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muiitoloko · 7 months ago

Note

If that’s okay for you if I may request

Colonel Brandon If that’s okay? Cause I read all your Alan rickman stories and I love them all so very much! ❤️❤️❤️ Thank you for writing those

Title: You are you

Summary: You are everything he needs, even if he doesn't realize it initially.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Madness, Self-criticism, inferiority complex, unrequited love, anguish.

Author's notes: I've been wrestling with writer's block for a while, trying to figure out how to craft a one-shot with Brandon. Then, a spark of inspiration hit me while watching the Netflix series "Queen Charlotte." Drawing from her character and that of King George, I found the muse I needed to create this piece. I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your support!

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Colonel Brandon stood on the sprawling grounds of his estate, his thoughts consumed by the recent turn of events. Marianne had chosen John over him, and though he felt a pang of sadness and disappointment, he knew he had to respect her decision. Seeing her happy with another man brought him a bittersweet sense of contentment, knowing that she had found the love and happiness she deserved.

But as the days passed, Brandon couldn't shake the lingering emptiness in his heart. He knew he needed to move on, to find a wife who could give him children and heirs to carry on his legacy. And so, he reluctantly resumed his search for a suitable match, his heart no longer seeking love, but rather a practical solution to his need for a family.

It was during one of his social engagements that Brandon encountered you, the eldest daughter of the duke and duchess, a woman living in seclusion on their vast estate. He had heard whispers of your eccentricities, but he paid them little heed, his focus solely on finding a wife who could fulfill his need for heirs.

As Brandon got to know you better, he discovered the truth behind the rumors surrounding your behavior. Your parents, the duke and duchess, confessed to him the challenges you faced, the periods of aggression and madness that plagued you intermittently. Despite their wealth and connections, they had been unable to find a solution, leaving them resigned to your fate.

But Brandon was undeterred by the revelation, his pragmatic nature guiding him forward. He saw in you the potential for a suitable match, a woman who, despite her flaws, could provide him with the children he so desperately desired. And for your parents, you represented a burden they were eager to unburden themselves of, a means to secure your future and their peace of mind.

For Brandon, it seemed like the perfect compromise—a marriage born out of duty rather than love, but one that could fulfill both his and your parents' needs. And so, he approached you with a proposal, his demeanor calm and composed as he laid out his intentions with unwavering clarity.

As Colonel stood before you, awaiting your response to his proposal, you couldn't help but feel a whirlwind of emotions coursing through you. Despite your eccentricities and the challenges you faced, you couldn't deny the practicality of his offer. It was a solution that could benefit both parties involved, easing the burden on your parents while providing Colonel Brandon with the heirs he desired.

Lost in thought, you retreated to the comfort of your study, surrounded by shelves filled with notebooks containing your innermost thoughts and musings. Dressed in your usual attire of men's clothing, a reflection of your unconventional nature, you pondered the implications of Colonel Brandon's proposal.

As you delved deep into contemplation, the weight of your decision pressed heavily upon you. You knew that accepting Colonel Brandon's offer meant relinquishing any hope of a love-filled marriage, resigning yourself to a union of duty and practicality. Yet, the thought of bringing relief to your parents, sparing them the burden of dealing with your unpredictable episodes, tugged at your heartstrings.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of introspection, you made your decision. Stepping out of your study, you faced Colonel Brandon with a mixture of determination and resignation in your eyes.

"I accept your proposal," you announced, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging within you. "But under one condition." Colonel Brandon regarded you with curiosity, awaiting your terms with an air of patience and understanding.

"I ask for a cabin of my own on the estate's land," you continued, your gaze unwavering. "Far from the mansion, where I can retreat during my periods of madness. It is my only request."

Brandon considered your condition carefully, weighing the implications of your plea. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded in agreement, a hint of understanding softening his features.

"I see no harm in granting your request," he replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "In fact, it may prove to be beneficial for both of us. A space of your own, away from the confines of the mansion, where you can find solace during difficult times."

A sense of relief washed over you at his understanding, grateful for his willingness to accommodate your needs. With a silent nod of gratitude, you accepted his offer, knowing that it was the best course of action for both you and your family.

Brandon didn't see anything wrong with granting your request for a cabin of your own on the estate's land. In fact, he saw it as a practical solution to ensure both of your well-being. If you were to experience periods of madness, it would be best for you to have a space where you could retreat and find solace without causing disruption to the household.

So, Brandon accepted your condition without hesitation, understanding the importance of accommodating your needs. However, he didn't anticipate just how distant you would be after the wedding. Days turned into weeks, and Brandon found himself growing increasingly impatient with your absence from the main house.

Despite his frustration, Brandon respected your need for space and independence, trusting that you would come to him when you were ready. However, as the days stretched on without any sign of your presence, Brandon's patience began to wear thin.

One night, overcome with loneliness and longing for your company, Brandon made his way to the cabin where you spent most of your time. He approached the door with a sense of trepidation, unsure of what he would find on the other side.

As he entered the cabin unannounced, Brandon was greeted by the sight of you standing by a telescope, your eyes fixed on the starry night sky above. Books and notebooks were scattered around the room, evidence of your scholarly pursuits and intellectual curiosity.

You turned to him with a smile as he walked in, your expression one of genuine warmth and affection. Your nightgown billowed around you, your hair cascading in loose waves down your back, and Brandon couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked in that moment.

But despite the tenderness in your smile, Brandon couldn't shake the frustration that simmered beneath the surface. He had missed you, missed the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand, and he couldn't understand why you chose to spend so much time away from him.

"Good evening, Colonel," you greeted him politely, your tone casual and unaffected by his unexpected visit. "What brings you to my humble abode tonight?"

Brandon struggled to contain his frustration as he responded, his voice tinged with a hint of irritation. "I've come to see you, of course," he replied curtly, his eyes searching yours for any hint of emotion. "I've missed you, [Your Name]. It's been weeks since I last saw you, and I couldn't bear to spend another night alone in our bed."

Your smile faltered slightly at his words, a flash of guilt crossing your features when you met his gaze. You knew you had been neglecting him, consumed by your own thoughts and passions, but you hadn't realized just how much your absence had affected him. Pushing aside your feelings of guilt, you tried to divert the conversation, eager to steer clear of any discussion about your relationship.

"So, Colonel," you began, your voice light and cheerful as you gestured towards the telescope beside you. "Have you ever gazed upon the stars and wondered about the mysteries of the universe? It's truly fascinating how much we have yet to discover out there."

But Brandon wasn't so easily swayed by your attempt to change the subject. He could sense the underlying tension between you, the unspoken questions hanging in the air, and he knew they needed to be addressed.

