest.

You eyed it, naturally because who wouldn't take their time looking at the flexing pecs covered in silver glitter and sweat?

Slowly, you dragged your gaze upwards, only faltering for a moment at the sight of a pink tongue running over plush lips. You met his eyes again, this time with no more than half a meter separating you and you were glad your knees didn't buckle like they threatened to do.

"And what are you? Some angel that has fallen from heaven?" Your counter was weak, a bad example of what was usually some excellent flirting, if you dare say yourself, but it's all you could manage with those cerulean eyes staring down at you in interest.

He laughed, thank fucking god, and tilted his head to the side. "It must be fate that we met, is it not?"

"Buy me another drink and we'll see"

Somehow, it didn't surprise you that he simply raised his pointer finger and the server immediately rushed to prepare whatever order he'd signaled her.

"Unfair, I waited, like at least five minutes for some water," you complained, not really putting any real annoyance into it but pouting nonetheless for the effect.

It went a long way because the stranger stepped closer, up into the little bit of personal space one could have in an overcrowded club, and cooed, "What a shame. Who could ever pass such a lovely face and not serve you right away?"

"I don't know," you sighed and smiled at him sweeter than sugar, "I do know that we shouldn't let that tequila go to waste though"

"Then be a good girl and drink up"

Oh, yeah.

Suppose you hadn't already contemplated sleeping with him, that certainly solidified your decision.

This wasn't just fate, this must be compensation for all the shit you've been through this year, wrapped up nicely in 6 feet and more of dripping sex and sultry smiles.

Eyes locked, you both clinked the glasses together before throwing them back. You couldn't help it when your lashes flutter shut.

Once again, the tequila burned all the way down to your stomach, adding to the cocktail of drinks that lowered your inhibitions and made your core throb in excitement.

You would've asked him for salt and lemon if he hadn't looked so unbothered by the pure taste. His lips didn't twitch, while you're sure yours were pulled into a grimace.

"Thank you, Sir," the words left your mouth without a second thought.

Thinking, in general, started to become more of a theory than something you were willing to do tonight; much too exhausting if you could simply let your tongue run wild.

He rewarded you for that decision, for his eyes widened and he stepped even closer, now slotting one of those long legs - and fuck, was he really wearing leather pants? Who had access to your wet dreams?- between yours as he leaned down.

"I must say you caught my interest the moment I saw you on the dance floor," He placed a hand on the countertop, not touching you yet, though the invitation he gave you, the silent question for permission, spoke for itself.

The second move was on you to lure him in and you blinked up at him while you trailed your fingers over the arm, scratching hairless skin with the tip of your nails until it changed into the fishnet top and you placed the hand to rest on one strong shoulder. The red color of your nail polish made such a beautiful contrast to his fair skin that your mind conjured imagines of how they must look on other parts of him.

Surely, with the size of him…

Now that you initiated the contact, he drove forward with his second hand, and the large palm cupped your chin.

While the touch was hot in how it's delivered, so dominating, and fuck if that didn't send warm licks of pleasure down your spine, his hand itself was surprisingly cold.

The temperature in the club was almost unbearable, only manageable through refreshing drinks and a trip or two to the bathrooms, and the spikes of the cool touch fought the heat pooling in your body.

One of those silky locks of hair brushed your neckline, falling right into the cut out of your dress that his eyes shamelessly took in from his higher-up viewpoint.

You took a deep breath, maybe even pushed out your chest as he eyed it in the knowledge that the lace bra was showing through.

All you inhaled was the intoxicating smell of his cologne, vanilla (even though you suspected he is anything but...), and something sweet and without a doubt expensive.

You're addicted to it the moment it hit your nose and clouded your mind.

"Do you not believe that an appropriate thank you is in order?" he inquired; no, he demanded.

You decided to play dumb, not because you thought he's into that – on the contrary, he seemed the kind of man who admired eloquence and intellect rather than dullness – but because it's a game you both enjoyed playing.

There was intrigue in tip-toeing around what is most obvious (lust as well as the urge to rip each other's clothes off as soon as possible, maybe even a fuck in the bathrooms).

"I thought I already said thank you," you mused, pushing out your lower lip into a pout again, "and that lousy shot is hardly worth more than a few words. You can't expect something greater if there is nothing to thank for."

He raised a dark eyebrow – you wondered if he colored his hair or eyebrows – and the hand around your chin lifted your head to twist it right and left.

One smooth thumb brushed over the pout, and he clicked his tongue. "Now now, I would consider this greedy if you were not in the right. You poor thing must be exhausted after all the dancing"

His eyes flashed when yours widened; he really did notice you before, had watched you.

"Yes," he drawled as if he read your mind, and his lips curved into a smirk that flashed a row of perfect bright teeth, "I saw how you moved out there, how wanton you presented yourself. However, it did not escape my notice that you rebuffed anyone who dared to approach."

When you opened your mouth to say something, his finger swiped over your lip again. Without hesitation, you sucked on the fingertip, collecting a few drops of tequila that you made a show of swallowing.

The protest disappeared with it down your throat.

He was right, why deny it?

The way you danced was just an expression of how comfortable you felt in your own body, the rhythm provided by provocative music a tool to follow the movements.

Everything you did, you did for yourself, not for the men who attempted to touch you simply because they were captivated by the dancing. As if you would accept some clammy hands grabbing for you.

"Maybe it was wanton," you said after releasing his finger, but not without scratching your teeth over it.

His pupils dilated, his chest raised at a sudden inhale of air; he apparently underestimated you.

You nodded your head toward the dance floor, "maybe I came here to look for a good fuck, but it's my decision who I take and not theirs"

"As you should. Those boys who tried and failed miserably were amusing to watch. None of them were good enough for you, right, sweetheart?"

You hummed in agreement as well as disagreement. "I'm not searching for anyone good enough," you thought back to all the good-guys who had lured you in with promises of treasuring you only to become insufferable with their need to control in the end.

"Then what do you need?"

"I want someone bad," the tone in your voice was challenging, just like the stare you gave him. "I want someone who won't be afraid to break me"

There was a slight tug on your chin, his hand pulled you in slightly but any further without any movement from you, it would've cause a strain in your neck.

You craved it.

The blonde god, he must be, the thought became clearer with any passing second, a gift, a god, an angel, crushed his mouth against yours. There was a fleeting moment where you realized you didn't know his name, but then his other hand wrapped around your neck, and your teeth clashed, and you found yourself not caring one bit.

You're sure he wouldn't mind if you moaned "God" instead of his name. Maybe he would even get off to it.

Only one way to find out.

It turned out quite hard to manage saying anything at all, his kisses stole every last bit of oxygen, robbing you of the ability to string together words and turning you into a whimpering mess with his tongue and wandering hands.

He called you a devil yet here he was, corrupting you in a way that will ruin you for any other person.

"You taste divine," he sounded as breathless as you felt when you separated and dizziness cultivated in your lust-clouded head at the compliment rasped in that deep voice of his.

"Do not worry," he continued, smearing the string of spit that connected you over your plush lips, "If you allow me I will try my very best to break you"

Hell or heaven, wherever he was leading you right now, your need tripped over itself eagerly.

When was the last time you were this aroused? You felt yourself growing wetter and wetter, and that only through his words and kisses; the state he could push you into if he truly fucked you would be completely new territory, you realized.

A nod is all you could manage.

The last you saw on his face was a wide grin before he kissed you again, this time though, he moved on to your jaw and then your neck. You beared it to him by tilting your head, eyes falling on the ceiling where the neon lights hushed over black brick, coloring your sight while your face took on a flushed red.

The blond devil nipped and bit, sucked and scratched in a manner so animalistic you wouldn't have thought a surely unquestionably sophisticated man to be able to.

You whimpered again, and your hands rose to grab something, anything and you found that ponytail the most accessible. Your fingers twirled a few soft strands as you gasped when his teeth sunk into the delicate skin right where your neck and shoulder met, and the slight pain following wasn't unwelcome.

It made you feel alive.

You're close to pulling him away to the bathroom– an amused laugh to your side prevented that thought from festering any further.

"I'm away for one smoke and you just couldn' wait?"

Unable to think straight after the assault on your neck, it took a moment for you to come back to your senses that don't revolve around lips, kiss, bite, fuck, suck…

Your sight spun as you snapped your head back, nearly knocking your chin into the man still busy marking you up, unbothered that there was another man watching you and clearly waiting for an answer.

So you decided to do the only thing that must convince him to let go, and you pulled on his hair.

He growled, fucking growled, and his lips twisted, flashing his teeth again.

Your heart dropped into your wet panties until you found he wasn't pinning you to the floor with the hard stare but the new arrival.

"Did you not see that I was busy?" he snapped at the dark-haired man, and while you felt slightly scared he was going to rip his handsome head off, the man only sported an annoyed expression.

"Yes, exactly. If I remember correctly, we decided to wait until I get back?"

Decided, waited?

"You took too long"

The man threw his head back in a raspy laugh, "Incorrigible bastard. Will I have to sit you down with a toy to keep you busy while I'm away?"

The blonde turned back to you and smirked, "That will not be necessary as I am quite capable of finding my own toys"

"Hey!" you cut into the conversation, not amused that they talked as if you weren't right there, "I'm not a fucking toy!"

Both men turned to you now, towering over you in their height, and mustering you so intensely that you slightly squirmed under their gaze.

The man with salt and pepper hair chuckled. "I am so sorry, Darlin'. I hope Thranduil didn't play too hard?"

Considering that you still felt the scratch of his teeth on your neck and the wet spit he left there, you felt like some kind of chew toy one would throw their dog but nevertheless, you pushed your chin up high. "Nothing I can't take."

The blonde's, Thranduil's, hand on your waist pulled you into him possessively. "I told you there is some bite behind the pretty face," he smirked.

While it didn't escape you that this hinted to a previous conversation, a plan formed over you, it's the attractiveness of them that led you to turn a blind eye.

"Weren't you the one biting a minute ago?" The music made it hard to talk normally and you stood up on your tiptoes to yell the words, but all that it resulted in is a deep chuckle.

"Oh, I like you," the other man laughed as well.

You took him in, the tight pants that showed off strong thighs and the black and gold shirt with more buttons open than actually buttoned that presented muscles and hair leading down and oh–

"What a surprise," you said, looking up to meet his hungry eyes, "I find I like you too" You turned your head to Thranduil, who smirked and sent you a wink that had you blushing, "So how's this gonna work? I'm going to be blunt and say that five minutes ago I was convinced you and I were on the same page, what's with your friend?"

"Husband"

"Husband?!" you parroted, unconvinced yet when your eyes fell on their hands a gold ring flashed back at you from both fingers.

Heat curled in your body like molten lava at lustful and otherwise utterly inappropriate thoughts this provoked of these two married man having their way around your body.

Thranduil bowed his head lower again, playfully nipping at the part of your neck that surely was already bruising. "I have to admit that I promised Bard to wait for him to come back, though I found I could not follow through when I saw you approaching the bar."

You swallowed. Hard. Not that it helped your very dry throat.

Bard came closer, reclaiming your attention.

His face, more defined than Thranduil's, was adorned with a rugged layer of dark stubble, crow's feet framing his vivid green eyes when he smiled at you. He looked the picture of a soft soul, but you remembered that this couple was picking up a third partner on New Year's Eve, so you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

There was some spice behind the old-armchair-and-book-vibes.

"Will that be a problem, Darlin'?" he asked in that ruff voice, posh and Welsh accent dripping over you.

A refreshment to hear that accent in this city, so enthralling in how it wrapped around you; especially that damn nickname. There was no way you would say no to him.. both of them if he called you Darling one more time.

You shook your head. "No. I think I'll just need a bit more liquid encouragement if I am to survive this night."

"Oh, what a shame," Thranduils lips left where they continued to suck and lap on your neck, peppering kisses, leaving bruises, and moved to your earlobe. His voice dropped as much into a whisper as the music allowed it, "I had my hopes on fucking you into heavenly spheres"

There went the last string of sanity holding you back.

Hearing a man who was seemingly hell-bent on avoiding abbreviations like "don't" and "can't" at all costs speak in such a filthy way was something you never knew you needed.

"I hope you can follow through with that," you trailed a hand over his smooth chest, collecting glitter on your way and smeared it over his throat where his adams apple bobbed, "because if you break that promise like you did the one with your husband, I will just have to let him finish the job"

Thranduil yanked you back into him, back into a kiss that seared itself into your memories and burned the touch, taste, and movement of his lips into every cell of your body.

It was almost aggressive how much teeth went into the kiss, how he bit down and all you could do was gasp and whimper.

Briefly, you thought of the poor people around you, because if all you wanted to do was get a drink and were confronted with one person devouring the other, you would be seething but right now you were being the one he kissed, whose sounds he swallowed and whose hands held you to him.

So fuck them.

With your senses heightened now that you wanted these men all over you, the sensation of Bard leaning in, hair tips tickling your neck as he licked Thranduil's throat, led you to pull away from the blonde. You watched as Bard sprinkled something flaky and white onto the spot wet with spit, and only when he lifted a shot glass the thought crystalized that he salted Thranduil for you.

"Come on," Thranduil's smirk taunted you just as much as his words, "What is another lousy shot? We even made it easy for you poor baby, after you could not take the first one easily"

Rolling your eyes at the mocking, you dove in to copy Bard. The salt sticking to his neck coated your tongue and you took longer than necessary to lick the skin free of it. The rush that this sent through you was exhilarating.

As soon as you were finished, your head got tilted backward firm and yet gently.

Rough fingertips cupped your neck and one thumb moved to press against your jaw, as you felt a solid chest in your back.

"Open wide, Darlin'," Bard ordered and encouraged you to follow him as his other thumb pushed between your teeth.

You obeyed, never once breaking eye contact with Thranduil and taking in his lust-blown pupils, as Bard poured the tequila into your mouth, directly down your throat. Then, while you pulled a grimace, shutting your eyes for a second, Bard turned you around, sandwiching you between them.

When you opened your eyes again, you saw the green slice of lemon between his teeth and following the wink he sent you; you knew exactly what was to come next.

Kissing Bard was very different from getting kissed by Thranduil.

His lips were slightly cracked, not soft and they tasted like smokey whiskey and cigarettes, with hints of coffee and lime instead of fruity cocktails and rose chapstick. Lifting one hand to his face, your fingertips grazed the rough beard growing on his sharp jawline, the stubble scratching you in a promising way.

While you had been surprised when Thranduil had kissed you, you eagerly answered Bard's kiss with fervor. Your mind already teetered on the brink of shutting down and you poured the desperation into his mouth with a moan.

He chuckled, drawing back just enough that he could spit out the lemon – sucked empty – before wiping his thump over your lips.

"Sweet thing"

There was a softness in that gesture, but only short-lived before he kissed you again. His hands trailed your body, coming to rest on either side of your neck again and even that slight of pressure loaded a million images through your head.

A second pair of hands joined him on you, it's confusing until a large body pressed into your back and you realized- it was only Thranduil.

Well, only…

It had been clear that the man could and would not accept being reduced to anything. He radiated an attitude that you would call bratty but with his expensive clothes, that rich perfume, and the wave of the hand that brought him drinks, aristocratic diva seemed more fitting.

His demanding character became clear when his hands set on your waist, immediately fingering the seam of your jeans, pulling you more into him by the belt loops.

You followed that tug, though Bard deepened the kiss to keep you by him, his tongue exploring your mouth and enticing you to breathlessly moan against his smiling lips.