"Indeed, the stars are a wonder to behold," Brandon replied diplomatically, his tone measured as he studied your expression. "But I believe there are matters closer to home that require our attention."

You paused at that, your smile fading as you met Brandon's earnest gaze. His words hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications, and you knew there was no avoiding the conversation any longer.

"What do you mean, Colonel?" you asked, your voice tinged with apprehension as you braced yourself for his response.

Brandon took a step closer to you, his expression serious as he met your eyes with unwavering determination. "I married you for one reason, and one reason only: to have heirs," he said bluntly, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "And how can we achieve that if the two of us barely see each other?"

You stopped at that, your gaze locking with his as you took in the gravity of his words. For a moment, you felt a pang of guilt at your own negligence, knowing that you had failed to uphold your end of the bargain. But then, a sense of determination washed over you as you realized what Brandon was implying.

Was he demanding that you fulfill your duty as a wife? Did he want... sex?

The thought made Brandon blush slightly, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment as he struggled to articulate his desires. But you weren't embarrassed; you were a 28-year-old woman, well aware of the implications of marital intimacy. Despite never having been intimate with a man before Brandon, you had spent enough time reading and learning from your already married sisters to understand the mechanics of such encounters.

And your first time with Brandon had been surprisingly pleasant. He had been kind and patient with you, guiding you through the experience with a gentle touch and reassuring words. In the aftermath, you had distanced yourself from him, convinced that it was for his own protection. But now, faced with his unspoken request, you realized that you couldn't continue to avoid him indefinitely.

With a resolute nod, you dropped the notebook in your hand and approached Brandon, closing the distance between you with determined steps. His eyes widened slightly in surprise as you reached out to touch his cheek, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a tender touch.

"Why not start today, then?" you suggested softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "After all, it is our duty as husband and wife to fulfill each other's needs, is it not?"

Brandon's blush deepened at your boldness, but he nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and embarrassment. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to proceed.

You took the initiative, stepping closer to him until there was barely an inch of space between your bodies. Leaning in, you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, your heart racing with anticipation as you felt Brandon respond eagerly, his arms encircling you in a warm embrace.

And as you melted into his embrace, you knew that despite the unconventional nature of your marriage, you were determined to honor your side of the bargain. After all, you were both bound by duty and obligation, and it was time to fulfill the promises you had made to each other, no matter the cost.

As Brandon and you stood in the dimly lit cabin, the air thick with anticipation, he couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation mingled with desire. His heart still belonged to Marianne, his unrequited love for her a constant ache in his chest. But as he looked into your eyes, he saw more than just a means to an end; he saw a woman who deserved his respect and consideration, despite the circumstances of their marriage.

With gentle hands, Brandon began to undress you, his touch tender and reverent as he revealed your delicate form beneath the fabric. He couldn't help but admire the curve of your body, the softness of your skin, as he trailed kisses along your neck and collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You responded eagerly to his touch, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, urging him to explore every inch of your body. Brandon's heart raced with excitement as he felt your arousal building, his own desire growing with each soft moan that escaped your lips.

As Brandon guided you to the bed, he felt a surge of anticipation coursing through him, his body responding instinctively to the intimacy between you. He couldn't deny the pleasure he felt at being so close to you, the warmth of your skin against his own igniting a fire within him that he hadn't felt in years.

With practiced hands, Brandon explored your body with a gentle touch, his fingers tracing patterns of desire along your skin as he elicited soft gasps and moans from your lips. He marveled at the way you responded to his touch, the way your body arched and trembled beneath him, as if seeking more of his affection.

And when he finally entered you, it was with a reverence and tenderness that took your breath away. Brandon moved slowly, savoring each moment as he lost himself in the sensation of your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. He felt a sense of connection with you that he hadn't experienced in years, a bond forged in the heat of their shared passion.

But even as Brandon surrendered himself to the pleasure of their union, his thoughts strayed to Marianne, his beloved lost to him forever. He couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to make love to her, to hear her soft moans of pleasure as he brought her to the heights of ecstasy.

But Marianne didn't want him, that much was clear. Despite Brandon's unwavering love and devotion to her, she had chosen another, leaving him with a heart heavy with sorrow and longing. But Brandon was a man of honor, and he knew that he had to be content with what he had, which was you.

You, the woman whose mind was plagued by bouts of madness and unpredictability, yet whose heart was filled with kindness and compassion. And as Brandon lay beside you, his body still humming with the aftershocks of their lovemaking, he couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt wash over him. He knew that he should be focusing on fulfilling his duty as a husband, on siring heirs to carry on his legacy, but a part of him couldn't deny the pleasure he found in being with you.

But even as Brandon reveled in the intimacy between you, he couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that gnawed at him. He knew that his feelings for you were born out of necessity rather than passion, that he was simply using you to fulfill his own needs. And yet, a part of him couldn't help but enjoy the pleasure you brought him, the warmth of your body against his own.

As the days went by, Brandon found himself spending more and more time in your company, seeking solace and companionship in your presence. He tried to convince himself that it was all in service of their shared goal of starting a family, but deep down, he knew that he enjoyed being with you, in spite of everything.

He admired your resilience and admired your intelligence and creativity, seeing beyond the surface to the kind and compassionate woman beneath. You, in turn, found solace in Brandon's presence, grateful for his unwavering support and understanding. He treated you with kindness and respect, never once judging you for your eccentricities, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards him for accepting you as you were.

But as the saying goes, all good things are short-lived, and Brandon saw this firsthand when he witnessed one of your episodes of madness. One night, he woke up to the sound of whispers and found you in the bedroom, talking to yourself and drawing on the wall.

Brandon's heart clenched with concern as he approached you hesitantly, calling out your name in a gentle tone. But when you turned to him, your eyes unfocused and distant, he realized that you didn't recognize him.

"Are you Venus?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper as you regarded him with a mixture of awe and confusion.

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the realization dawning on him that you didn't recognize him as your husband. He took a step closer to you, his voice calm and reassuring as he reminded you of his true identity.

"No, my dear, I'm Colonel Christopher Brandon, your husband," he replied softly, his eyes pleading with you to see reason. "Please, come back to me."

But you shook your head stubbornly, dropping the chalk in your hand as you turned away from him, your mind set on a singular purpose. Ignoring Brandon's protests, you left the bedroom, navigating the dark hallways of the mansion with determined strides.

Brandon followed close behind you, his heart pounding with fear and anxiety as he called out to you, hoping to bring you back to your senses. But you paid him no heed, your mind consumed by delusions of Venus coming to take you away.