Despite the loud music, Thranduil's voice was loud in your ear.

"As stunning as you right now, I can not help but imagine you squirming on our silk sheets– moving those bewitching hips of yours," Thranduil playfully took the burning tip of your ear into his mouth, "If you want to follow this invitation, of course"

"Whatever you just said," Bard broke away from you to look over your shoulder at his husband, "It better have been the idea of finally getting out of here" he pushed his hips against yours for you to feel the hard outline of him, "because I don't want to wait til the ball drops"

"Is that a metaphor?"

"Thran–" There was a warning edge in Bard's voice, and you felt Thranduil huff.

"Funny, how this old man can not take a joke as soon as he is aroused"

It's absurd how casually he said this while his hands slid down the front of your jeans, earning himself a gasp from you.

Unashamed as a man only his status can be, he toyed with the seam of your underwear, not caring one bit for the glare of his husband.

Your body arched into him, answering the question he had whispered earlier.

The only thing keeping you from getting down on your knees to worship him and his obviously talented fingers was the blaring music, reminding you that you were not yet somewhere private and very much on display.

You briefly wondered if these two were rich enough to simply pay their way out of a public indecency arrest. You wouldn't be surprised if they wouldn't even get arrested.

Since Thranduil made no sign of disengaging himself from you, you stepped away from him, right against Bard's chest.

"Shall we go? Your husband mentioned luxury sheets which I bet are more comfortable than a threesome on the dance floor"

The way out of the club presented itself as more difficult than you would have thought.

With Bard shoving a path through the dancing crowd in front of you, holding on to one hand, Thranduil breathing down your neck and you pausing now and again because "Oh my gosh, I love this song!" it took a lot longer than necessary.

Not that any one of you minded.

Lost in the mass of people shouting, dancing, and pushing you three closer together and the tequila in your bloodstream you ended up undulating to Nicki Minaj's 'Pound The Alarm' completely lost on the fact that both men had stopped to watch you.

The lights were colorful and sharp and in their hues, Bards and Thranduil's jawlines looked even sharper tinted red, blue, green, and whenever the disco ball flashed white across their faces the lust in their eyes caused shivers on every part of you.

Thranduil's hands moved to your lower abdomen, making it easy to grind against him as you raised your hands to Bard's strong shoulders.

Two huge pairs of hands gripped your waist from either side and held you steady and close to themselves, keeping everyone else from getting any nearer than they allowed.

"Fucking hell– Darlin' you drive me crazy!" Bard yelled over the music as you suddenly decided to drop down intact with the beat, dragging your nails over his torso.

You laughed, low and full-heartedly.

Coming up, his hands moved to the flushed skin that your shirt had revealed by riding up, holding you tight to sweep you away into a kiss.

One thigh, leather, and flexing muscles shoved itself between your thighs and you responded eagerly, grinding against it without a second thought.

Just when you thought you were ready to finally go, the song ended and faded into yet another pop hit. 'LoveGame' by Lady Gaga and intact of the low thumping beat, Thranduil's hips circle against your behind, pressing what was an impressive hardness into your arse while his deep voice switched from singing to humming the lyrics.

One of his hands spread over your abdomen, the other arm blindly reached for Bard and pulled him into a kiss right over your head.

Amid the mass of sweaty people and the multicolor array of colors flashing over Thranduil's blonde hair, the 2000s music blaring through the speakers and resonating in every cell of your fevered body, they looked hot enough for the porn industry to sign them under contract.

You were never making it out of the club.

You did make it out eventually, sweat dripping down your temple, Thranduil's chest in your back whenever you stumbled, his hands steadying you.

On what you assumed was an oversight or blind eye of the club owners the crowd had doubled in the last hour.

Far too many people joined the floor and even with Bard's commanding presence leading you it had been close to impossible to step forward and not swerve out of the way of someone drunk.

Outside, the line curved around the block, and those who waited or didn't get into the club or even just hung in groups celebrating on the streets blocked the whole sidewalk.

A number of fireworks were already soaring into the air, sent up there by early birds who couldn't wait until midnight – cheered up by loud excited screams and laughter as the dark night sky lit up here and there with colorful explosions.

Quite sobered up, the dancing had contributed to that, you stared at them.

"How the fuck are we supposed to get out of here?" you asked and crossed your arms in front of you; the winds were biting cold and you hadn't bothered bringing a jacket, "It's madness."

"We will just get a cab"

You barked out a laugh though Bard stayed completely serious.

"Wait, that wasn't a joke?" you rubbed your palms over the naked skin, still warm and thrumming with the afterglow of the unbearable heat of the club, although the cold fought hard and unfairly.

"No, sweetheart, it wasn't," Thranduil said, not bothered by the chaos of people pushing each other, waving their hands like they're trying to flag down a spaceship.

On this day, the chances for that to happen were more likely than actually getting a cab.

He took one step into the busy street, and you yelped, overcome by the shock that he just walked into fucking traffic, his long ponytail swaying with his steps.

Then, like movie magic, a car swerved to the side and stopped right next to Thranduil.

Bard pulled you along, your hand cradled to his chest so as not to lose you. Thranduil opened the door, gracefully sitting down behind the empty passenger seat.

You stumbled onto the back seat next to him, and mumbled a half-hearted "Hello" to the driver, who gave you a nod – a nod, an hour before midnight, from a cap driver, fucking miracles– before shut the plastic window close.

"Holy crap," you exhaled. "Is this what the high life's like? Getting drinks and cabs without any fucking effort?"

Despite the crude and cutting words swinging in their direction, Bard and Thranduil chuckled. The synchronized deep sound reverberated in the quiet cab, warming up the space instantly.

"Do you really think that this" – Thranduil languidly gestures to all of him – "takes no effort?"

Bard huffed. He leaned into you as if he wanted to whisper a secret, but didn't lower his voice: "We were supposed to be here five hours ago. Took him that long to figure out what to wear." He shot a teasing grin at his husband.

"Oh, I have had enough of your whining," In one elegant movement Thranduil folded one long leg over the other. The point of his boot caught your shin in a soft tap that drew your attention to him.

He smirked, one eyebrow raised. "If you are interested, though, I could show you what it is like to ride the waves of the high life"

"Is that a metaphor?"

"No," Bard's lips ghosted over your neck, peppering more kisses to the skin there, "A promise for an unforgettable high"

You were unable to think of what they could propose.. well, you could, but they wouldn't, not here in this cap, right?

Bard's legs were spread a little far apart and, fuck, the flickering lights of the city flying by highlighted a very prominent bulge that he made no effort of hiding. Was he going commando?!

Your eyes snapped back, burning a hole into the roof of the cab.

A hand fell behind you on the headrest at the same moment as Thranduil's cold fingers slipped onto your thigh.

Thranduil's hand snuck to your jeans and played with the button and zipper before,

Oh-

he opened your jeans and immediately slid his cold, long, slender fingers down your panties.

Oh, fuck

Your hips twitched into his hand and you had to bite down on your finger to muffle the gasp that itched behind your teeth.

Without a care in the world, Thranduil cupped your sex, mumbling something to himself under his breath that sounded like a "So fucking wet- for us?" and worked his middle finger into you.

Pulling it out again, he started circling your clit, smearing your own slick over it, moving right over the spot where your nerve endings were sparking white and hot and you shuddered uncontrollably.

The chill of his fingertips heightened your sensitivity. Still flushed all hot from the club, you instinctively arched upward, a soft gasp escaping your lips as Thranduil's fingers tapped against your swollen wet clit.

The noise prompted his gaze to lock onto yours.

Your gasp broke off as your hips nearly flew off the seat and it was only for the belt snapping tightly against your lower abdomen that your head didn't make contact with the roof.

That, and the arm Bard put around your shoulders. He held you down and gave you his biceps to let your head fall against something that wasn't the uncomfortable seatrest.

Your cheeks flushed under Thranduils scrutiny, as well as at the general scene and obscenity of everything, and a subtle smirk played on his lips.

"Do you enjoy that?" His voice was flirty, and while you want to retort that it should be very clear how much you liked his fingers fucking into you, you only managed a nod.

"Say it." He leaned forward, a teasing glint in his eyes. His fingers stopped, clearly waiting for you to obey his order. "Use your words, you still know how, right? I haven't even started, clearly there must be something you could tell me."

"Yes," your admission was barely a whisper, but it sufficed.

Thranduil hummed, using his other hand to open your legs as wide as the tight jeans allowed it before he worked two agile fingers into your throbbing cunt.

You stared at him through half-lidded eyes, watching his relaxed demeanor while fingering you open without caring about anything else.

The heel of his hand pressed into your pelvis, giving him a reasonably steady hold in the jolting cab so that he could hit a spot inside you with precision and with every, goddamn, perfect, thrust of his fingers that made you pant out.

"Thran-" the nickname you heard Bard call him slipped out unconsciously, it's the only thing you could pull out of the depth of your mind, "Thran.. please"

"Beggin' already?" Bard chuckled, "Darlin' you have seen nothing yet and here you are, beggin' to cum in the back of a cab."

"Bard you have no idea how fucking wet she is. She's dripping down my hand, squeezing my fingers, and fuck she's so tight," Thranduil muttered and as he slipped his other hand to the one slipping and sliding against your g-spot in a maddening relentless rhythm, he rubbed them over your folds.

He collected some of your wetness on those fingers, circling your clit again before pulling them away, out of your pants, and to your horror, he held them up into the air, inspecting how his fingers glistened in the city lights.

He rubbed them together, all right in the view of the rear back mirror of the cab driver, who – thank god – kept his eyes on the road and only turned up the radio in unspoken ignorance of what was happening in his car.

God, you hoped these men would tip him adequately.

"Here," Thranduil reached his arm out past your half-opened lips and for a moment you thought he was going to offer you his fingers, but he leaned further forward.

A gasp broke out of you as you watched Bard open his mouth and greedily took both fingers right between his lips, and.. sucked.

His eyes fell shut with a contented sigh as if he were tasting his favorite drink.

You saw his tongue run thoroughly over Thranduil's patiently waiting fingers, cleaning them off every last bit of you, and god, you wanted to be those fingers so damn bad at that moment.

Then he looked at you again. There was such a deep hunger in those eyes that would look beautifully between your legs, brown hair falling messily into his sight as he ate you out.

Meanwhile, Thranduil's fingers inside you moved harder and faster, curling to brush every sensitive spot of your walls, in, out, in, another curl, and then out.

You clenched your entrance in anticipation, the feeling of two of his fingers filling you this deliciously and continuously.

You were so so close, almost there–

"Shit, you're the sweetest. I think I'll eat you for breakfast tomorrow"

The abrupt halt of the cab barely registered for you; instead, it finally propelled you over the edge.

Thranduil's precise movement hit that spot inside you perfectly, crooking his fingers just right to brush against it. Combined with Bard's downright filthy promise, you nearly let out a scream as the powerful orgasm surged through you and you had to flex your muscles so you didn't continue riding his hand.

Thranduil, however, didn't stop, even though there was no way he didn't know you climaxed and he kept up the same pace, same fucking precision and pressure that your body convulsed around those long talented fingers and you couldn't even go anywhere, the seatbelt cut off your escape to the front and you were so far into the seat that wasn't an option as well, and it took a soft broken whimper, for words were long lost, for Thranduil to press a kiss to your neck before he sucked his fingers dry.

Your legs were still shaking as the elevator took you up to the penthouse at the top of the skyscraper the cab had stopped in front of.

Four mirrors gave you a splendid view of Bard's broad back as he crowded you against one of the walls, his thick fingers down your jeans again, as he mouthed hot kisses onto your neck.

"Gonna have to work you open," Bard grunted, his slippery fingers curling inside your cunt in a sinful squelch that sounded absurdly loud in the confined space of the elevator. "You're really too tight, don't wanna hurt you"

Thranduil watched the whole scene leaning at the railing, hands curled around the pole behind him as his hips twitched whenever you let out another whimper; your hands trying to get a hold on his husband's shoulders.

The ride was far too short, Bard's fingers not fast enough for you to reach another peak though the constant movement kept your head in such a nice empty mindless space that you didn't complain.

As soon as the doors opened Thranduil led the way, sauntering into the darkness illuminated by the first exploding fireworks. He pulled on the tie holding his hair up and flung it away let his hair flow down his back, ending just barely over his exquisite arse.

You didn't get to see much of the penthouse, all three of you were very eager to take this party finally somewhere comfortable and you only made out a giant white couch in front of a fireplace, an open kitchen with two glasses, one crystal with golden stains of whiskey, and the other high, the rim still dripping red wine, and a few bookshelves.

"You can get the full tour tomorrow," Bard said while you two kicked away your shoes, leaving them behind on the dark wooden parquet.

You stumbled over his left sneaker and halted in your tracks at the offer. While you had considered his promise of breakfast a spur-of-the-moment chit-chat, it now settled in your head that this wouldn't be like any one-nightstand you had in the past.

This observation only solidified as Bard caught your hand and raised it to press an open-mouthed kiss to your palm. "Do you need anything before we go into the bedroom? Any wishes or no-gos? Safeword?"

"Red," you immediately answered, and he nodded in acknowledgment, "and no, well– maybe hold me a bit afterward?" You blushed at the question though this should be the least embarrassing thing after all these two did to you in the span of a few hours. You continued to ramble, "And sometimes I cry, so.. you don't have to stop then. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed but you can continue your.. thing. Don't bother, I'll be fine on my own–"

Bard's eyebrows scrunched together the more you babbled, the look in his eyes becoming more confused until he shushed you with a quick kiss.

"Darlin', there is no need to explain what you want or don't want. If this is what you need then we won't question those demands," his eyes wandered over your face, making sure you were listening; which you were, heart pounding fast in your chest.

"And it's important you don't push yourself just because of us. It's not our intention to use you for a simple release. Thranduil and I don't take whoever is the first best, especially not to our home. We're looking for someone who suits us, with whom we feel completely comfortable and that should also be equally important to you."

You trusted them both, Bard as well as Thranduil.

The fact that Bard was asking you, nevertheless listening and responding to you was feeding something very primal.

They had done this before, unlike you. They had experience in this, but you were willing to learn, to submit yourself to these imposing men who surely would change something inside you forever.

The pride you felt at his admission of choosing you specifically mingled with the need to get this perfect man inside you quickly, especially now that he said such meaningful and reassuring words.

You nodded and croaked out a soft: "Alright, then please hold me after we're done" which he rewarded with another soft yet sensual kiss.

"Good girl"

Then his hands traveled south and slapped your ass so that your hips flew towards him.

"Now, let's not keep Thran waiting any longer. He tends to get a bit… impatient if left on his own for too long, as you've probably noticed."

Bratty.

You were so on the money earlier.

With that as well as the guess that the blonde was more kinky than the vanilla of his perfume.

At that moment the deep voice of his called out from down the hall.

"I swear, if you two started without me, I will fuck you until neither of you can walk for a week!"

Bard chuckled, then caught your widened eyes.

"He's joking," he said and you let out a relieved breath.

Bard pulled you along, a wink thrown over his shoulder.

"Mhm, partly; he won't fuck me tonight."

You needed a deep breather to ready yourself for what was about to happen, then you nearly tripped over your own feet as you raced after him through the dark hallway and to the only opened door.

You crashed fully into Bard, who for whatever reason, stood right in the doorframe of their bedroom.

"It seems Thranduil got tired of waiting," he chuckled and you wondered what he could mean when he turned sideways.

Your eyes instantly fell onto Thranduil, spread out on the enormous bed in the corner of the room– completely naked except for black, very tight boxers.

There was no air in your lungs, not a single breath left to take as you drank in the sight of him, fair and marble skin shining in the moonlight that fell through the big window next to the bed; the remaining glitter gave his body an unearthly glow. His hair fanned out all over the pillows, silver against grey, moving with him as he lazily lifted his head to stare at you.

There was an indescribable beauty in this man, he could lounge in the bed, his long legs opened in an invitation that you yearned to take, and his lean yet softly defined body posed as if he was waiting for someone to draw him.

"There you are," the corner of his mouth twitched into his smirk, "Strip"

His words, spoken in a gentle tone, boomed loud in your ears.

Your hands flew to your jeans in no second, though they were stopped by Bard, who covered them with his larger, rougher ones.

"No, Darlin', let me"

He stood behind you, taking over the job of undressing you. He did it much slower than you would have, not ripping everything apart in a hurry to obey the command of the blonde whose eyes were heavy on your body, taking in every bit of skin that got revealed.

Bard unbuttoned your jeans first, then his large and warm hands rubbed over your arms.

"Are you cold, sweetheart?"

You shook your head. "No, not cold. I– I feel like I'm burning up"

It was the truth, and nothing but the full, honest truth; you felt as hot as you did in the club, though the reason wasn't the hundreds of people and the alcohol but rather the sight of Thranduil, whose hands trailed over his own body and teasingly played with the waistband of his underwear.

Bard followed your fixated gaze to his coyly smiling husband.

"Should we turn down the heating? We would not want you melting away," Thranduil blinked his long lashes at you in faux-concern. He must've known the goosebumps covering your skin were his doing.

You would've rolled your eyes if you were able to look somewhere else than Thranduil. The man had to be magical, how else could you explain the spell he put you under if not for some supernatural powers?

"Stop the teasing, Thran," Bard cut in, slipping his hands under your shirt and kissing your shoulder. You melted into his touch, comforted that he took care of you like this when he continued, "This poor sweet thing hasn't even all her clothes off. It would be a shame to make her blush like this and not see it"

"Oh, and who's fault is that? Certainly not mine, I have been waiting so long I was close to wrapping things up myself"

Bard pulled your shirt over your head, covering your sight long enough for a wave of braveness to surge through you. "I sure hope you wrap it up," you said and heard both of them snicker.

"Do not worry," Thranduil began.

"There is enough protection for weeks," Bard finished and the band of your bra snapped against your skin.

Despite the warmness of the room your nipples puckered as soon as the lace fell away, growing hard under the avid eyes, cerulean and green, so different yet similar in the way both are dominated by the blackness of their pupils.

Bard's hands came up to your front and he cupped your breasts first tenderly, mapping out how perfectly they fit into his large palm, then rougher as his fingers found the hard buts of your nipples and rubbed them between them until every pinch had your legs trembling and you whimpering.

You cried out, body bucking on its own.

"Oh how nice," Thranduil's comment was full of sarcasm, followed by a click of his tongue against teeth, "Why, let me lay here and play all on your own, why not? After all, I am nothing but pure decoration"

Bard huffed a puff of hot air onto you, "Grow a pair of tits like this and maybe I will get to you first"

Thranduil's dark eyebrows raised to his hairline, passing an unspoken threat that had Bard scoff before he grabbed the waistband of your jeans. He pulled them down slowly, getting on his knees as he did and you were acutely aware of how wet your panties were when you feel his lips kiss your ass.

"This must be uncomfortable," he murmured, holding one leg to help you step out of the jeans. He kneaded your thigh, fingertips against muscles and flesh, before moving on to do the same on your other leg.

He used the moment where you lifted the second leg, to dive his hand to your cunt again, dragging his knuckles over the dark-colored patch, and he laughed as you buckled into the touch. "Oh, the fun we'll have"

Finally, undressed to your panties that cling to your crotch like a second skin, you were free to walk toward the bed. You would've lied if you said you didn't swing your hips a little bit, relishing the raspy groan this evoked from Bard.

Feeling like you should await further commands you stopped (un)patiently when your knees hit the mattress.

Thranduil's lips curved into a devilish smirk at this sign of submission.

He let his legs fall open wider, waving in an elegant gesture into the space in between. "Come here, sweetheart"

The bed was raised and you rose to your tiptoes and, making sure your eyes were trained on Thranduil, you crawled over the mattress, knees digging into the silk duvet he had promised you.

He reached out as soon as he could, one hand curving around your neck to pull and you landed directly on him, legs spread on either side of his thighs, hands somehow, despite their nervous trembling, found their place against his collarbones, standing out from his broad chest rather delicate.

Not that you hadn't suspected and expected him to be big, but, fuck, he was long and hard, a pulsing pressure against your stomach.

"Be a good girl and remove this unnecessary fabric, will you?" Thranduil whispered and you scrambled to lose your panties, throwing them off into the distance only to turn again and find him smirking. "I meant my boxers, but it fills me with joy seeing you this eager"

Lowering your head to hide your laughter, you grabbed his boxers. He lifted his hips just barely for you to pull on the black boxers, rolling them over his tight ass, and after giving you a loving pat on the head, he crossed his arms behind his head, relaxing into the pillows.

His cock sprung free from the containment of the tight boxers, twitching as it hit his abdomen and you felt your throat dry out.

Of course, he was smooth everywhere; not one bit of hair covering the flushed beauty of him.

You sat up, hands pushed into his flexing thighs, to take him all in. No one should look this perfect, this utterly ridiculously beautiful, right? There should be something on him, a scar, a mole, anything to prove he wasn't straight-up carved out of marble, but you found nothing.

You glared at him as you sat down a bit lower, ass in the air, and spit into your hand before you wrapped it around his cock. The sight of his size had your mouth water, and seeing how your fingers couldn't meet had your cunt clench around nothing.

No way any of their preparation had been enough for this intimidating masterpiece of Mother Nature's creation.

"Tell me, how is it fair that you are rich and have a dick like that?" you asked and just as Thranduil opened his pretty lips for probably another witty answer, you interrupted him by letting his cock slide over your tongue deep into your throat until you gagged around him.

Whatever he wanted to say was forgotten.

Instead, Thranduil groaned a low: "Fuck" and threw his head back.

You wanted to see him come undone, to unravel him until he lost this bratty attitude and reduce him to that wild behavior he had shown in the club.

You had the feeling that that's only possible if he thought he had the upper hand.

You bobbed your head, taking him a bit past what you could manage without gagging before lifting your head again.

"Use me," you said and his eyes flew open.

"What?"

Cocking your head, you shot him a confused look, while spreading his precum over the head of his cock with your thumb. "I said," – you spit again, mixing it and coating his dick further – "Fuck - my - mouth"

Every word was punctuated with a kiss to his slit, and you swore you could see his eyes darken further; black taking over blue – desire fought whatever held him back to fucking give into whatever you offered.

Behind you, Bard swore nearly breathlessly: "Fuck me" though you stayed focused on Thranduil.

"Are you sure?" his voice was raw, his facade of composure cracking ever so slightly.

"Wouldn't ask if I wasn't"

His hand was behind your head in seconds, drawing you down his cock again and you opened your mouth wide to not hurt him. He pushed you down until you choked on him and although your eyes watered, you couldn't take them away from the sight of his mouth and the low throaty groans that passed the opened lips.

The lack of air cut off your moan, the tip of his cock bullying the back of your throat just barely short of painful. Reminding yourself to breathe through your nose, you inhaled deeply.

"Good girl," Thranduil's hips bucked, pulling back until he was only half-lodged in your throat, "Just like that, fuck"

He gave an experimental thrust, keeping his sharp eyes on you, his hand in your neck, ready to stop if he saw any discomfort, but all you showed him was how you choked on spit and salty precum.

"Oh, you sweet girl. Behaving so well," his voice was ruined, and he thrusted again, punching away the little breath left in the tiniest space that wasn't occupied by his thick cock.

This was by far the first time you have ever given a blowjob, but it was a first to let someone use you like this. Controlling when you could suck or when you just had to take what he gave you.

And oh– how much you loved it.

So much that you wanted to rub your thighs together only to be stopped by rough hands grabbing them.

A confused sound left you, no more than a choked "Huh?" vibrating around Thranduils cock continuing to fuck into you, just like you had asked him, hindering you from turning to see what Bard was up to.

He didn't leave you wondering for long, just as Thranduil's thrusts took on a sharper edge, hitting the back of your throat every time, filling your mouth like no man ever had, Bard's flattened tongue licked through your exposed cunt and the moan you let out sounded so pornographic you surprised yourself.

"Do it again," Thranduil took in the sight of your wet lips, the drool dripping out of the corners of your mouth, his cock disappearing so deep inside you that felt him in your lungs, "Fuck, Bard, do that again now!–"

He talked for you, praising Bard as he licked your pussy again, this time using his fingers to pry you open further and there was the delicious scratch of his beard stubbles, burning on your skin.

You cried out, tried to do, stopped by Thranduils cock stuffing your mouth again and again, his hands curled around your neck as if he wanted to feel the imprint of himself pushing through.

"Prettiest woman out there," Thranduil groaned. His thump reached over to stuff some of the spit back into your mouth, opening your jaw up impossibly wide.

Bard's tongue was as precise as their fingers have been, covering your folds, fucking into your hole and sucking on your clit with expertise that no man should be allowed to have. Two of his wet fingers slid into you while his tongue mercilessly attacked your clit, the other hand buried itself in the soft flesh of your ass, kneading and pulling, opening you up further for his face.

"C'mon," his voice was muffled by your thighs, drowning you in his accent while he drowned his tongue inside your opening, circling the rim in maddening figures, "Give me one more, gorgeous."

Electricity flowed through your body, hot tingles of nothing but fire spreading into your fingertips wrapped around the inches of Thranduil's cock that didn't fit into your mouth, to your nipples that brushed against his muscular thighs.

"Fuck Bard, please–"

Not sure what you were begging for, for his tongue to stop the attack on your clit, for his fingers constantly finding that spot inside your spongy walls that had you wailing and rolling your hips into his face, or for him to get on with it and get you over that build-up.

Bard kept going, somehow finding a rhythm that matched the one his husband hammered down your throat and you were helplessly stuck trying to hold on.

Until you lost the fight to keep yourself upright. Your hands slipped on Thranduil's thighs, your body crashed down and if it wouldn't have been for his quick reaction of pulling himself out of you, you would for sure have impaled your head on his still hard and throbbing cock.

Instead, it just wetly slapped your face as you collapsed into his lap.

Bard's rough hands grip your thighs, blunt nails digging into soft flesh as he maneuvered your legs around to give his head more space.

The other pair of hands, soft, delicate, Thranduil's, cupped your face, lifting it gently yet demanding, giving him the perfect view of your cute face, all scrunched up as you gasped and mewled, and your backside, ass arched into the air under Bard's commanding hands.

"Such a beautiful thing," Thranduil mused.

His fingers danced over your cheeks until he used another whine, another desperate moan when Bard alternated between open-mouthed, sloppy kisses and using the point of his tongue, to slip his thumb into your mouth.

As soon as he did, you closed your lips around him. Staring up at him, begging him silently for a release only Bard could give you, you started sucking on his finger as you would have done on his cock if not for the stars dancing in your field of vision.

Thranduil tutted, "So needy as well. Bard, if you were so kind as to stop, I can not stand seeing her this distraught. I think you are working her up far too much"

"Nooo! Please, please, I'm alright, I'm– please, so close," The desperate scream that came out of your mouth at his words was probably loud enough to alert the neighbors, followed by a cry and sob as Bard kissed your clit one last time.

"Of course, babe" The words were muffled, spoken directly into your dripping cunt.

Which he then shuffled away from, beard stubble scratching you, his fingers letting loose on your thighs.

"No, no please, please," you were already babbling, reaching behind you in a sad effort to force him back between your legs, "Please, I'll be good, please!"

"You sweet thing," Thranduils arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you up into a kiss, "I think–" his voice dropped deeper and you heard the rustle of plastic, felt Bard's hand rolling the condom over Thranduil's cock pressing into your stomach, "–you have behaved so well, you deserve a reward"

You nodded fast, legs spread wide apart sitting on his thighs and your cunt stretched open.

Staring into his eyes, you saw how much his pupils were dilated, how he only watched you, only saw you.

You could see and feel his chest lift as his cock slid through your folds, finding you drenched from all their playing around.

"Eyes stay on me"

Your pussy was wet enough for the tip of his cock to slip right into you and right away you wanted to shut your eyes at the sensation of him spearing you open.

"Please–," you gasped, and tried to move your hips to get more of him into you than just those few inches, but he didn't budge, didn't loosen his grip on your waist, "Please, Thranduil. Green, my color is green, fuck me, I can take it!"

"Yes, and if not," his voice was back to the self-controlled powerful tone, "I'll make you take it, sweetheart."

Thranduil let go of you the second he snapped his hips upwards and suddenly, you were split open.

You keened as his cock sunk into you in one fast, swift, hard movement. There was a burn, in your thighs as you flexed them, in your throat as you cried out, in your pussy at the intrusion of his long cock.

When Thranduil bottomed out, his head shoved against your cervix, the whole length forcing you to stretch, to make room, and fuck you wanted your pussy to be carved into the shape of that perfect cock.

It should've been uncomfortable, but you only groaned as you appreciated the second he gave you to relax while making room where they shouldn't be some.

"Fuck–" he moaned, "you are tight, so fucking tight"

Bard moved next to you, and you could only get one short look at his naked body, the brown hair coating his muscular chest, the happy trail leading down to his thick cock, before Thranduil began to fuck you.

His strokes were fast, hips snapping into you and nearly throwing you off his lap at the speed and brute force and you fell into his chest, clinging to his arms.

This, him rutting into you like your pussy could quench a year-long thirst at a punishing pace, this was surely the epitome of getting fucked. How he knew how to fuck you just right, hitting your g-spot with every single thrust was a riddle you couldn't and wouldn't want to solve; not with his cock penetrating you hard enough you swore you felt him in your throat as you called for him through moans.

You had no chance of even trying to meet his thrusts, not while he pounded into you like a madman.

"F-Fuck, good fucking girl– so tight," Thranduil groaned out his gritted teeth, his face turning a beautiful shade of rosé, "Even tighter than you, Bard–"

Bard, you totally forgot he was even there, laughed and moved on the bed again, slipping back behind you, "Yeah? Tell me more"

And you wanted to scream, to yell at them to stop talking in words that only added to the overstimulation, that spun around your head without meaning because how could anything have ever any meaning more important that Thranduil's cock fucking you a little further, a little deeper.

"So tight, s-so hot, clamping down on me like this sweet, fuck, pussy doesn't want me to leave"

"Mhm, I can see that," Bard hummed and his hands caressed your shaking thighs, before leaving his mark on your ass with a soft slap that had you wailing into Thranduil's shoulder.

It was too much and not enough at the same time.

You were going to lose your mind like this, fucked to near-unconsciousness.

"More, I–" your speech was slurred, brain scrambled into loose words hanging onto thin threads.

You tried to hold on to Thranduil but it was impossible with your sweat and the glitter covering him.

Luckily for you, Bard found the time to stop ever kindly toying with the pearl of your clit to lean forward.

"Put them inside his hair, Darlin'. He doesn't mind" There was a lopsided smirk on his face that you could barely see out of the corners of your eyes.