As you stepped out into the garden, your eyes fixed on the starry sky above, you spotted the bright gleam of Venus shining in the darkness. With a sense of urgency, you called out to the celestial body, your voice filled with longing and desperation.

"Venus, my love, please come get me," you pleaded, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night. "I'm ready to go with you."

Your screams alerted the mansion's employees, who came rushing outside to see what was causing the commotion. Brandon watched helplessly as you shed your nightgown, revealing your naked body to the world as you continued to call out for Venus.

Unable to stand idly by any longer, Brandon sprang into action, moving to cover you. But you pushed him away angrily, refusing to let anyone come between you and your imagined lover.

"Get away from me!" you cried, your voice tinged with frustration as you brushed him aside. "Venus will come for me, you'll see!"

Seeing that you were beyond reason, Brandon turned to the servants, instructing them to fetch a blanket to cover you. The maids obeyed without question, rushing to fulfill his command as Brandon's butler stepped forward to assist in calming you down.

But despite their efforts, you continued to scream and cry out for Venus, your mind lost to the grips of madness. It wasn't until Brandon made a bold declaration that you finally seemed to calm down, your eyes focusing on him with a newfound clarity.

"I am Venus," Brandon announced firmly, his voice filled with conviction as he met your gaze with unwavering determination.

For a moment, you stared at him in confusion, uncertainty flickering in your eyes. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, you seemed to accept his words, your body relaxing as you allowed the maids to cover you with a blanket.

Brandon wrapped the blanket around you protectively, his heart heavy with relief as he gazed down at you with a mix of sadness and concern. Taking your hand in his, he led you toward the cabin, his mind racing with thoughts of how best to care for you in the coming days.

As you walked beside him, your gaze fixed on him with newfound adoration and confusion, you couldn't help but question the reality of the situation. Was Brandon truly Venus, the god of love and desire, come to whisk you away to a world of eternal bliss? Or was he simply a mortal man, doing his best to care for you in your time of need?

"Are you really Venus?" you asked hesitantly, your voice tinged with uncertainty as you looked up at him for answers.

Brandon met your gaze with a gentle smile, his eyes filled with warmth and compassion as he squeezed your hand reassuringly. "Yes, my dear," he replied softly, his voice filled with tenderness. "I am Venus, and I'm here to take care of you."

And as you clung to him, expressing your belief that he was Venus and how you had waited so long for him to come for you, Brandon felt a pang of sadness tug at his heart. He did not like the hope he saw in your eyes, the desperate longing for happiness that seemed to radiate from your every word. While he was relieved that you finally seemed content, he could not help but feel conflicted about perpetuating the illusion that he was Venus.

Leading you gently to the cabin, Brandon guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you as you looked at him with such love and adoration, still addressing him as Venus. The realization that the duke and duchess hadn't mentioned this aspect of your condition left Brandon feeling unsettled. He had been led to believe that you were simply isolated in your cabin, dealing with your episodes of madness alone, but he hadn't expected this level of delusion.

Should he continue to play along with your delusions, maintaining the facade of being the god of love in order to keep you calm and prevent any further aggression? Or should he confront the reality of the situation, risking triggering another episode?

Sighing inwardly, Brandon decided to prioritize your well-being above all else. For now, it seemed best to go along with your belief that he was Venus, at least until he could figure out how to help you through this latest episode.

"Of course, my dear," Brandon replied softly, his voice filled with warmth and compassion as he took your hands in his. "I have waited for you just as eagerly. Now that we are together, I am here to take care of you, always."

Gently, Brandon helped you lay down on the bed, tucking the blankets around you to keep you warm. He listened quietly as you spoke, your words filled with a mixture of hope and desperation. You reached out to him, pleading for Venus to take you to the stars, to make you happy and relieve you of the burden you felt you were to others.

"Venus, my love, please take me away with you," you murmured, your voice soft and filled with longing. "I want to love you, and if you love me in return, I won't be a burden to anyone anymore."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to comfort you and reassure you that you were not a burden, but he knew that now was not the time for such revelations. Instead, he remained silent, his gaze filled with compassion and understanding as he listened to your pleas.

"I understand, my dear," Brandon said softly, his voice gentle as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "Venus loves you deeply, and he would never see you as a burden. You bring light and joy to his world, and he cherishes every moment he spends with you."

Your eyes shone with tears as you looked up at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Despite the turmoil in your mind, you found solace in Brandon's words, finding comfort in the belief that Venus was there to guide you to happiness.

"Thank you, Venus," you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude as you closed your eyes, surrendering to the warmth of sleep. "I love you."

Brandon watched over you as you drifted off to sleep, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was deceiving you, allowing you to believe in a fantasy that could never be true. But for now, all he could do was be there for you, to offer you comfort and support in whatever form you needed.

And as Brandon lay down next to you, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. Despite his best efforts to reassure himself that everything would be alright, a sense of foreboding settled in the pit of his stomach, a silent prayer escaping his lips as he hoped you wouldn't have another episode of madness.

Closing his eyes, Brandon tried to push aside his worries, allowing exhaustion to finally overtake him as he drifted off into a fitful sleep. But even in slumber, his mind remained troubled, haunted by visions of you lost in the throes of delusion, calling out for a love that could never be.

The next morning, Brandon awoke to the soft light filtering through the windows of the cabin, his eyes lingering on your sleeping form beside him. For a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the tranquility of the moment, the gentle rise and fall of your chest a reassuring presence in the stillness of the room.

But as the events of the previous night came rushing back to him, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt and sorrow. He knew that he couldn't continue to ignore the reality of your condition, that he needed to take action to ensure your well-being and safety.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon rose from the bed, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. Quietly, he dressed himself, his movements slow and deliberate as he prepared to face the challenges that lay ahead.

Leaving you sleeping in the cabin, Brandon made his way to the main residence, his mind racing with thoughts of how to best care for you in the days to come. As he entered the familiar halls of the mansion, he was greeted by the sight of the butler, who had served his family faithfully for years.

Without preamble, Brandon approached the butler, his expression grave as he relayed the events of the previous night and his concerns about your condition. He instructed the butler to pass on the information to the other servants, emphasizing the importance of treating you with kindness and understanding.

But as Brandon spoke, he couldn't help but notice the disapproving look that crossed the butler's face, a hint of disdain lingering in his gaze. It was clear that the butler harbored reservations about you and your suitability as Brandon's wife, a fact that didn't sit well with Brandon.