You still hadn't stopped looking at Thranduil.

The attempt to tentatively guide your hands to his head was prevailed by another particular hard thrust, and your fingers slid through blonde locks, grabbing onto them as you fell back down on Thranduil's cock.

You tugged on them much harsher than intended.

Thranduil's eyes blew wide.

You wanted to apologize when his lips quivered and his hips snapped into yours even faster.

Quickly you reached for him again, nails scraping his scalp as you readjusted, gripping more, much tighter.

"That's it, Darlin'.. that's my girl," Bard leaned back, and not shortly after his fingers were back on your clit, tapping intact of Thranduil's thrusts.

It was only a matter of seconds until the pleasure became too much.

Thranduil's hips fell into a stutter as your walls clenched around him; even for someone with his stamina the heat of you surrounding him, and your sweet moans drove him into a raging need to imprint the shape of his cock inside you.

"F-fuck.. Thran–" you whimpered, hands fisting his hair, trying to get a literal grip as reality started to shift around you.

Outside, close to the windows, there was a whistle as the first of many fireworks greet the New Year and just as Thranduil pushed you over the edge, your whole body shaking and tensing up as you screamed his name, the darkness of the sky exploded into an arrangement of thousands of colors.

The white fuzziness that enveloped your vision transformed into creeping darkness at the edges.

Your eyelids closed shut as you descended into blissful oblivion.

When you came back to yourself, it was to the murmur of deep voices mixed into the loud bangs of fireworks.

For a moment you had no idea where you were, enveloped in a haziness inside your mind, but the gentle nudge of something against your lips forced you to open your eyes.

There were two faces very close to yours, was the first realization.

Then, following up, you let out a giggle.

"Don't look so concerned, I'm fine," you greedily took a sip from the water bottle that the very flushed blonde held in his hands.

"You said it was possible you would cry, not bloody pass out on Thran's dick!" Bard wiped the drops you couldn't swallow away from the corner of your mouth with one hand and continued to rub your thighs with his others.

You hadn't noticed they were still shaking.

"Yeah, that never happened before," you shot a smirk up to Thranduil, "Never had a guy fuck me like this as well"

He snorted into the bottle of water, "Believe me, I never had someone lose their consciousness on me before as well. I came shortly after you and when I opened my eyes to find you completely out of it I nearly passed out on the spot as well"

"Would have been quite a shock for you," you said and let your head fall to the side to look at Bard, "both of us orgasm into fainting"

"Not funny, Darlin'," Bard warned, though he laughed as you stuck his tongue out at him.

Stretching your hands over your head and raking them into the air until your bones cracked, you sighed happily. Blissfulness was all you felt after cumming harder than you ever had.

For the first time, you could really enjoy the sight of both men in the nude, you hadn't had the chance to appreciate how fit Bard was while Thranduil had fucked you and you reached out to run your hands over his chest. Twirling some of the hair on there, traveling lower to scratch nails down his happy trail like a route description straight to his still-hard cock.

Stopping shortly before his pubic hair, you glanced up at him, a coy smile playing your lips. "You haven't cum yet." It was much a purr as it was an invitation, your legs falling open right when Bard's hand came to a still on your thighs.

He shook his head, chestnut hair swaying with the movement. "No, Darlin', no! You just passed out. I won't force myself on you. Thran can suck me off or I'll take care of it myself if you want to rest"

Your heart contracted in adoration for this man, and an embarrassing amount of slick gushed out of you.

"Bard," you said, voice wavering as you suppressed a whimper. Somehow this turned you on even more, "Bard, there is enough time to be this caring later but please–" Once again you were begging, and the man wasn't even inside of you yet, "please fuck me"

On the other side of you, Thranduil chuckled, "Insatiable, I knew it. Bard is right though, if you are not well, then he can fuck me"

Slowly but surely you were losing your patience.

As sweet as their concern was, the fact that these two gods were both sitting naked in front of you, one sweaty because he just knocked you out, and the other hard as steel and flushed, only aroused that much more.

Without saying anything else, you maneuvered yourself in the bed until you could rest your head on Thranduil's stretched legs and angled your legs in an invitation.

"Come on you stud. It's the new year after all"

The brunette scanned you with a piercing gaze, you could see him struggling with himself, but the twitch of his cock told you what he'd decided before he nodded.

"Thran, condom please"

You giggled again, excitement and the need to be catapulted to new heights spreading warmly in your stomach.

As Bard put the condom on, you wiggled around, your hand on the move to beat time, but Thranduil reached over you.

He caught your wrist before you reached your center, grasping it with his much larger hand and pulling your arm back with him enough that it forced your shoulders up, a "Tze, tze, tze" admonishing the behavior.

"Impatient brat, make up your mind!" he hissed and tugged some more until you whined, "Feel free to use those pathetic little fingers, knowing they will never fill you the way Bard could" Now that Thranduil knew you were on the same page, his voice dropped into that rebuking tone that left you whining and pouting.

He was so good, so fucking mean in the right amount you never knew you needed a man to act in bed.

"I just wanted–"

"I know baby," he cooed, and patted your cheek, "you just need your cunt to be filled, right? Just need to be stuffed full. Bard will do that for you, no need to worry your pretty head about it"

"That's right, Darlin'," Bard shuffled in between your legs, hooking them both over his thighs as he leaned over you. His cock landed on your abdomen, pressing against your pulsating clit, "Tell me what you want," he grabed himself, guiding it slowly toward where you leaked for him, completely drenched from the orgasms they had already given to you.

"I can go slow, or I can go fast"

You contemplated for a moment and lift the free hand to stroke over his handsome face. His beard tickled the inside of your palm, the chestnut waves silky as the sheets.

"Slow," you whispered, "I want you slow first"

"Alright," he gently nudged his nose against yours before capturing your lips in a kiss.

Although you were still sensitive, still pulsing and throbbing due to Thranduil (who caressed your face and your neck, having let to of your hand to arrange the pillows in his back for more comfort), you relished the stretch and sting of Bard as he guided his cock into you.

He was thicker than Thranduil, not by much but that inch made itself known, splitting you open heavenly so. You gasped into the kiss, giving up the fight of tongues to swallow back the drool that collected the further Bard pushed inside you.

It's just a little bit, one inch at a time, but you cried out all the same.

The thrum of excitement pulses, leaves you trembling and begging in incoherent moans and whimpers.

You could feel him throbbing inside you.

"Good girl," Thranduil's praise washed over you, chilled fingers tweaking one of your nipples as a reward for the exhausted smile you gifted him at that, "Has anyone ever told you that you make just the sweetest sounds? Give me one more?"

He twisted your other nipple; you moaned again.

"Fuck, Thran, you were so right," Bard grunted, his fingernails digging into where he held you by the waist, leaving crescent moon-shaped imprints that you hoped wouldn't fade for a while, "She's fuckin' tight; how are you still this tight?"

"For you," you fisted your hands into his hair again, hoping he enjoyed it just as much as his husband, "J-just for you, everything, ngh– for you"

With one last push, he sheated himself in you completely, filling you up just like Thranduil told you he would, stretching your walls thin.

You felt him everywhere, in every part of your body.

Every nerve, every tendon, every cell burns and was lit aflame, sizzling hot fire licking your skin and bursting when he dragged himself out, leaving barely the tip and pushed back in.

His cock nestled deep inside you, Bard stilled.

There was a silent vigilance in his mesmerizing green eyes. "Talk to me beautiful, is this alright?"

You nodded and pulled him down on his hair into another kiss. "Yes, god, yes"

That's all he needed to hear and while licking over your lips, entangling your tongue with his playfully, he set a slow rhythm. Nevertheless the tempo, he brushed that spot inside you with every stroke.

Pins and needles all over your skin, goosebumps wherever Thranduil's fingers wandered.

There were more fireworks, lightening up the bedroom filled with gasps and grunts, whispers of encouragement and begging. The sound of Bard's hips snapping into yours, the wet squelch of his cock driving itself inside of your pussy again and again.

"There we go," he murmured and positioned his arms on either side of you, using the balance it gives him to roll his hips instead of just thrusting. Mumbling between kisses, he talked against your lips: "Aren't you just the sweetest? Darlin', I couln' believe my eyes when I saw you in that club, shining far brighter than anyone else"

He swallowed your gasps with kisses, nipping at your lip then moved to your earlobe, "You are so perfect, letting us fuck you like this"

In one swift movement, he dragged Thranduil towards him, long blonde hair curling at the edges hanging into your vision in a starlight waterfall. Their kiss left you breathless and you would have felt left out if Thranduil didn't lean down further to you, kissing your lips upside down.

This time it was his fingers that found your slick, poor and abused clit. A couple of firm circles had your hips bucking up to meet Thranduil's fingers, crying out for both men in a mix of their names.

You whimpered as the next orgasm build up fucking fast, your breath catching in your throat.

"Bard," your hips moved on their own, trying to get him to fuck you faster, "Please– more, I need m-more,"

"Darlin'," Bards forehead pressed against yours, his grunts strained as if he was holding back himself but kept the same and steady pace you asked him for, "You sure?"

Grabbing his hair again, you weaved your fingers through it, tousling it haphazardly, achieving nothing but adding to its wild appearance.

When you met his gaze again, his eyes were fixed on you, it felt electric and charged, akin to lightning, causing you to momentarily forget to breathe.

"Yes"

He obeyed instantly, with the next thrust you screamed at the pure force of it. Bard wa spiraling the same way you were, becoming erratic as his teeth grazed over your collarbone, biting every mark they have left on you.

Raising your legs to keep him close, your ankles locked behind his back, heels digging into the tight muscles of his ass. The new angle allowed him to drive impossibly deep, reaching pleasure points inside you you didn't knew existed before him.

The pleasure was blinding, high electricity running through your veins and into every part of your body and soul. This was nothing you have ever experienced before, not with anyone and they made sure it would never feel like this with anyone ever.

Bard, feeling how your walls clenched around him, fluttering and pulsating, begging him to stay inside, sucked on your nipple, hard.

"I need you to come, fuck. Let me feel this pussy come, I'm right there with you," he rasped, voice like gravel, leaving you to scream for him, head knocking into Thranduil's legs, who dared to add to the crescendo of your pleasure and pressed down on your clit.

You found yourself gripping the bed covers, fingers twisting, in an attempt to anchor yourself, sobbing and shaking.

Instead, the coil inside you snapped.

Soaking Bard's cock choking and sobbing, tears spilling out of the corners of your eyes as every limp of you tensed up, he pushed you over the edge, his moans in your ear the most erotic thing.

You felt Bard following you, felt him spilling inside the condom, his cock twitching inside of you as he reached his peak moaning and burying himself to the deepest point, hips flushed close against yours, still rolling and shoving into you.

Moments of silence and heavy breathing followed. Of broken sobs, hushed murmurs of praise, even more affirmations.

Thranduil scootched closer to you, laying down next to you while Bard's weight on top of you was just what you needed. The heaviness of his much larger frame and Thranduil's long arms wrapped around you held back the cold that threatened to take a hold of you as the shivers of pleasure subsided.

"Gods," Bard exhaled, chest moving, pressing more into you. "That was something"

"Happy New Year" Thranduil rumbled.

Minutes passed, more fireworks exploded, celebrations of the New Year while you weren't even sure you even knew what time was anymore.

Bard tried to move, though your legs must have cramped for they felt disconnected to your body.

"Darlin'," he dropped another kiss to your neck, laughing low as your head lolled to the side.

"Mhm-mhm," you groaned, eyes still shut close, "Stay"

His lips moved to your ear, continuing to bathe you in soft kisses that leave you floating in that blissful headspace. "I know, I know–"

Thranduil's hands cupped your face, caressing your glowing cheeks and wiped away the loose tears that rolled over them. "Aftercare first, then cuddling," he whispered and cradled your head, massaging the spot in your neck that started to ache after Bard had folded you in half.

Despite knowing he was right, that you needed to use the bathroom, the warmth their bodies provided held you back.

You whined, arching your back into Bard's chest as he pried your legs away and slowly pulled himself out of you, stopping when your hips twitched at the overstimulation and only continued after a soothing kiss.

As soon as he left to stand up, tying up the used condom and going into the ensuite bathroom, Thranduil's steady hands on your back helped you sit up on the edge of the bed, where he wrapped the covers around your shoulders and gently tapped your nose, before scratching his nails over your head.

"You did very well, sweetheart," One finger tipped your chin up. "Thank you, you are a wonderful partner."

Thranduil, crouched to your level in front of you, still naked as the day he was born, simply picked you up. Legs folded over one arm, your head fell against his glittery chest that was covered in red streaks of where your nails had scratched him.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up"

The afterglow of the very much fantastic sex lulled all three of you in a comfort that blurred the barriers of you being a stranger in their home, laughter and giggles as the shower washed away sweat and glitter.

While there was a liveness to massaging soap into hair, hands rubbing away soreness and splashing water around until the mirror was all but fogged up and steam filled the entire bathroom, the exhaustion of the night caught up close after Thranduil dressed you in one of Bard's large sweaters.

Smelling like wood shavings, pine and toothpaste, hair still damp and eyes dropping close even though you tried to stay awake, Thranduil carried you to the bed.

The sheets were changed, encasing you in laundry detergent and brushing against your naked legs as you let yourself be placed on the pillows.

Outside, the world still celebrated and you did as well, in your own way.

There was a shuffle, a murmur of voices, then the bed dipped on either side as Bard climbed to your right side and Thranduil to your left, leaving not much room between all of you, legs entangling with each other, more giggling until everyone lied down comfortably.

Face tugged under Bard's chin, one arm of his reaching over your head so that Thranduil could nestle his face into it and the blonde wrapped around your back, you were surrounded by something you couldn't put into words.

"Maybe– maybe you can stay for breakfast and lunch," Bard's low words were murmured with a deep sigh, his other hand sliding down under his sweater, resting just below where your heart sung contenly.

"And dinner," Thranduil added and you heard him kiss Bard's hand.

"No talky-talky," you snuggled your face deeper into Bard, nose bumping into his neck, "But I would like that, very much"

Just as you fell asleep, held tightly by them both, you could hear them exchange quiet I love you's and you smiled, feeling their love seep deep into your bones.

[ppureheroiine]

kinktober #2

Strange Candy

kinktober day two | aphrodisiac | 18+, cw: intoxicated sex (all consensual), female reader. both of them hella sassy, book-ish!thran because no angst in my house. this is very silly, just like the author. don't eat funny mushrooms you find in the forest! | wc 3,7k | want more kinktober? click here |

“Strange indeed.” Said the King thoughtfully. The group of hunters who'd led him to the newfound development traded a long look. Crouching down, the King's majesty eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he studied the newfound addition to his great Elven forest. “And the beasts have returned seemingly unharmed, you say?”

“Yes, my Lord. The bears had retreated into a den and so did the foxes, emerging approximately three days afterwards. All seemed in good health and very hungry.” The Silvan hunter replied.

“Then these must be harmless.” Deduced the King, taking out a thin blade to poke at a dense cluster of brightly coloured fungus.

At least, he guessed it was a fungus. Upending one cluster, he found no roots. The flesh of the mushroom was white and fragrant, pleasantly earthy and rich, with subtle floral undertones that made his mouth water slightly. The smell intensified tenfold upon cutting the mushroom down the middle. The King brought it closer to his nose, carefully scenting for any bitterness or rot.

“My Lord...” A concerned Feren piped up from his spot behind the King.

You offered the Captain a glance full of genuine compassion, without a doubt considering his job to be the most complicated and tedious in the whole of Thranduil's kingdom. Minding Greenwood's fiery monarch was not for the faint-hearted.

“Surely you are not thinking of putting it in your mouth?” You added a dash of sarcasm into your question, equally concerned.

You were sassed right back, eyeroll audible. “It is a mushroom, where else would I put it?” Thranduil straightened up, holding the newfound addition to the flora of the forest impaled on his knife. As soon as his eyes zeroed on you, you gulped. Thranduil gave you a nasty little grin. “What is the worst that could happen? I have the best healers of my realm at my disposal.”

Feren's fingers twitched, a tell-tale sign of his withering self-restraint. You sighed and contemplated the best time to begin backing away.

Thranduil simply raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Worry not, the Kingdom has forgotten of your and Feren's...” Elegant pause, Feren's sigh. “Accident.”

“'twas no accident,” you said defensively. “You gave us your Ada's moonshine to see if it was still good. On purpose.”

Thranduil shrugged as the mushroom was evenly divided into two parts with the help of his knife. A perfect picture of innocence, he held up the treat in his palm, grey eyes sparkling.

“I am NOT doing it, my Lord!” Exploded Feren, and gave into his urge to take a step back. He, more than anyone, knew how insistent Thranduil could get. A seven-thousand year old elf giving huge puppy eyes! And it worked! The Captain shielded his own face with his palm. “Throw me in the dungeons for a fortnight, I care not!”

Contrary to your expectations, Thranduil simply rolled his eyes, and swiftly stuck one part of the colourful fungus in his mouth. Everyone gasped, including you, but the old Elvenking remained completely unbothered.

“Hm,” he blinked after a second. “That is not bad.”

Waves of impending doom washed over you with each contemplative movement of Thranduil's jaws. Looking first to the left, and then to the right, you found no immediate means exit of the situation. It was you, the resident human, and the tree behind you, which your King had no problem with crowding you against. Not that he moved or anything. He was just... Large. And very handsome. And spectacular at rounding his shiny, bottomless eyes with great purpose.

“We must know if this fungus is harmful to Edain,” he said, honey-sweet. You hated that he was right. “According to hunters, there is an abundance of it, and, knowing how curious you Edain are...”

“Ugh!” You shook your head. “Just give me the mushroom. If I die, I will haunt your halls for all eternity.” Obediently and with no small worry, you snatched the piece and stuck it in your mouth, chewing quickly, not even taking note of the taste.

Thranduil's last experiment that involved you and Feren still fresh on your mind, you turned back towards the Halls before you'd even finished chewing. You'd rather be in the privacy of your rooms least intoxication has you do something embarrassing... Again. Thankfully, the King conceded, and after giving the hunters a command to gather more of this mystery fungus, the party set out back home.

It was Feren's turn to offer you fleeting looks of compassion. You quietly smiled back, not feeling anything out of sorts. The ride back was pleasantly uneventful. Not a creature was stirring: even the ever-present spiders were absent in their bothersome scuttling.

Too smug for his own good, Thranduil entered his halls with a spring in his step. “The haunting of halls of Greenwood has been postponed indefinitely, I see,” he said in passing as he shrugged off his outer travel robes. A maid immediately offered him a silver robe of heavy satin which he politely declined. “Nay. The discovery has warmed me plenty.”

You noticed that yes, the weather has turned rather warm indeed and bowed before departing back to your daily business. Mid-way through your chores, a thin, translucent sheen of sweat glistened on your brow as you silently cursed the Vala responsible for such unusually pleasant weather. The Halls had already began to prepare for a long winter with covering unnecessary exits and patching up drafty areas.

What wouldn't you give for a gulp of fresh, cold air! Chores forgotten, you hurried to the nearest balcony. There was one not frequently visited by Elves as it was hidden behind a clever alcove; stepping aside and squeezing through the narrow opening, you sighed happily and deeply as your clammy skin finally felt crisp late night air.

Your shoulders dropped as you exhaled, finally shaking off some of that uncomfortable heat. A tranquil scene of swaying treetops and budding stars over a darkening sky emphasized the calamity of your solitude.

“Hm.”

“My Lord,” you greeted without turning, familiar with the timbre of voice and soft swishing of expensive fabric coming from behind you.

Thranduil's profile appeared within your field of view as he posted up next to you and demurely placed a hand over the stone railing of the balcony. “I was unaware someone had found the secret entrance to my private balcony.”

“Oh,” you froze. “I apologize... I was simply...”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “I take no offense. Indeed, it was quite clever. Even keen Elven eyes miss the opening behind the alcove.” Sans outer robe and clad in a simple but rich ensemble of sateen shirt and velvet breeches, it became evident you'd caught the King in a private moment of relaxation. His brow, usually tinted with concern with kingdom, was pleasantly warm.

You swallowed, looking away. He was a beauty even among his own kin, and like this - relaxed and comfortable - bordered on irresistible. A flash of heat spread through your body at the realisation. It took no small effort to squash these thoughts and steer them towards some semblance of propriety.

“The Valar have blessed us with good weather this autumn, my Lord. I was doing my chores and nearly felt faint from the heat.” You said, noticing Thranduil's eyebrows rise. “And the construction of your halls is incredible! Not a single drafty corner.”

“Heated, you say?” He interrupted suddenly, turning to face you fully. Etiquette (whenever you remembered it) dictated you should, too, and you two faced each other. Thranduil radiated curiosity, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and the warmth crawling down the neckline of your clothes. “Strange.”

“What is, my Lord?”

“I have said the same thing to Galion but he gave me a very pointed look and gestured towards Lady Anariel, who had been complaining to her maid about not lighting a fire in a timely manner.”

You frowned, too. The Lady Anariel was as Northern as Elves come and was fairly tolerant of wintery weather. When others wore furs, she got by with an outer dress of wool and, perhaps, a pair of gloves.

“Do you feel... Strange, my Lord?” You had a slight suspicion. Just a teeny-tiny one, that boiled down to those Eru-forsaken mushrooms.

In response you received an impish sort of shrug. “Not necessarily so. Do you?”

Your face blanched. Aside from suddenly finding him irresistible and feeling a little hot under the collar, nothing was amiss. But the longer you lingered on those two thoughts, the stronger they became. It was as if you were an adolescent again: barely any impulse control and all feeling.

‘twas a delicate situation. You could speak to a healer, of course, or let the strange circumstance run it's course. If it even could do that. Thoughts growing jumbled by the second, you said the only clear thing on your mind.

“Those cursed mushrooms.”

Thranduil was unperturbed. “I do not believe they are cursed. Potent, yes, but not cursed.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “... You too?”

He sighed. “I came out here in hopes of clearing my head from this fog of lust.” As you prepared to mutter- what, exactly? Apologies? - Thranduil's finger reached out for tour face to trace the curve of your jaw. “And in the process I found something much more exciting.”

Your bottom lip trembled. Such a simple gesture felt heavenly. Wherever his skin came in contact with yours, the heaviness receded briefly. Your breath caught in your chest as your heart picked up a hare's pace.

“Am I being propositioned?” You wished to say to yourself but in the fog, managed to sputter out loud.

“We could help each other out...” The King, unfurled to his full height and radiating heat equal to that you felt on the inside, grinned a crooked grin. It sat youthfully on his timeless features, just the right amount of flirtatious and reassuring.

You pretended to think about it. No, you really did, out of concern for your dignity. Throwing yourself onto the King was simply uncouth. Such was your next course of action, but the necessary amount of time had passed and the need, having been brought to the forefront or your mind, took hold of your sense. Slowly, you leaned into the touch and brought your hands to Thranduil's forearm, tilting his fingers to your mouth. Hot breath caused them to twitch.

“Does this answer your question?” You tilted your head, lips brushing against the multitude of rings he wore on his persona. It was most exhilarating to see his pupils widen and his mouth tremble.

Adam's apple bobbing, Thranduil swallowed. “No.” And smirked, the stunning bastard. “I need a clear, straightforward statement.”

You sighed, feigning annoyance. “I enthusiastically consent to having uncouth, untoward and potentially nasty things being done to my body by my Lord and King...”

You did not even get to finish. In a flash, Thranduil's hands had encircled your face and he bent himself over you, pushing your body into the balcony as he devoured your mouth with his. There was no grace and no finesse; something heavy and hard poking your stomach showed you just how much self-control your King had.

Seconds ago, you'd been having a perfectly normal conversation and now you found yourself airborne, having been unceremoniously picked up by the tall Elf and carried towards his chambers like the most coveted spoil of war while he devoured your mouth. You hummed into the kiss and responded with a groan, tearing the back lacing of your clothes clean off.

Your back connected with the mattress of his bed. Blinking at the rapid change of pace and scenery, you moaned out in frustration regarding your ruined clothes.

“I will commission more for you,” he said carelessly, throwing his own shirt Mordor knows where. His bare chest, chiseled with lithe muscle and pale as fresh milk, captivated your attention.

Previously having contended yourself with the occasional glance at the tiny window of bare skin where the sides of his robes met, you used your newfound opportunity to drink yourself full of Thranduil's fair skin. It felt as soft as it looked when he laid upon you, the weight of his body offering a delicious momentary reprieve from the tension building up in your muscles. Gossamer hair shielded you from the outside world as he leaned in towards your mouth again, this time capturing yours in a sensual dance of tongue and teeth.

A nimble hand took care of your bottoms, sliding inside your underwear as slick and cunning as a snake, to cup your mound. Thranduil groaned into the kiss, finding you soaked and willing, fingering the cleft of your lower lips with practiced gentle moves. The tenderness of it drove you crazy. Your need flared as a wall of standstill fire and you were surprised you did hadn't noticed it earlier. If the pulse in your cunt was anything to go by, you would come undone the very moment your King would finally allow you to feel full.

He was fairly content with sucking your soul out through your mouth and mapping the fat outer lips of your cunt. Never quite breaching and wholly avoiding your throbbing pearl, Thranduil simply basked in the amount of sticky juice your cunt was capable of producing.

The first loud moan of the night broke free if your lips and it was one of frustration.

Thranduil smiled into the kiss, your teeth clashing together. “What is it, mm?” He queried in-between wet pecks.

“I want to come.” You whined.

He chuckled. “And what's in it for me?”

Thankfully, your eyes were closed and he did not see your eyeroll. “You'll get to come, too?” Cringing at how lame it sounded, you were nonetheless powerless beneath him and overwhelmed from your desire.

“I prefer to play with my food.” He grinned a predator's smile, all shiny teeth and lidded eyes, but tugged down on your bottoms nonetheless. “Try harder.”

That became difficult as you were now bare; shivering in your King's arms, you cracked open a hazy eye to see him settle himself closer to your dripping center. It captivated him. Sliding two fingers along your lips, your eyes closed and head fell back as every nerve in your body came alight. Rewarded by a long moan, Thranduil gathered ample amount of moisture on his fingers and brushed over your quivering entrance.

Your back arched as he plunged them deeply within your aching cunt. The sticky noise it made was positively scandalous.

“I will-ah! forgive you for gathering the entire -ahh! King's guard to look at Feren and I!” You managed to form a quasi-coherent sentence through the moans and gasps spilling from your lips and were rather proud of yourself for it.

Thranduil's laugh echoed in the room as it did in his chest, a pleasant rumble vibrating through your core. “Whether Galion forgives you two for barking at him remains to be seen.”

Genuine amusement briefly overshadowed your shame at the situation of the past and at your own current neediness. The combination of emotion startled a laugh out of you, causing your core to clench around Thranduil's fingers and coat them in your wetness. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed your inner walls, reveling in the resulting moan. It did nothing to bring you closer to the peak.

“Sadist!” You accused and attempted to grind down on his hand, fisting the crumpled sheets.

“Slander!” He punctuated the rebuttal with an expert curl of his fingers. You arched. He smirked. “You should learn patience.”

There was no strength in your mind to formulate another witty comeback. Sensation, low and insistent, built up in the pit of your belly, an ache so sweet and tender you were sure it would be any second that you'd burst with it. Every pore on your skin open and receptive to touch, even the slide of silk sheets as your body bent with pleasure was overwhelming. You panted wetly through parted lips as a third finger joined in, the stretch of it making your eyes roll back into your head.

Thranduil would kill you. You were sure of it now. He would end you with a blinding smile and clever fingers never ceasing to move within you, the movement just shy of where you needed him most.

“Mercy!” You moaned. “Mercy, my King!”

You should have known his idea of it would be no less torturous than the ‘kindness’ that led you to your current place writhing atop his bed. Slowly, his tongue traced a path around your outer lips before dipping inside; it was hot and wet, like a summer storm, when it connected with your engorged clit and flicked it from root to tip. Electric feel of sensation pierced your body in a lightning bolt as your leg muscles seized. The King gave a pleased rumble and went for seconds and thirds, effortlessly holding your thighs open with one strong, long arm, palm digging into the soft meat.

Even the pain of it echoed with pleasure.

While the need within your loins kept steadily climbing with no end in sight, your King treated himself to a leisurely late night snack. His tongue delved in and out of your cunt, lapping up the waterfall of arousal. You would have been mortified, really, for the mess had you glued stuck to his face, your hips attempting to follow his mouth in circles.

Coupled with the digits slowly but surely stretching the entrance to your channel, brushing over the sensitive fornix, you knew the night would be long. Dark, but not cold. Hazy.

“Ngh!” You articulated through gritted teeth, feeling him pull away from a particularly sensitive spot in favour of sucking a bruise onto your inner thigh. Thranduil followed a path only he himself knew, marking your flesh with pulling, precise bites that left discoloured spot damp with spit. They pleasantly ached.

Over your stomach and at the underside of your bottom rib. The sides and bottoms of your breasts, all the way up at the root of your nipples. He took each one in into his mouth, suckling on it like a hungry babe, before releasing them with a wet pop just blow a gentle breath onto the pebbled nubs. Through parted lashes, you watched him, aptly fascinated by the lack of colour in his eyes, pupils blown wide and deep with lust.

You tasted your cunt on his tongue as he made way back up. Risking a glance downward, you saw Thranduil's cock hard, flushed and heavy, hanging out of his breeches. He hadn't bothered with removing them and that single detail had you nearly undone. How the King himself could not wait to he inside of you!

An understanding of his previous games had come too, for he was rather proportional everywhere. Just the slide of his weeping tip against your bruised thigh invoked a shudder in you, back arching. You presented yourself to your best ability, eyes shining with pleading as he rested his forehead against yours.

Thranduil held himself above you, weight on his elbows, as his cock nosed at your sopping entrance. Immediately, it tried to suck him in, coaxing his lips to bend into a smirk. Such proximity was putting your sensibility directly into negatives. With a wild look mirrored in his own darkened pupils, you petulantly stuck out your bottom lip and panted with all the sarcasm that you could muster:

“we'll get to the good part... About tomorrow?” You wished to add more, something about him being old, but that remark and many more drowned in the absolute extasy flooding your body as he slid into your cunt in one single smooth stroke. “Aah...” Left your lips instead, and with it, any remaining oxygen departed from your lungs as well.

“Mouthy,” Thranduil remarked, sounding unfairly put together for someone who's mouth was as slippery as wet stone and cheeks brighter than a ripe beetroot.