"Is something the matter, Jenkins?" Brandon inquired, his voice tinged with a note of concern as he regarded the butler with furrowed brows.

The butler hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "Forgive me, sir, but I cannot help but express my concerns regarding your choice of wife," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze.

Brandon's jaw tightened at the butler's words, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his frustration. He knew that the butler's opinion held weight among the household staff, and he couldn't afford to have any doubts cast upon your character or his decision to marry you.

"I understand your reservations, Jenkins, but I would appreciate it if you refrained from passing judgment on [Your Name]," Brandon replied evenly, his voice laced with a hint of steel. "She is my wife, and I expect her to be treated with the respect and dignity she deserves."

Jenkins bowed his head slightly, a contrite expression crossing his features as he acknowledged Brandon's reprimand. "Forgive me, sir," he murmured apologetically. "I spoke out of turn. It's just... I never imagined that you would choose to marry someone like her."

Brandon's jaw clenched at Jenkins's words, his anger flaring anew at the implication behind them. "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice tinged with indignation.

Jenkins hesitated for a moment before responding, his tone hesitant yet tinged with thinly veiled disapproval. "I had heard rumors about her, sir, but I never thought they were true until last night," he admitted reluctantly, his eyes darting away from Brandon's gaze. "I cannot fathom why you would willingly take on such an unnecessary burden, sir. It would have been far wiser for you to marry Miss Dashwood."

As the butler's words hung in the air, Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him. How dare Jenkins question his choice of wife, especially in such a callous manner? Suppressing his anger, Brandon took a deep breath, his voice measured as he addressed the butler once more.

"Jenkins, I understand that you may have reservations, but it is not your place to pass judgment on my decisions," Brandon stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I married [Your Name] out of necessity, not out of choice. Miss Dashwood made her feelings clear to me, and I must respect her decision. As for [Your Name], she may be a burden, but she is a necessary one. I need a wife to conceive children, and she is the one I have chosen for that purpose."

There was a heavy silence in the room as Brandon's words sank in, his gaze never wavering from Jenkins's face. He could see the butler's discomfort, the conflict evident in his expression as he struggled to come to terms with Brandon's assertion.

But before Jenkins could respond, Brandon felt a shift in the atmosphere behind him. Turning around, he was met with the sight of you standing in the doorway, dressed in men's clothes, your expression unreadable as you listened to the conversation unfolding before you.

For a moment, Brandon's heart clenched with guilt at the thought of you overhearing the disparaging remarks about you. He opened his mouth to call out to you, to explain himself and reassure you of his commitment, but you brushed him off tiredly, expressing your need to retreat to your cabin for a few days.

"If the servants could bring me something to eat, I would be grateful," you added, your tone weary as you turned away from him and made your way towards the cabin. You were tired—tired of the constant struggles with your own mind, tired of being a burden to those around you, and tired of the expectations placed upon you as Colonel Brandon's wife.

Brandon followed closely behind you, his brow furrowed with worry as he tried to catch up to you. "Please, let me explain," he pleaded, his voice filled with desperation. "I didn't mean for you to overhear that conversation. You're not a burden, [Your Name]. You're my wife, and I care about you deeply."

But you kept walking, your steps determined as you refused to meet his gaze. "It's okay, Colonel," you replied softly, your voice tinged with resignation. "We didn't marry for love, that much was always clear. You don't have to explain anything to me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the weight of your resignation heavy on his shoulders. He reached out to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but you shrugged him off gently, your eyes filled with sadness.

"I know I've always been a burden to everyone," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I always will be. But I'll fulfill my role in our agreement, Colonel. And I'll try not to be such a big burden to you."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your tone piercing him to the core. He wanted to reach out to you, to tell you that you were more than just a burden to him, but he knew that now was not the time for such declarations.

Instead, he watched helplessly as you disappeared into the cabin, the door closing softly behind you with a finality that left him feeling hollow inside. For a moment, he stood there in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of what could have been and what still might be.

But as the days turned into weeks, Brandon found himself growing increasingly restless in your absence. He missed you, deeply, your presence a balm to his weary soul in the midst of life's uncertainties. And so, despite his reservations, he found himself seeking you out, longing to be near you once more.

Every night, he would wait for you to come to him, the anticipation building with each passing hour until he could no longer bear the silence of the empty bed. And when you finally arrived, he would hold you close, cherishing every moment of your fleeting embrace before the morning light came to steal you away once more.

Today was another one of those nights, and you arrived at the agreed time, wasting no time in starting to undress your male clothes, as you always did every night, while Brandon waited for you in bed, watching you undress, revealing your body to him. The routine had become familiar, almost comforting, in its predictability.

As you climbed into bed with him, Brandon couldn't help but notice the exhaustion etched into your features. He longed to hold you close, to lose himself in the warmth of your embrace, but he knew that tonight was different. Tonight, he needed to talk to you, to address the elephant in the room that had been looming over their marriage for far too long.

"Are you alright, [Your Name]?" Brandon asked softly, his voice filled with concern as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. "You seem tired."

You sighed wearily, the weight of the day's events settling heavily on your shoulders. "I'm fine, Colonel," you replied, forcing a smile despite the fatigue evident in your voice. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Brandon studied you intently, his gaze searching your face for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. He wanted you, desperately, but he could see the weariness in your eyes, the toll that their arrangement was taking on you.

"Perhaps we could talk before... before we... make babies," Brandon suggested tentatively, his words carefully chosen as he broached the delicate subject. "I know it wasn't what we originally agreed upon, but I can't help but feel like we should talk to get to know each other better."

You nodded in agreement, grateful for the opportunity to postpone the inevitable for a little while longer. Pulling the covers over yourself to protect yourself from the cold of the night, you settled into the bed beside Brandon, your mind racing with thoughts of what you were going to talk about.

Brandon turned to look at you, his expression softening with affection as he regarded you. "How did you... how did you start to like astronomy?" he asked, his tone gentle as he broached the topic of conversation.

You smiled at the question, a fondness evident in your eyes as you recalled your childhood fascination with the stars. "For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by astronomy," you confessed, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "I found a telescope in my grandfather's things when I was a child, and ever since then, I've been hooked. There's just something about gazing up at the night sky that fills me with wonder and awe."

Brandon nodded, captivated by the passion in your voice as you spoke. He admired your thirst for knowledge, your willingness to pursue your interests despite the constraints placed upon you by society. In that moment, he felt a surge of affection for you, a newfound appreciation for the depth of your character.

"It sounds like you had quite the adventurous childhood," Brandon remarked, his tone laced with admiration. "Your parents must have been quite liberal in letting you learn whatever you wanted."