You forgave him then and there. In awe, you watched him give you another one of his impish grins and nudge at that spot deeply within you. And he did it all over again, plush mouth releasing the sweetest, quietest of moans as he did so. Time got lost in the tug of war tour cunt played with his cock; like this, your release was imminent and fast approaching.

You grabbed Thranduil's arms, rubbed his shoulders as your legs wound up around his narrow waist while he contentedly and systematically unraveled you apart with rapid, smooth snaps of his hips. For a while, there was nothing in the room but the two of you and the lewd noises of damp skin slapping against skin. Clutching harder, you felt yourself tighten around his girth. Each measured stroke abused your engorged clit, heavy sac adding extra sensation on your perineum.

A low, feral groan joined the thrilling cacophony of sex. Thranduil fucked you through your first orgasm with gritted teeth, barely slowing with the new resistance of your cunt attempting to milk him for his worth. Hair hanging over your faces like a curtain, he claimed your lips in a searing kiss as you whimpered with overstimulation. Evenly, his thrusts became shallow, grinding.

Having become a acquainted with your bearings somewhat, you made a confused noise. The King just grinned. His palm connected firmly with the side of your hip as you squealed. He withdrew.

“Present yourself to your King.” He ordered, both smug and slightly breathless, helping you along onto all fours.

You chuffed into the damp bedding and obeyed, arching your back at a sinful curve. Within seconds, you were once again blissfully full.

a/n: I am way too horny of a person to write anything LACE compliant. Or is that my commitment issues talking? Anyway, ELVES FUCK SEVERELY! At least this October. mwah 💋

I once ate like 12 grams of cubensis and was a cat for 3 hours, so Feren barking at Galion with the help of some 3k+ year old mushroom infused moonshine isn't that far-fetched.

[ppureheroiine]

Eternally Missed, Bilbo Baggins

Song link

Fanfic, fem! reader

Fluff, mutual pining/oblivious reader

Word count: 3295

Tw: Not proofread. Race not specified, but could be implied as dwarvish. Self-degrading thoughts, mutual pining. Will they, won’t they. Slight angst. Misinterpreted feelings and actions. Oblivious reader, oops. That’s it?

Summary: Ever since laying eyes on your first, Bilbo knew it was you who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He tries to make this clear incredibly quick, fully aware of how little time he may have. But you were as oblivious as they came, and dismissed his proposals as platonic gestures. Until finally, he snaps, and just decides to tell you.

Buy me a coffee/force me to write more

“Chase your dreams away.

Glass needles in the hay.”

Throughout the journey, you could only be described as truly oblivious. Maybe not in your eyes, but definitely in those of the company. Their beloved burglar had fallen absolutely head over heels with you, yet there was something within you that simply seemed to not acknowledge it.

In hindsight, you might have seen it, or might have had a slight idea of what was happening, but the last thing you wanted to do was to get your hopes up. Thus, it was mere matter of a polite smile and dismissal without making it sound like a dismissal. You didn’t want to let him down, even though you had no idea of his true intentions.

You see, during the entire time of your travel to Erebor, Bilbo has tried to make it abundandly clear how fond he is of you. But between the running from imminent death, enemies luring around every corner and getting imprisoned every once in a while, the moments were never opportune enough. It didn’t mean that he didn’t try, but clearly, the ambiance was wrong. If he ever wanted to court someone, he’d propose it in his garden, under the clear nightsky of Hobbiton with a warm breeze in the air. Not after recovering for breath after having to run for thirty whole minutes, or in the dirty atmosphere of the Goblin caves. But fate did not seem to be on his side whatsoever. But he was nothing if not adamant.

“The sun forgives the clouds.

You are my holy shroud.”

The first time wanted to make his intentions clear during your stay in Rivendell. The dwarves had been bathing when he approached you, doubt and anxiety apparent in his features - but then again, when wasn’t it?

He had sat down next to you on one of the balconies, talking about anything but the mountain and the now known presence of the orcs. He had spoken about his home in the Shire fondly, recounting many tales of friends and neighbours. It was a nice distraction after the adrenaline of the travel had worn off.

In turn, you had spoken about your home and those waiting for you. He remembered the hesitance in his voice when he asked you about a suitor. You hadn’t even properly answered him at that to begin with. At first, you began to laugh, and talked about your parents. He thought you were mocking him, even though that was extremely unlinke you. But when you continued to rant and talk, it appeared to him that you had no idea what he was actually asking you. And he didn’t have it in him to correct you or to properly ask you. Perhaps it was a bit too early. You just met a handful of days ago.

Fortunately, he did not leave it at that.

“I just don't care if it's real.

That won't change how it feels.”

The second time he tried was when the group was making their way out of Rivendell. He had gotten some good rest and found himself comfortable enough to bring the conversation back up.

But you were distracted. He couldn’t tell back then, but he certainly could now. The talk with Bilbo had left you somewhat homesick. The comfort of Rivendell was almost begging for you to stay. You wanted to help the dwarves - more than anything, but you understood the comfort hobbits sought in their own homes.

You had given him brief, one-worded answers, your gaze absent. It had broken his heart that day. If you weren’t making your disinterest clear the day before, you certainly had then. It caused him to be silent for the rest of the travels until you crossed the mountains. Much to his relief, you stayed close to him, and didn’t part during the fight of the giants, but the new hit of adrenaline caused him to cling to you the entire time, a mutual action. Neither of you had realized how close the two of you were until you were roughly separated after a rough boulder collided between the two of you.

“I just don't care if it's real.

That won't change how it feels.

No, it doesn't change.”

That night in the cave you kept circling Bilbo. He had almost fallen from the cliff if it hadn’t been for Thorin. And the idea made you inexplicably sick. You liked Thorin, even as he had been harsh from the start, but the fact that you weren’t able to dangle off the cliff to save Bilbo had left you feeling somewhat powerless. And the only comfort you could offer the hobbit was your company and your tales.

It had caused his hopes to resurface again. Of everyone out there, you wanted to sit with him, and talk with him. Perhaps your absent answers were simply because you were tired, or too focused.

He didn’t know how to bring the topic back up, though. It had caused an awkward silence after you finished your talk. He still couldn’t quite tell if he was grateful for the floor to - literally - fall through or not.

“And you can't resist

Making me feel eternally missed.”

The first time he swore he could have kissed you, was after Azog’s confrontation with Thorin. The battle had left the king defenseless, and you had rushed to his aid. At your actions, Bilbo blindly followed, making sure his eyes were on you constantly. The eagles had come just in time to sweep you off to safety, but the entire flight had left him nauseous. If it wasn’t for Gandalf, both you and Thorin would have lain on that floor, completely lifeless. To make matters even worse, you had landed on a different eagle. So, Bilbo had no choice but to simply sit there with a heavy feeling in his stomach until he could finally stand again.

And when he did, he rushed towards you. This could have been his moment. He could have swung his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him, his lips finally touching yours in a manner he was only able to dream off, but when you stood a few inches from him, something in him had told him to stop.

In that moment, you swore he was going to kiss you. Instead, he gave you an uncomfortable hug, followed by two brief pats on the back. He had turned around immediatelym refusing to let you see his reddening face, leaving you with a slight frown. If he was going to kiss you, you might have just let it happen.

“And you can't resist.

And you can't resist.

Making me feel.”

The rest of the journey had been awful for him. In his mind, that awkward reunion kept lingering. His chance had been right there and he refused to take it for whatever reason. And to top it all of; you seemed to grow more distant from him, and it hurt him deeply. It bothered him so much, that eventually, the company began catching on. Fili was the first one to notice, and had given him a good talk about courtship and whatnot. It was all in good nature, but it had left Bilbo with more details than he might have wanted.

But simple hints in conversation seemed to not do the trick. And maybe dwarven courting ideals weren’t the best, but they were certainly worth the try. When he made his first move according to Fili’s advice, more dwarves began to catch on.

“Chase your dreams away.

Glass needles in the hay.”

He had taken his sweet time hunting down anything he could find. Food, especially for you, to prove that - in Fili’s words - he could provide. But when he had a chance of slaying a rabbit, he didn’t have it in him. Instead, he came back with fresh mushroom, some non-poisonous berries and leaves that would make an excellent soup. It wasn’t hunting, but it still gave him the idea that - yes; he could provide.

You didn’t think much of. You find it nice, and thanked him fondly for it. Yet, there were others in the company that might have been hungry, so you gave it to Bombur, so he could use it in his meal for the group. Bilbo had told you this was okay, but he couldn’t help but feel slight heartbreak when you asked him.

He wasn’t being clear enough. Stupidly enough, he seemed to take comfort in Fili’s words, so he had returned to him that same night, telling the dwarf about what had happened. He agreed that you might just need some bolder insinuations. So, it was time for the next part.

“The sun forgives the clouds.

You are my holy shroud.”

It was at Beorn’s house when he approached you with a small wooden sculpture he made. It couldn’t have been bigger than your palm. It was sloppy and crude, and nowhere near the excellent craft of the dwarves, but Fili assured him that it wouldn’t matter if the feelings and intentions were true. He had tried to create the birds you mentioned in your tales about home. You would speak about them fondly when he asked how your place was.

Again, you accepted the gift with much glee, thanking him an endless amount of times. A warm hug was shared - one that would remain in Bilbo’s mind for a long time. It was soothing, unlike the uncomfortable embrace shared upon the rock. This was heartfelt, and genuine. He remembered thinking that this was it; you had accepted.

But, you stuffed it in your pocket, promising to keep it close, before showing it off to the rest of the company. And that was it. No other words mentioned to him, or even slight hints that you were catching on. You seemed to remain oblivious. Now, Bilbo truly couldn’t tell whether this was because you simply had no idea what was happening, or if this was your way of letting him know you weren’t interested.

“I just don't care if it's real.

That won't change how it feels.”

There were so many more times where he tried to make his feelings clear. Countless conversations were held, more gifts were shared, he fought at your side, he would continue to bring you food, even if it was to be shared with the company. And you didn’t seem to catch on to anything.

What Bilbo hadn’t known was the true moment of the defeat you held whilst imprisoned by the woodland elves. Bilbo hadn’t known how you had been sitting against the wall in your cell, your knees up to your chest. He didn’t hear your own degrading words circling around in your mind about how you were just making things up. About how someone as sincere and kind as Bilbo could never show true interest in someone like you. How you had cursed yourself to stop thinking every gift he gave you, was to show you he wanted to court you - even though you were right to think those things.

The dwarves didn’t dare to speak about it. They didn’t know your words, but they knew your looks. They wouldn’t intervene. They knew how precious and fragily courtship was; one wrong word and it could cause huge grief on either side. Women were most treaured in their culture, and they’d rather die than see your heart break into a million pieces if Fili were to slip up or Ori would say something out of their norms.

They didn’t dare to let Bilbo know how helplessly you had told them that Bilbo wouldn’t come for them. That he was off to safety - as you had wished.

“I just don't care if it's real.

That won't change how it feels.

No, it doesn't change.”

It wasn’t until Smaug had finally been slain that Bilbo decided enough was enough. It wasn’t until Thorin had gone completely mad, that he decided that now would be the excellent time to share yet another one of your precious conversations.

Somewhere in the treasure chamber, you had collapsed behind a huge golden pile. Here, Thorin couldn’t see you. A brief break would surely escape his eyes.

You had shot up at the sound of footsteps, pretending to be searching through the endless piles of jewels. You were tired; your muscles were aching, your head was pounding from the golden light, you were starving and you felt as if you were going to fall asleep if you were to lie down again.

When you noticed Bilbo’s form approaching on top of the mountain you were working on, you uttered a sigh of relief, collapsing once again, knowing he wouldn’t dare to alert Thorin of your short break.

“And you can't resist

Making me feel eternally missed.”

“There you are,” He spoke, not needing to lower his volume, as the clattering of gold bounced off the walls, drowning out enough noise. You looked up at him with a kind smile: “Not much else to go to.” He frowned, sitting down beside you as he studied your features.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” You sighed, rolling your shoulders. “I’m exhausted.” “I can tell.” He muttered, worried evident in his eyes, a glimpse you caught. “Sorry.” “No, it’s fine.” You dismissed, knowing he had no ill intentions. Silence fell over the two of you, though this one wasn’t uncomfortable. In the weirdest location, it brough some sense of peace.

Bilbo fished into his pockets, placing a piece of bread and a small flask on your lap. “I brought you this.” Your heart warmed at the sight, a feather-light feeling entering your chest: “Thank you,” “I couldn’t sneak a full plate in. Thorin would notice.” “This is fine, Bilbo,” You assured, immediately starting your small meal. ”Thank you.”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“You can't resist.

You can't resist.

Making me feel.”

He didn’t quite know what to do when you were eating. He came here with the intention of being honest with you. No turning around anything, no sugar-coating, just the proposal. If it was to be brief and boring, than so be it.

But, once more, something held him back. It didn’t seem right. He was going to run off this night for the Arkenstone, so if you rejected him, he wouldn’t really have to face you afterwards. But a hurtful rejection followed by betrayal might not have been the smartest move either. He was too much in his head when the words suddenly flew out, even surprising him: “Do you like me?”

You stopped chewing at the words, swallowing harshly as you looked at him, confusion in your eyes as your eyebrows furrowed together: “Beg your pardon?”

“You can't resist

Making me feel eternally missed.”

Bilbo recovered quickly, coughing slightly as he tried to defend himself. “It’s just that, throughout the journey, you keep creating distance between us. And we were so close at the beginning.” You nodded your head at that, cursing yourself silently for giving him the completely wrong idea. “Yes,” You hissed. “I do like you, Bilbo. And I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression.”

A huge weight lifted off his shoulders at your words, his chest suddenly feeling a lot less restricting than it suddenly had.

“You can't resist.

You can't resist

Making me feel.”

He watched your hands wander to your pockets, pulling out a familiar pebble as you anxiously toyed with it. Bilbo had given it to you after your escape from Mirkwood. You seemed to not be there completely, so he gave you a rock from the river so you had something to fidget with while Balin talked to Bard. He hadn’t known how much it actually soothed you, if only for the simple though of it.

“You kept that?” He asked curiously. “Of course I did,” You smiled, taking the pebble out of your pocket and laying it in the palm of your hand. “It was a gift. What did you think I would do with it?” “I don’t know.” The hobbit spoke honestly. “I’ve never seen them after I handed them to you.”

You breathed an ‘ah’ of understanding, before storing it back in your coat. “I kept them in my bag. Most of it has been stolen by the elves now, but some things still remain. You didn’t think I’d get rid of them, right?” When he didn’t answer to that, your hands found his, unconsciously sending goosebumps up his arm: “I would never. Not voluntarily.”

“Thank you.” He muttered.

“And you can't resist

Making me feel eternally missed.”

“Bilbo,” You began, retreating your hands as you thought over all that he had done for you. You might have been oblivious, but you weren’t stupid: “I do not wish to give you any unwanted impression of anything, but…” You trailed off, holding your breath as a bad kind of butterflies entered your stomach. “You have given me many things and kept me safe a numerous amount of times, and my gratitude exceeds my words, but…”

You didn’t know what to tell him. You didn’t know how. And there was no way to bring it lightly. Thus, with a hard swallow, you threw it out. “You do know that your actions look an awful lot like dwarven courting customs? I am pretty sure the company is convinced I am your spouse.”

His breath hitched at that. He came here to tell you, and now you were starting his conversation. What was he going to tell you? Honesty seemed so difficult now, but there was something in your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Some faint glance of recognition. And it gave him confidence: “They are.” He breathed, before quickly correcting himself. “Courting customs. Fili taught me.” “Oh,” “Yes,”

A second silence laid heavily, and neither of you really knew what to say to the other. So, per usual, Bilbo took the lead after a handful of hesitant seconds. “Um, but I’ve probably gotten the wrong hints from you so-”

“No,” You denied. “No, no, no. It’s simply that…This was intentional?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,”

“And you can't resist

Making me feel eternally missed.”

“But I understand if the feelings aren’t returned.” Bilbo added, already standing up from his seat. He was about to leave when your voice forced him to turn around: “Why me?” He couldn’t help but let a quiet scoff of confusion out. “I’m sorry?” “Of all the people out there, why me?”

Why you? He really couldn’t tell. He hadn’t met anyone in the Shire, and the way his life would have gone if it hadn’t been for Gandalf showing up, he might have never found anyone. Why you? He didn’t know. And he was honest to voice it: “I just know.”

“Oh,” You repeated, the sound coming out more as a breath than a pronounced word. “I am sorry. I wasn’t blind, though I doubt that will make you feel better.” You admitted. “I didn’t want to imagine things that weren’t there.” You didn’t see the way Bilbo’s face softened at that, or the way his heart fluttered when you finally spoke those words. “Thought I would save myself the heartbreak.” “You didn’t have to.” He sighed. Once more, he prepared to leave. And once more, he was interrupted by you.

“Bilbo?” “Hm?” He hummed as he turned around, a faint glimpse of hope in his heart. It only grew as you asked him your next question: “Once we get out of this, where will we go?” A bright smile came from his face as his breath hitched significantly. “Home, I suppose.”

You copied his smile, nodding your head at him.

“I’d like that.”

“And you can't resist.

And you can't resist

Making me feel.”

[ppureheroiine]

unexpected loyalties

Bilbo Baggins x fem!dwarf!reader (no beard)

a/n: based off the movie, not the books, just to clear that up if there is any book inconsistencies. First time writing for this fandom, and posting on this blog, let me know if I got anything wildly incorrect

Summary: Neither of you ever expected to like each other, let alone anything more. But you find yourself drawn to one another, despite the boundaries between you.

Another knock, he wasn’t sure he could handle many more visitors. Four dwarves were enough for him to want to run out of his home screaming. He tightened the ties of his robe, took a deep breath, and quietly prepared himself to turn down whoever waited outside his door. 

Yet, when it swung open his chest deflated and he found himself completely underwhelmed. He should be thankful that his doorstep was empty and that there were no more unwelcome guests to turn away. But he found himself incredibly confused. “Hm,” he pokes his head out slightly, looking around for stragglers. “Hello?” He calls out hesitantly. 

He jumps back as a woman leaps out of his rose bushes. “Oh!” You smile widely at him, shoving your hand out for a strong handshake. “Sorry about that, I thought I had the wrong hobbit.”

He gives your hand a brief shake, never one to forgo his manners. “I believe you do. In fact, you all do.”

Your face screws up in distaste and you look so forlorn he almost feels bad. Almost. “You are Mr. Bobbins aren’t you?”

He shakes his head with a scoff, “I am most certainly not. My name is Bilbo Baggins-”

You interrupt him with a relieved laugh. “Oh, apologies, then you are the hobbit I’m looking for. I’m afraid my cousin’s handwriting is nearly impossible to read. So the meeting is here, then?” You look at him expectantly, eyes wide and eager. 

Bilbo has to suppress the urge to stomp his foot and slam the door. He’s too old to be behaving like a child, but bebother and confusticate these dwarves he can take no more visitors! “There is no meeting here!” He snaps, nearly shouting in your face. 

Your brows furrow and you shake your head stubbornly. “They cannot have canceled it.” You seemed nearly as stubborn as him. You plant your feet, crossing your arms and glaring at him. “I would have been informed.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to inform you that no, nothing has been canceled because nothing has been scheduled. At least nothing he has been informed of. He knows this is all that blasted wizard’s fault. If only he’d stuck to his fireworks and simply left Bilbo alone, he would be having the peaceful evening he’d wished for. 

You narrow your eyes suspiciously, peering over his shoulder as something that sounds very old and sentimental breaks behind him. “Sorry about that!” A voice calls from his kitchen. Bilbo clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath, and leans so you can’t see further into his home. 

“I do believe that was Balin’s voice,” you tell him, your voice low with an unspoken threat. “Mr. Bobbins-”

“Baggins.”

“Mr. Baggins,” you correct, “are my kin in there?” 

He shrugs, playing dumb and giving you a confused look. “And who,” he draws slowly, “would your kin be?”

You let out a heavy sigh. He doesn’t have any time to stop you as you nudge him to the side and shove your way into his home. “Thank you for the hospitality,” you mutter sarcastically. Your face lights up as you catch sight of an unruly blonde head of hair. “Fili! Kili!”

They call your name in return, rushing over to greet you. “Any trouble on the journey?” Kili asks as he takes your sword from you. He absentmindedly tosses it towards Bilbo who has to rush to catch it before it breaks something. 

“None at all, you know I’m a lot better at subtlety than the two of you are,” you tease. 

Bilbo’s eyes narrow as he takes you and the other dwarves in. You said your cousin sent you a letter. There was no possible way you could be their cousin. You didn’t look like any dwarf he had ever seen. Not that he had seen many, of course. There wasn’t enough gold or adventure in Hobbiton to bring many through. 

But he had heard the stories of dwarven women. How they were a dying breed, far more men than there were women. He also knew that it was incredibly hard to tell a wife apart from her husband, mainly because of the great big beards. 

You were taller than the others, far less hair, and simply not what he thinks when he pictures a dwarvish woman. “I see you met our host,” Fili nods towards Bilbo whose arms are now absolutely overloaded with the ridiculous amount of weapons you carry. Fili is clearly suppressing a slight smirk as he looks upon Bilbo. It’s hard not to feel a little offended. 

You turn back to Bilbo and frown, “Not a very welcoming host, these hobbits, are they?” Kili shakes his head, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and dragging you back towards the kitchen. 

Bilbo huffs and tosses the weapons to the floor with a put-off look. There’s loud cheering coming from the kitchen as the others greet you. He takes in a deep breath and sets his shoulders. Enough is enough. Clearly, there has been some mix-up. Whatever bearded reunion is taking place in his dining room is not meant for him. He’s just going to walk over to you all and inform you to take your business elsewhere. 

Bilbo only manages one step forward before a knock echoes through the front hall. It seems deafening, an ominous warning. He knows that if he goes to answer the door there will be no going back. These dwarves will be here to stay. He’s tempted to just ignore it, to usher you all out and slam the fence closed behind you. 

But then there’s a second knock, a third. He cannot simply ignore it, it’s too rude. Despite knowing better, he goes and answers the door. He’s nearly knocked over by a pile of stacked dwarves. He jumps back in shock, glaring down at them all. 

“That would be the rest of them,” you muse, appearing out of nowhere behind him. You grin at his affronted face, “Got any extra chairs?”

The Hobbit is certainly interesting. You struggle to find a kind word for him. He’s not exactly happy to have you all in his home. And you can’t entirely blame him, you and your kin aren’t the best guests. But Gandalf had told you all he was perfectly fine hosting the company in his hobbit hole. 

Though, you have a growing suspicion he wasn’t telling the whole truth if the wicked looks Bilbo is shooting him is anything to go by.  “Need a hand?” You ask, hovering in the entry of his pantry. 

He lets out a low sigh, just barely glancing over his shoulder at you. He stands amidst the wreckage of his once-great food stores. The rest of it is being bickered over in his dining room. If what Gandalf has told you is true and he is going to be your thief, then it shouldn’t matter. 

You’ve done him a sort of favor, clearing out his stores before the journey. No one wants to come back home to rot and mold having crept over all their food. But again, you’re starting to doubt the wizard’s words. He’s known for his tricks, but you didn’t think he would do something as sly as this. 

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” His voice is snippy, but he’s trying his best to be polite. You barely hold back a laugh at how hard he’s keeping up the pretense of being gracious. 

“Don’t be stubborn,” you insist, moving past him and grabbing a broom. “I don’t mind. Durin knows we aren’t a clean people.” He gives you an odd look as you start to sweep the mess up. He stays firmly planted in his spot, gaze tracking you. You try not to grow uncomfortable at his intense stare but it is hard. 

“You are a dwarf, then?”

Your face screws up in irritation and you shoot him a severe look. He lets out a slight whimper, whirling around and pretending to be fascinated by his shelves. “Yes,” you grit out, “I am. Despite the oddities in my appearance, I am a dwarf.”

He whips back towards you, face drawn tight in confusion. “Oddities?” He demands.

“Look at me,” you gesture to yourself, feeling a tight ball wind itself up in your throat. “No beard, too tall, I might as well just be a short human. I’m practically repulsive.”

His jaw drops and he stares at you for a long while. You can feel the judgment, and can practically hear his thoughts as he wonders at how ugly you are. Bilbo’s mouth opens and shuts multiple times before he lands on a squeaky, “Repulsive. That’s ridi-”

“There you are!” Gandalf’s head dips into the pantry and he gives you both an impatient smile. “We are waiting for you, Master Baggins,” he says your name and you nod. You throw the broom back in place and shove past them both, swallowing down tears. 

They watch you go with varying degrees of shock. “My word, what did you say to her?”

Bilbo snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head, “I might have brought up how peculiar it is that she doesn’t have a beard.”

Gandalf nods sagely, as though this is something he has experience with. “Sensitive topic for young dwarvish women.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for him?” You hiss to Kili as you all leave the tavern. You’d written Master Baggins a note, promising to wait for him in the Green Dragon Inn. If he didn’t make it by 11 AM, you would all leave. But Thorin was demanding your leave early, it didn’t seem fair to not give Bilbo a chance. 

Fili glances towards Thorin, making sure he’s not listening to the three of you. “Best not to argue with him. He’s been upset since the meeting in the north.”

You sigh, mounting your horse and falling into line with them. “I don’t blame him. They claim to be brothers, yet won’t come to our aid.”

“Watch, once we reclaim our home, they’ll all be demanding payment from the stores of Erebor.” You cannot help but agree with Kili. You are a greedy people, there’s no denying it. The lust for gold, at times, can rival that of a dragon’s. But you were loyal, to a fault. How could they abandon you all so readily?

You look towards Thorin and feel yourself deflate. He has been different since the stirrings of the journey were brewing. More prone to anger, and quicker to draw his blade. Something dark awakes within him when he thinks of Erebor. Reclaiming your home will benefit you all, but you cannot help but fear the dragon that lurks beneath its bones. 

Not the actual dragon, yes that’s terrifying, but the curse that lays over that gold could spell all your doom. You’d watched as it happened to one king, you don’t want to see another fall to the sickness. 

You’re about to ride up to Thorin when you hear a voice shouting wildly behind you all. “Wait! Wait!” You glance over your shoulder, a grin slowly spreading across your lips. Bilbo chases after the company, waving his contract in the air. 

Thorin frowns, bringing you all to a halt. Bilbo slides to a stop beside Balin. “I signed it,” he pants out, holding the contract out. The older dwarf frowns suspiciously, taking it from him and examining it through his lens. 

After a moment he nods at Thorin, “He signed it,” he reaffirms. Thorin glances towards Bilbo and you can’t tell if he’s going to honor his word or not. 

After a tense pause, Thorin finally nods, “Give him a pony.” Bilbo shakes his head and waves him off. 

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he insists. “I’m perfectly fine walking. You know I almost made the trek to-” Kili and Fili lean down and grab him by the jacket, hoisting him atop a pony. 

They both sport sore frowns as you ride up beside them. “I do believe I’m owed something, gentlemen.” You hold your palms out expectantly, Bilbo gives you an odd look as they both slam their gold into your hands. 

“What’s that?” He wonders as they ride off. 

You smile down at him, “You’ve just made me a rich woman, Master Baggins. They had a bet, about whether or not you would show.”

His brows raise and he narrows his eyes at you. “You thought I would come?”

You laugh, “Obviously.” You chuckle a little and toss him one of the pouches, “Here. It’s only fitting you should have some.” You nudge the side of your mare, urging her forward. Bilbo watches as you ride off, face furrowed in confusion as he rolls the gold around in his palm. 

He doesn’t know why you believing in him means so much, but it does. 

“Something caught your eye?” Bilbo startles from his thoughts and turns towards Balin. The old dwarf smiles slightly, glancing over Bilbo’s shoulder towards you. Bilbo flusters, stuttering slightly on his words as he shakes his head. 

“No,” Balin raises a brow and Bilbo shakes his head harder, scoffing. “No, not at all. I was only lost in thought.” Unwittingly, Bilbo’s gaze drifts back towards you. You’ve stripped off the heavy leathers of the day and are leaning over the fire, stirring some stew. 

The light of the fire casts you in a sort of glow. You could be mistaken for an elf by someone passing by. You tuck a braid behind your ear, standing up and glancing around camp. When your gaze drifts past him, he’s quick to turn back around. 

Balin is staring expectantly at him, giving him a cheeky smile. Bilbo’s quick to change the subject, not wanting to fan the flames of Balin’s assumption. “Are there other dwarf women,” he points vaguely towards you, “like her, I mean?”

Balin shakes his head, puffing on his pipe. “No, no one quite like her. She’s a fierce fighter and an even fiercer friend. She’s been working hard to campaign for this journey.”

“No,” Bilbo glances back towards you, ensuring you’re not listening. You’ve walked off, looking towards the ponies with a confused expression. “I mean, physically,” he rubs over his chin, miming where a beard is meant to be.

Balin huffs out a laugh. “No, it’s quite rare for any of us to be without beards. I don’t recommend bringing it up to her, it’s quite a sore subject. We think there might be some human blood, maybe even an elf somewhere down her line. It’s the only explanation for it.” He shakes his head with a sad smile, “A shame, truly.”

Bilbo continues to find himself more and more confused by his company. The way they speak of you, you’d think you were a troll, not a woman. “A shame? She’s,” he hesitates on the word, worrying it might be inappropriate. “She’s quite pretty,” he lands on.

Balin shrugs like there’s nothing to be done about it. “By any standard other than a dwarf’s. You have to understand, laddie, she’s a dwarf, despite appearances. No beard, too tall, she’s not pretty, as you said, to her people.”

Bilbo thinks it’s a horrible shame that you’re going to go through your whole life believing yourself to be some hideous creature. In truth, you’re one of the most beautiful women he’s ever met. He finds himself distracted every time your eyes meet his. 

“Bilbo,” you pop up behind him, scaring him as you seem to be doing. You smile slightly and nod towards the edge of camp. “Come with me?” Bilbo’s eyes widen as he follows after you. For a horrible moment, he thinks you’ve heard his and Balin’s conversation. 

You lead Bilbo into an outcrop of trees, there’s a little bit of firelight shining through ahead. His suspicions shift and he wonders if something else hasn’t gone wrong. Kili and Fili both stand by an overturned tree, peering over it and staring at something. Bilbo can’t see what it is from where he stands. 

You stop beside them both, turning towards him and giving him an apologetic smile. “We need your help-”

“We were meant to be watching the ponies,” Kili interrupts. 

“We’ve encountered a slight problem,” Fili motions toward the tree and Bilbo comes up to join them. “We had sixteen,” Bilbo looks to the pen where the ponies were being held and frowns.