You nodded in agreement, a smile playing at the corners of your lips as you recalled the support and encouragement you had received from your parents throughout the years. "Yes, they were," you replied, a hint of pride evident in your voice. "They always encouraged me to follow my passions, no matter where they led me."

Brandon's heart swelled with affection as he listened to you speak, the warmth of your words washing over him like a soothing balm. He liked how you lit up, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about astronomy. He found himself captivated by the passion and enthusiasm in your voice, admiring the way you spoke with such fervor about something that brought you joy. It was a side of you he hadn't seen before, a glimpse into the depths of your soul that left him feeling strangely drawn to you.

But as the conversation shifted, Brandon hesitated, his brow furrowing with concern as he broached a more sensitive topic. "When did your... episodes of madness start?" he asked tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper as he searched your eyes for answers.

The heat in your eyes disappeared as the tiredness returned, and you fell silent, your gaze drifting away from his as you struggled to find the words to explain. It was a painful subject, one that you had long tried to bury deep within yourself, but you knew that Brandon deserved to know the truth.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come as you recounted the events that had changed your life forever. "It all started when I was 15," you began softly, your voice tinged with sadness. "I was out riding with my father and brothers when my horse was startled by a snake. I fell off and... I hit my head on a rock."

You paused, the memories flooding back with painful clarity as you struggled to compose yourself. "I don't remember much after that," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "But my brothers told me that I was in a coma for five days before I woke up."

Brandon listened intently, his heart aching with sympathy as he imagined the pain and confusion you must have felt during that traumatic time. "And then?" he prompted gently, his voice barely above a whisper as he waited for you to continue.

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek as you recalled the horrors that followed. "Things were normal for a few days," you admitted reluctantly. "But then... the first episode of madness began."

Brandon's heart clenched with sorrow at your words, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "What... what kind of treatments did you undergo?" he asked softly, his voice filled with apprehension as he braced himself for your response.

But you shook your head, the pain evident in your eyes as you diverted the conversation. "I... I don't think you want to know," you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not something I like to talk about."

Brandon's heart ached with frustration at your reluctance to share, but he knew that now was not the time to press you further. Instead, he reached out to you, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you tenderly.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with reassurance. "But know that I'm here for you, [Your Name]. Whatever you need, whatever you're going through, I'm here."

You melted into his embrace, the warmth of his words washing over you like a soothing balm. In that moment, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you, a glimmer of light in the darkness that surrounded you.

With a soft sigh of contentment, you pulled Brandon closer, your lips meeting his in a tender kiss as you whispered softly against his mouth. "Don't make me wait any longer, Colonel," you murmured, your voice filled with longing. "Let's just get this over with."

Brandon's heart skipped a beat at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the passion of your embrace. In that moment, there was only you and him, lost in the intensity of their shared desire as they sought solace in each other's arms.

Brandon pulled you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he guided you onto his lap beneath the covers. You followed his lead, straddling him with your hands pressed against his chest, your lips meeting his in a hungry kiss that conveyed all the pent-up desire between you.

The kiss was intense, fueled by a longing that had been building between you for far too long. Your tongues danced together in a passionate tango, each movement sending waves of pleasure coursing through your bodies as you lost yourselves in the heat of the moment.

Finally breaking away from the kiss, you reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around Brandon's hard length as you positioned yourself above him. With a breathy sigh, you guided him to your entrance, the anticipation of being filled by him sending shivers of excitement down your spine.

Brandon groaned softly as he felt you take him in hand, his desire for you reaching a fever pitch as he watched you sink down onto him. He was big and you weren't quite wet enough to receive him fully. But the sensation of being stretched by him was exhilarating, and you couldn't help but moan in pleasure as you sank down onto his cock.

As you sat down completely on him, a low, guttural moan escaped Brandon's lips, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he relished the feeling of being buried deep inside you. And when you moaned his name in a breathy whisper—Christopher—Brandon's heart skipped a beat, his desire for you reaching new heights at the sound of his name on your lips.

"God, [Your Name]," Brandon breathed, his voice thick with desire as he savored the sensation of you surrounding him. "You feel so good, so tight around me."

You whimpered in response, the pleasure of having him inside you overwhelming as you began to move your hips in a slow, steady rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your body, the pleasure building with each passing moment as you surrendered yourself to the intensity of your union.

Brandon matched your movements with his own, his hands guiding you as you rode him with increasing urgency. He could feel the tension building within you, the need for release growing more urgent by the second as you chased the elusive peak of pleasure together.

And as you continued bouncing on Brandon's dick, you experimented with new movements, gyrating your hips and watching the pleasure written all over his face. It was a sight that books and stories of your married sisters' experiences could never fully describe—the indescribable pleasure of seeing Brandon lost in ecstasy, his features contorted with pleasure as you rode him with abandon.

He was absolutely beautiful, his handsome face twisted in pleasure as he surrendered himself to the pleasure you were providing him. But despite his beauty and kindness, you pushed aside any thoughts of unworthiness, focusing only on the here and now with Brandon, on the pleasure you both felt.

Taking his hands that were on your waist, you guided them closer together, intertwining your fingers with his as you held his hands above his head. The feeling of his strong hands in yours only fueled your desire further, adding an element of intimacy to your passionate encounter.

And as you continued to ride him, lost in the sensation of being filled by him, you couldn't help but let out a torrent of praise and moans, your voice echoing through the room in a symphony of pleasure. And Brandon loved every moment of it, reveling in the sound of your moans and the sweet compliments you bestowed upon him.

"You feel so good, Christopher," you gasped, your voice filled with longing as you rocked your hips against his. "I never want this to end."

Brandon's heart swelled with pride at your words, his desire for you burning hotter than ever as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. "You're amazing, [Your Name]," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he watched you move above him.

You smiled at his words, your heart overflowing with love for him as you continued to ride him with increasing urgency. You let go of Brandon's hands, your fingers curling into his chest as you rode him harder, your movements fueled by a desperate need for release. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, the tension building with each passing moment as you chased the elusive peak of ecstasy.

Brandon watched you with rapt attention, his eyes filled with desire as he surrendered himself to the pleasure of your union. He groaned softly as he felt you tighten around him, the sensation driving him closer to the edge with each passing moment.

At the sight of you throwing your head back in ecstasy, Brandon felt his own climax approaching rapidly. With a guttural moan of pleasure, he let go of all restraint, surrendering himself completely to the overwhelming sensation of release. As you reached climax, your body shuddering with the intensity of your pleasure, Brandon held you close, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he supported your weight. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he rode out the waves of his orgasm with you.