“Now there’s fourteen,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face and glaring at Kili and Fili. 

“Oh no,” Bilbo frets. He counts the ponies again, just to ensure that you all didn’t make a mistake. “Should we not tell Thorin?”

Your face blanches and you share a panicked look with the brothers. “No,” Fili quickly butts in. “No reason to worry him. You are, after all, our burglar. We thought you might be able to help us.”

“We think we know where they went,” you tell him. Bilbo glances between the three of you and not for the first time he wonders how he got himself mixed up with this adventure. 

Trolls, trolls you could handle. Being tied up and thrown in a sack, nearly roasted alive and eaten. All of that was palatable. However, being hosted by elves was not. You sit at Elrond’s table and glare down at the vegetables before you. 

Elves, you almost scoff as one of them dances by you with a flute. They think they’re so much better than dwarves, so much more sophisticated. You wouldn’t be surprised if they were born with that haughty look on their face. 

It’s difficult to have an appetite when you have a rabbit’s dinner in front of you. It’s even harder when you’ve got Elrond’s men glaring holes into the back of your head. None of them trust you. And not because they expect you’re going to rob them. They simply don’t trust your table manners. 

A bread roll thunks against your cheek and you grimace. You pick it up, tossing it back at Dwalin and laughing as it knocks his salad into his lap. Well, they might have good reason to doubt your table manners.

You sigh, bored of your meal and tired of all the noise. You stand from the table, slipping away from the others. Thorin catches your eye as you leave, giving you a brief nod farewell. You head down the stairs, toward the pond you saw earlier. Perhaps, while everyone else is eating and arguing with each other, you can cleanse yourself. 

It’s been a long while on the road. Scrubbing yourself with rainwater hasn’t exactly done a wonderful job of keeping you clean. You’re used to always being on the move, but you’ve been able to settle down nicely enough in the mountains. It feels a little odd to be adventuring once more. 

You can practically smell the elves' magic permeating the air around you. It’s light, it feels like a weight being removed from your shoulders. It tastes like something sweet dancing along your tongue.

As much as you despise Thranduil and his kingdom for abandoning your people, a part of you has to admit that Elrond held no part of that. They did not offer you aid or a place to rest, but he had no reason to. It’s wrong to hold your bitterness against him. 

And it does not make a good king to so stubbornly reject Elrond’s help. You worry for Thorin, worry for his sanity when it comes to returning to Erebor. He’s so like his grandfather, it wouldn’t be so difficult for him to succumb to the same sickness Thror had. 

You drag your fingers lightly over the marble of the elves' home. It’s impressive, the way the forest manages to grow through their walls. Their architecture is something to be admired, even if it is not as grand as Erebor once was. 

You stumble upon the pond and strip out of your clothes. You dive into the pristine waters and are surprised when you feel no chill on your skin. The water is warm and it eases your aching bones. The stress melts away from your tightened muscles. If you weren’t so skeptical, you’d think the water held a magic of its own. Then again, Elrond’s Last Homely House is renowned for the healing capabilities it provides, perhaps it does.

You swim for a while, stretching your limbs and floating along the surface of the water. The sky darkens above you and the stars appear.

The view on the road is always gorgeous and usually left unblanketed by clouds. But this is absolutely breathtaking. You feel as though you could reach up and steal a star for yourself. 

You pull yourself onto the shore of the pond and find that your clothes have been taken. A white, gossamer gown hangs on the branch of a tree, and your brows furrow. “Elves,” you hiss with disdain. You wonder which one of the flighty things had left this while you’d been swimming. You’re sure whoever it was got quite the show. You pull the gown on and ponder going back to the others. 

You can hear their laughter from here. You know they’ve probably found food that you can actually stomach but you can’t bring yourself to leave the peaceful serenity of the water just yet. 

Bilbo does not want to admit that he was looking for you. He simply dismisses the idea as wanting to explore more of Elrond’s home. After all, he’s never gone further than the shire. He’d had the desire to, once, when he was a child. He’d all but abandoned that for the comfort of home. 

He can see why he had once wanted to see the elves so badly. The entire place is filled to the brim with magic and people older than the oak trees surrounding the Shire. He seems to be the only one recognizing how truly wonderful this place is. He knows the others all want to leave. He can see how restless they are the longer they stay. 

He wonders if you feel the same way. He cannot tell, he finds it harder to read you than he does the others. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid of thinking of you for too long or if you are simply an enigma to him. 

He ascends the stairs, gazing out at the forest and smiling as the breeze brushes against him. Something catches his eye by the glittering waters of the pond and he frowns. He peers further over the railing and spots what must be another elf. They’re surrounded by starlight, basking in the glow of the night. Their beauty is nearly breathtaking. 

Imagine his surprise when they turn and it’s you. His eyes widen infinitesimally and he backs away from the rail before you can see him. Why does he keep mistaking you for an elf? 

Bilbo finds himself moving before he really thinks about what he’s doing. Your back is to him as you drape yourself along one of the rocks near the shore. Your toes dip slightly into the water and he can just barely hear you humming to yourself. 

He’s caught completely off guard by the sight of your hair. Damp and curling, it lay along your back without any braids. It’s the first time he’s seen any of the dwarves without a braid in their hair. He doesn’t have a vast amount of knowledge of your culture, but he feels as though it’s taboo to have your hair unbound like this. 

He clears his throat awkwardly and you shoot up in surprise. Your hand drifts to your hip where he’s sure there’s usually a dagger. Tonight, though, you are wholly unarmed. The thought doesn’t seem to bring you much comfort as you narrow your eyes at him. 

“Bilbo,” you call out, slightly breathless. “You scared me.”

He gives a strained smile and laughs, taking a hesitant step towards you. You sit up straighter and beckon him closer. He obliges embarrassingly fast, taking a seat beside you at the edge of the pond. He doesn’t even mind as moisture and mud stain his pants. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice light and tired. 

“I was going for a walk,” and wondering where you had gone, he thinks to himself. But that is not something he is ready to admit to you, yet. You’re still practically strangers. 

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” 

He nods and the question that’s been lingering in his mind slips out. “How do you know Thorin?” You give him a confused look and he quickly adds, “You’re the only woman in the company, I’m only curious.”

“Oh,” you smile slightly and look towards the water. “I believe he’s my distant uncle, possibly a few times removed.” He frowns and you laugh, “The family tree grows a tad confusing. We’d gone through a long list of kings named Durin and the familial relations got hard to keep track of. It’s possible we might not share blood at all. But the dragon had left me orphaned and I was raised alongside Fili and Kili, blood or no, we’re family.”

There’s a faint smile on your face as you speak of the others and it makes a small one form for him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “losing your family, it must have been incredibly hard.”

You shake your head, shrugging his apology off. “No need, I was too young to truly remember them. Besides,” you gesture towards the balcony above and you both listen as the others laugh, “I’ve got more than enough now.”  

It’s admirable, how loyal you all are to each other. Bilbo’s almost envious of your bond with the others. It’s clear each of you would die for your king, for your home. It’s a dedication and purpose he has never had. 

“Do you miss the shire?” You ask, curious and not accusing as Thorin often is. “I imagine life on the road is nothing compared to the comforts of home.”

“Yes,” he answers so quickly it makes you both laugh. Your face lights up when you smile and you smile so little. But when you do, it makes his breath catch. He grows even happier when he’s the reason for it. 

“I do miss home. But,” he leans in and you follow, smirking like you’re sharing a secret. “I must admit, adventuring is not as bad as I once thought.”

“Ah,” you lean back, “we’re poisoning you Master Burglar. Soon you’re not going to want to go back.” Well, Bilbo would not go so far as to say that, but you do have a point. The recklessness of the dwarves has seemed to be influencing him, just a tad. 

“Well,” he hums and shakes his head slightly. He catches the teasing smile on your lips and doesn’t bother correcting you. “Maybe,” you look a little surprised that he played along and it only makes him more amused. 

His eyes drift towards your hair before looking back at you. You give him a self-conscious smile, idly running a hand over the strands. “I took them out to bathe, I didn’t have the energy to rebraid.”

He speaks before he can even think. Perhaps it is the joy of being alone with you that loosens his tongue so foolishly. “I could braid it for you.”

Your eyes widen with shock and you ever-so-slightly flinch back from him. “Do you,” you clear your throat, practically gaping at him. He doesn’t know what about what he just said is so appalling to you but he wishes he’d just never spoken at all. “Do you mean that?”

“Well,” he mutters lowly, “I suppose. Yes,” it sounds more like a question than anything. He can’t help but wonder what he just offered in your culture. 

You blink rapidly, pushing your shoulders back and straightening. “Alright,” you whisper and there’s a giddy grin on your lips that he can’t help but be suspicious of. “I’d love it if you would.”

He gets to his feet, moving to stand behind you and idly running his hand through the damp strands of your hair. He doesn’t do many, just enough to keep your hair out of your eyes as you’re on the road. But you seem to get more and more restless with each one he adds. 

Finally, when he’s done, he takes a step back and gives you a strained smile. “There you are.”

You get to your feet, running your hand over the braids. “Oh,” your eyes widen as you feel them. “You put quite a few.”

He glances away from you and looks to the tree beside him like might hold the answers to this bizarre encounter. “Was I not meant to?”

You shake your head rapidly and wave him off. “Oh, no, this is wonderful.” You wince and give him a strained smile, “I mean, it’s good. Thank you,” before he can question you on your odd behavior you run off. He watches with a furrowed brow as you rush up the stairs to the dwarves' quarters. 

He’s absolutely bewildered as he makes his way up a moment later. He can’t imagine what he could have done to offend you simply by offering to braid your hair. When he makes it to the quarters, he’s not greeted with the rowdy laughter and loud conversation he was expecting. 

Instead, the majority of the dwarves are huddled around the fire, whispering lowly amongst themselves. When he walks in each of them turns towards him so quickly he nearly runs back out of the room. He can’t imagine what he could have done to have warranted such odd reactions from both you and the company. 

“Er,” he skirts around them, or attempts to at least, “good night.”

“Bilbo,” he clenches his eyes shut, sighing as Thorin calls his name. Whatever he had done, any attempts at escaping the consequences are thrown out the window. He turns towards Thorin who's standing in the corner, away from the others. He waves him forward. 

Bilbo feels very much like a child about to be scolded as the others watch him move towards Thorin. Thorin glances towards the others and lets out a heavy sigh. He walks outside and Bilbo follows him down the stairs and back to the path he was on before. 

“I doubt you know what you’ve done,” Thorin grumbles bitterly. He looks to Bilbo who only shakes his head. “Braids mean a great deal to us, I don’t imagine they hold much meaning for hobbits.”

“No, they don’t.” Bilbo glances back towards the balcony, and he sees you standing there. The moonlight still shines down upon you and he still can’t fathom that you would ever believe yourself to be anything but beautiful. 

“She is young, but she’s not a fool. I’m sure she knows that you didn’t mean anything by giving her courting braids,” Thorin emphasizes the words with a severe look. Bilbo curses his foolishness under his breath. He can’t believe he’s done something so stupid. “Did you?” Thorin asks. 

Bilbo shakes his head quickly, “No, of course not. I didn’t-”

“Know,” Thorin finishes for him. “I know. Could you?”

Bilbo looks up at him with a confused scrunch to his face. “Could I… what?” he asks hesitantly. 

“Could you ever care for her like that?” Bilbo goes to answer but Thorin interrupts him before he can. “She’ll never have any luck with her own people, not with the way she looks. If anyone did marry her, it would only be so they could be closer to the king and I don’t want that for her. I’m not asking you to marry her Master burglar, I’m only asking if you’d ever consider it.”

Thorin leaves Bilbo standing right back at the pond. He goes back to join the others and when Bilbo turns to watch him go, you wave at him from the balcony. He considers what Thorin said, and considers how he feels every time you two get a chance to be alone. 

He entertains the idea for a moment, but it's foolish. Even if he was truly in love with you, you were two completely different people. You were used to the road, always looking for a new adventure. Bilbo knew he would only ever have one great adventure in his life. His heart would always call him back to the Shire, back to home. 

He smiles and waves back at you. He watches you go back inside and he stays by the pond, thinking of what it could be like. 

The last time you see Bilbo is at Thorin’s funeral. You’re consumed by your grief and can’t spare him any attention. Three men to be mourned. The last of your true family is dead while another sits the throne that Thorin had earned. 

You can’t help but weep over their bodies, can’t help but leave the room so you won’t have to look at them any longer. You run from the procession, and that’s when you see him. Slipping away from everything like a proper thief. 

“Bilbo?” You call out, your voice is watery and thick. He lingers by the entrance of the mountain. His shoulders jump to his ears as he tenses at the sound of your voice. He turns back to you, offering you a weak smile. “Leaving?” You question, a weak tease lying somewhere in your tone. 

He nods, “I thought it would be better like this.”

“You didn’t think we’d want to say goodbye?” Bofur’s voice echoes behind you. You turn to find the others all standing there, watching as Bilbo tries to leave. You must not have been the only one unable to stomach seeing another wearing the crown. 

Dain had fought for you all, he’d come to your aid when you needed him most. He’d earned the title of king. But that didn’t make it an easier pill to swallow. 

Bilbo laughs sadly when he sees the rest of the company. You’re sure he thought it would be less painful to simply leave you all. But you needed some sort of closure with him. Even though you’d always known that nothing could ever truly happen between the two of you, you still weren’t ready to let go. 

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End,” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “tea is at four. There’s plenty of it.” His gaze drifts towards you and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eye, “You are always welcome.”

You only know he’s gone when you hear his footsteps retreating. Pain and heartache make a coward out of you. You don’t chase him or call out to him as you should. You watch him leave and you let him go. 

One Year Later

The clock chimes just half past four and a knock rings out through Bag End. Bilbo frowns, head lifting from the map he’s working on. He pauses and his home remains silent. He shakes his head, dismissing it as a hopeful illusion. Just as he places the quill back on the parchment another rapid set of knocks ring out. 

This time it’s persistent. It grates on him as his door rattles from the force. Bilbo huffs, “A moment, please!” He snaps, glaring at whoever lurks behind his door. Another impatient knock and he wonders if it would be wrong to get Sting out of the chest by the door. 

He stomps towards the door, grabs the knob, and throws it open, “What-”

He cuts himself off, eyes widening and face going slack with shock as you smile at him. You’re here. You’re here and standing before him and he almost wonders if he’s dreaming of you again. 

“Master Bobbins?” You tease, a watery laugh leaving your parted lips. 

“What-” he stutters and stumbles over his words, not even sure what to say. He’s barely processed the fact that you’re even here. 

You shrug, “I’m sorry I’m so late. I was hoping to get here at four but Bofur had some problems on the road,” you cut yourself off and give him a breathless laugh. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a while.”

Bilbo can only smile, something thick and choking hanging at the back of his throat. He feels his chest tighten and he shakes his head. “Please,” he breathes out, “stay.”

You grin at him, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes as you take a step inside. “You planted the tree,” you point out, looking toward the sapling growing by his home. 

“It reminds me of,” he trails off. It reminds him of everything. Thorin, the adventure, all the friends he’d left behind. You. You nod, not needing words to understand him. “What are you doing here?” He asks, not yet having processed what you’d said.

“I thought it was time for a different adventure,” you tell him, your hand grazing against his as you smile at him. You walk into his home and Bilbo closes the door behind you, already thinking of a million ways your adventure could begin. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the book/movie The Hobbit, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © scribes-of-valar 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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