And as he came deep inside you, filling you with his seed, you felt a surge of contentment wash over you, knowing that you had given him everything he desired. You melted into his embrace, your bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs as you basked in the afterglow of your passionate encounter.

As you both calmed down, Brandon pulled you to lie down next to him, his arms wrapped around you protectively as he held you close. You snuggled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. But as Brandon fell asleep beside you, a wave of sadness washed over you, threatening to engulf you in its depths. You knew that your relationship with Brandon was built on a foundation of duty and obligation, not love. He had made it clear that you were here just to give him children, nothing more.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, leaving you feeling empty and hollow inside. You didn't deserve him, you didn't deserve Brandon's love. He was kind and compassionate, everything you could ever want in a partner, but you knew that he would never love you the way you longed to be loved.

And as you stood up to get dressed, ignoring the sticky remnants of his cum running down your thighs, you couldn't help but feel a sense of despair wash over you. You cast one last look at Brandon's sleeping form, the ache in your heart growing more unbearable with each passing moment.

But as you turned away, tears streaming down your cheeks, you made a silent vow to yourself. You would bury your feelings deep within yourself, locking them away where no one could find them. You would continue to fulfill your duty as Brandon's wife, even if it meant sacrificing your own happiness in the process.

With a heavy heart, you slipped into your clothes and made your way back to your cabin, back to your books, and your stars. It was the only solace you had left, the only thing that could distract you from the pain of knowing that you would never have the love you so desperately craved.

Brandon woke up the next morning with a satisfied sigh, his body still tingling with the lingering sensations of their passionate encounter from the night before. He reached out instinctively, his arm seeking the warmth of your body as he pulled you close, his heart swelling with affection at the thought of waking up beside you.

But to his dismay, Brandon's hand met only empty space, his fingers brushing against the cool fabric of the pillow beneath him. Confusion clouded his mind for a moment as he blinked away the remnants of sleep, his eyes scanning the room in search of you.

And then, with a sinking feeling in his chest, Brandon realized the truth—you were gone. Once again, you had left him alone in the marital bed, slipping away in the darkness of the night without so much as a goodbye.

Disappointment washed over Brandon like a tidal wave, his heart heavy with the weight of your absence. He had hoped that last night's passionate encounter would bring you closer together, that it would be a step towards building a deeper connection between you.

But as he lay there in the empty bed, Brandon couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that settled over him like a shroud. He longed for your presence, for the warmth of your body pressed against his, but he knew that you were gone, leaving him to face another day alone.

With a heavy sigh, Brandon turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a sense of resignation. He was tired of this—tired of the constant cycle of intimacy followed by solitude, tired of feeling like he was always left wanting more.

Rubbing his face tiredly, Brandon knew that he couldn't continue like this. He had to talk to you, to address the underlying issues that were driving you apart. He couldn't keep ignoring the elephant in the room, pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.

And so, with a sense of determination, Brandon promised himself that he would broach the subject with you when you came over again that night. He couldn't let things continue like this, couldn't let the distance between you grow any further.

But for now, Brandon pushed aside his worries, forcing himself to focus on the tasks at hand. There were duties to attend to, responsibilities to fulfill, and he couldn't afford to let his personal struggles interfere with his professional life.

With a deep breath, Brandon pushed himself out of bed, steeling himself for the day ahead. He didn't know what the future held for him and you, but he knew that he couldn't keep living like this, trapped in a cycle of longing and disappointment.

Brandon longed for more than just stolen moments in the dead of night; he wanted to be with you, truly and completely, in every sense of the word. And so, he resolved to confront you, to lay bare his heart and soul in the hopes of finding solace in your arms once more.

And so, on that fateful night, as the hours stretched on without any sign of your arrival, Brandon found himself growing increasingly anxious. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that you needed him now more than ever.

With a sense of urgency, Brandon made his way to the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest as he prepared himself for what he might find inside. And when he entered, he was met with the sight of you lost in another one of your episodes, drawing intricate constellations on the wooden floor as you mumbled to yourself.

"[Your Name], it's me, Christopher," he called out softly, his voice filled with concern as he approached you cautiously. "Can you hear me? It's going to be alright, I'm here."

You looked at him and smiled, beckoning him closer. Brandon realized that you weren't in one of your manic episodes, at least it didn't seem like it. He approached cautiously, a mix of relief and confusion flooding his senses. "What are you doing?" he asked gently, his concern evident in his voice.

You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm. "I'm drawing my favorite constellations," you replied, a hint of excitement in your tone. "The sky is beautiful tonight, don't you think?"

Brandon felt a surge of frustration bubbling within him, his worry dissipating into annoyance. "That's it?" he exclaimed, unable to contain his frustration any longer. "You didn't come to me because you were drawing constellations?"

You looked at him, confusion clouding your features as you processed his words. "I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to dishonor our agreement, but I just... I lost track of time."

But your words only seemed to frustrate Brandon even more, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to comprehend your actions. "Is that all this is to you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Just a deal?"

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you struggled to find the right words. "How should I see it then?" you questioned, your voice barely above a whisper.

Brandon looked away, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "Maybe... maybe I want something more," he admitted quietly, his voice filled with uncertainty. "I... I think I'm in love with you."

You interrupted him, shaking your head in disbelief as you backed away from him. "No," you whispered, your voice tinged with sadness. "You barely talk to me, Colonel. How could you possibly love me?"

But Brandon insisted, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes with determination. "I see you, [Your Name]," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "I see you helping the servants when you're not alone in the cabin. I see how you light up when you talk about astronomy, how passionate you are about the stars. And those nighttime conversations we have... they mean more to me than you'll ever know."

You remained skeptical, your gaze fixed on him with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "You can't love me," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you turned away from him. "It would be better if you extinguished that love now, before it consumes you. Fall in love with another woman, but not with me."

Brandon's heart clenched at your words, the pain evident in your voice cutting him to the core. "No," he protested, reaching out to you desperately. "I don't want to be in love with anyone else. I want to be with you, [Your Name]. Please, let me show you how much you mean to me."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you were about to say. "I heard rumors that Marianne Dashwood will no longer marry John Willoughby," you explained, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "Maybe you can ask for an annulment of our marriage, claiming that I am crazy, so you are free to go after Marianne."

Brandon's eyes widened in surprise at your suggestion, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. "How do you know about Marianne?" he questioned, his tone laced with disbelief. "And why would you suggest such a thing?"

You smiled sadly at him, the weight of your words heavy on your heart. "I heard Jenkins happily commenting on this with other employees," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "He seemed eager to see you away from me."

Brandon's expression darkened at the mention of Jenkins, his frustration mounting as he struggled to come to terms with the implications of your words. "Jenkins has no right to meddle in our affairs," he muttered, his voice tinged with anger. "And Marianne... Marianne is not the solution to our problems."

You looked at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes as you processed his words. "But you love her, don't you?" you questioned softly, a hint of sadness in your tone.

Brandon's gaze softened as he met your eyes, his voice filled with sincerity. "I thought I did, once," he admitted quietly. "But that was before I met you."

You looked at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But how can that be?" you questioned, confusion evident in your voice. "I'm nothing like Marianne. I'm not beautiful, or charming, or witty."

Brandon reached out to you, gently cupping your face in his hands as he met your gaze with unwavering determination. "You may not be Marianne, but you are everything to me," he replied softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You are kind, compassionate, and brave. And who says you're not beautiful? You are simply stunning."

You push Brandon's hand away, your heart heavy with disbelief and self-doubt. "You don't know what you're talking about," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just a crazy woman, Colonel. You shouldn't waste your time on me."

But Brandon refuses to back down, his eyes filled with sincerity as he reaches out to you once more. "It doesn't matter if you're crazy or not," he insists, his voice unwavering. "You're my wife, don't you see? I want you, all of you."

You shake your head in disbelief, unable to comprehend his words. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "Why would you want someone like me?"

Brandon's expression softens as he looks at you, his gaze filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with conviction. "You're kind, and compassionate, and brave. And I... I think I'm falling in love with you."

You stare at him in shock, unable to believe what you're hearing. "But Marianne..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you struggle to find the right words.

Brandon interrupts you gently, his voice filled with understanding. "Marianne sent me letters, asking me to visit her," he admits quietly. "But I refused, because... because of you. I want to explore this love, this connection that I feel with you. Marianne is not the solution to our problems. You are. Give me an occupation, [Your Name], or I shall run mad.”

Tears fill your eyes as you look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. "I don't deserve you," you whisper, your voice barely audible as you turn away from him.

But Brandon refuses to let you retreat into your self-doubt, reaching out to you and gently turning you back to face him. "It doesn't matter," he insists, his voice filled with determination. "It doesn't matter if you think you're not worthy of love. Because to me, you're everything."

You meet his gaze, your heart aching with longing and uncertainty. "But what if I have another episode?" you question hesitantly, your voice tinged with fear.

Brandon's expression softens, his hand reaching out to gently caress your cheek. "Then we'll face it together," he replies softly. "I'll be by your side, every step of the way. Because you're not alone, [Your Name]. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

You look away, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. The weight of Brandon's words hangs heavy in the air, his vulnerability laid bare before you. You want to say something, to reassure him of your feelings, but the words catch in your throat, choked by the fear and uncertainty that have plagued you for so long.

Brandon waits patiently for you to speak, his gaze searching yours for any sign of understanding. But when you remain silent, a defeated look crosses his features, his shoulders slumping in resignation.

"Maybe... maybe it's you who doesn't love me," he murmurs softly, his voice filled with a hint of desperation.

You feel a pang of guilt at his words, a surge of emotion welling up inside you as you struggle to find the courage to speak. But then, before you can stop yourself, the words spill from your lips in a rush of emotion.

"No, Christopher, it's not that," you interject, your voice trembling with emotion. "I love you. How could I not, after all the kindness you've shown me? There aren't enough stars in the sky to quantify how deeply I've fallen for you."

You pause, taking a shaky breath as you gather your thoughts. Weeks ago, when you overheard Brandon referring to you as a necessary burden, it had shattered your heart. You had never wanted to be seen as a burden to him, but your madness seemed to make it unavoidable.

"But I know that I can't make you happy," you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "But Marianne... she's young and beautiful. She'll have a much better chance of giving you children and making you happy. And the employees will like her. It will be better that way. I will no longer be a burden to you."

Tears fill your eyes as you speak, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. You know that this is your destiny, to fade into the background, with only the stars for company.

Brandon listens to you in silence, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. When you finish speaking, he reaches out to you, gently wiping away your tears with his thumb.

"You are not a burden, [Your Name]," he whispers softly, his voice filled with conviction. "And I don't want anyone else. I want you, just as you are. Marianne may have her charms, but she's not you. And I love you."

You look up at him, disbelief written all over your face. "But why?" you question, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

Brandon smiles tenderly at you, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Because you're you," he replies simply, his voice filled with sincerity. "And that's all I need."

#colonel brandon #alan rickman #marianne dashwood #sense and sensibility #colonel brandon x reader #alan rickman x reader #oc

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panakinthedisco · 1 month ago

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i haven’t updated anything in here coz irl BUT just coming back that people should stop remaking pride and prejudice when sense and sensibility is right there (tho i’m a big fan of ang lee’s S&S)…..

and PEDRO PASCAL AS COLONEL BRANDON 😭

we got the material LIKE SERIOUSLY. GIVE HIM A REGENCY ERA ROLE PLEASE

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urgogodancer · 3 months ago

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currently on holiday but you guys....i watched sense and sensibility (1995) on my way to my holiday AND WHAT IF I DID LIKE AN AU OF THAT WITH GWAYNE AS COLONEL BRANDON LOLOLOL my jane austen brainrot is off the roof right now. let me know if it's a good idea cus im desperate to write anything atp!!

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne x reader #ser gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #house of the dragon #house hightower #freddie fox #gwayne hightower x oc #old town #welighttheway #sense and sensibility #jane austen

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aldryrththerainbowheart · 6 months ago

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Because peeps asked for part 2, here's some more Austen referrences Jason's sweetheart makes.

“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.” You mumble in Jason's hair, to make sure he knows how much you cherish him letting you see this side of him.

“Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.” You muse during one of those quiet evenings at your apartments, sitting at the kitchen floor while Jason lets you patch up his pullet wound.

“To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.” You probe Jason verbally so he finally concedes and dances with you at his father's gala at least once.

“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” You hiss indignantly to Jason's ear after you had misfortune of meeting a person who had the audacity to tell you that reading is boring.

"I have loved none but you. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan." Jason whisper to you after you confessed to him that you feel like you're dragging him down. You were, in fact, not in Bath. But Jason knew you understand his words perfectly.

#jason todd red hood #jason todd drabble #red hood drabble #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jane austen quote #pride and prejudice #sense and sensibility #mansfield park #persuation

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 3 months ago

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A Dashwood Heart

Word count: 4.8k

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Reader

Summary: The eldest Dashwood daughter, devoted to her younger half-sisters, moves with her family to Barton Cottage after their father's death leaves them with little inheritance. She secretly admires Colonel Brandon, who initially favors her sister Marianne.

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The passing of my father, Henry Dashwood, left a weight that settled heavy in the marrow of our bones. His death, unexpected in its swiftness, brought with it the end of comfort and the beginning of uncertainty. I am the eldest daughter of his first marriage, older by only five years than Elinor, the eldest daughter of his second. I had never known my own mother, who died bringing me into this world, and so my father’s second wife was the only mother I had ever known. She was kind and patient, and my sisters and I grew under her gentle guidance.

My older brother John inherited everything when Father passed, as was the law, but with it came his wife, Fanny—a woman whose character was as sharp as her tongue. Fanny Dashwood's arrival at Norland Park was not unlike a frost that comes too early in autumn, turning the leaves brittle and stripping the branches bare. Her presence suffocated any joy that had remained after Father’s passing. It became clear that our new reality, under John's roof, was not one we could endure. Thus, we set our sights on Barton Cottage, a modest home offered by a distant relation, Sir John Middleton.

The cottage was small and plain, lacking the grandeur and refinement of Norland Park. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in charm. We were together, and so it was enough. Elinor, Marianne, Margaret, our mother, and I—all of us settled into this new life with a mixture of trepidation and determination.

I had always been a second mother to my younger sisters, a role that came naturally to me as the eldest girl. I felt a special kinship with Margaret, who, being the youngest, had a particular need for a guiding hand. Elinor, though close in age to me, often bore her own burdens quietly. Marianne, on the other hand, with her romantic ideals and fiery spirit, needed a steadying force. I often thought it was my duty to be that force, even if she did not see it.

As time passed, our days at Barton Cottage grew filled with the warmth of companionship and the quiet joys of a simpler life. I found solace in the small routines—mending, reading, walking along the countryside with Margaret. For a time, I was content, even happy. But then, the company at Barton Park—the home of Sir John Middleton and his mother-in-law, Lady Jennings—brought a new awareness into my life.

It was during one of our frequent visits to Barton Park that I first observed Colonel Brandon. He was a man of quiet composure, with an air of reserve that spoke of unspoken sorrows. He was a gentleman, older than the other men we often met, but with a certain gravity that I found quite compelling. His attentions, however, were firmly fixed on Marianne.

I watched, often from a quiet corner of the room, as his eyes followed her movements, as he listened intently to her musical performances, his expression softening with every note she played. He would sit close enough to speak, yet always waited until she addressed him, his voice low and gentle when he did. It was clear that his admiration for her was genuine, but Marianne, so young and full of romantic ideals, was blind to his feelings.

Instead, she became enchanted by John Willoughby, a young man full of wit and charm. Willoughby, with his easy smiles and impetuous manner, was everything Marianne believed a hero to be. Colonel Brandon, seeing this, withdrew with quiet grace. I admired him for it, though it seemed his heart must surely ache. I began to feel a tug at my own heartstrings—a sense of kinship with him, perhaps, or an unspoken admiration.

One afternoon, as I sat with Elinor on the lawn at Barton Park, I ventured to speak of the Colonel.

"He is a man of remarkable steadiness, is he not?" I said, glancing over to where he stood, a little apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the distant hills.

Elinor nodded, her eyes following mine. "Indeed, he is. I find his company most agreeable, though he speaks but little."

"I have noticed that too," I replied. "Yet, there is much to be discerned in what he does not say. He has a manner that speaks of deep feeling, I think."

Elinor regarded me with a small smile. "Do you think so, sister? I believe you are right."

I could not help but feel a faint blush warm my cheeks. "It is only an observation," I murmured, turning my gaze to the ground. I had grown accustomed to being unnoticed, overshadowed by Marianne's beauty and Elinor's quiet elegance. Yet, I could not help but wonder if anyone had ever truly seen me—noticed me.

Days turned into weeks, and I continued to observe Colonel Brandon from a distance. I knew more about him than he would ever know of me, gleaned from quiet conversations with Elinor and overheard remarks from Lady Jennings, who was forever trying to marry off everyone in her sight.

"He is a good man, but so very serious," Lady Jennings had said one day. "A little dull for my tastes, but a fortune and a fine estate at Delaford. That is something, is it not?"

It was one evening, while we were all gathered at Barton Park, that I saw a change in him. Marianne was at the piano, playing one of her lively sonatas, and Willoughby was near, his admiration evident in every glance. Colonel Brandon, standing by the window, watched them, his face a study in quiet resignation. I saw, in that moment, the precise second his gaze shifted—away from Marianne and, for the first time, toward me.

I looked away quickly, my heart unexpectedly fluttering. Did he see me? Did he see something in me that he had not seen before? But no, it could not be. A man like him, so full of dignity and experience, would never turn his attention toward someone as inconsequential as myself.

The next time we met, it was at Barton Cottage. I was sitting with Margaret, helping her with her stitching, when there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find Colonel Brandon standing there, his expression as grave as ever, yet his eyes—his eyes were softer somehow.

"Miss Dashwood," he said, inclining his head. "I hope I am not intruding. Sir John mentioned that Miss Marianne had been unwell, and I thought to bring some books she might enjoy."

I invited him in, my voice trembling slightly, though I hoped he would not notice. He handed me the books, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest of moments. There was a warmth in his touch that startled me, and I quickly withdrew my hand.

"Thank you, Colonel," I said, mustering a smile. "I am sure Marianne will appreciate your thoughtfulness."

He nodded, his eyes searching mine. "And you, Miss Dashwood—are you well?"

The question took me by surprise, and I hesitated. "I am quite well, thank you, Colonel."

He seemed to want to say more, but just then, Marianne entered the room, and his attention shifted back to her. I could not help but feel a small pang of disappointment, but I knew better than to hope for anything more.

The days passed, and Colonel Brandon continued to visit, sometimes bringing books, sometimes just to call. Each time, he was polite and reserved, his conversations directed more often to my sisters than to me. Yet, there were moments—small, fleeting moments—when his eyes would linger on mine, and I would feel a warmth spread through my chest that I could not quite name.

It was a slow realization, like a bud slowly unfurling in spring, that perhaps, just perhaps, he saw something in me. And yet, I dared not hope, for I had never known what it was to be truly seen or wanted by anyone.

One afternoon, as we walked along the hills near Barton, I found myself walking beside him, a little apart from the others. There was a comfortable silence between us, the kind that comes from a shared understanding. I dared to speak.

"Do you think, Colonel," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, "that it is possible for someone to be overlooked all their life, and yet still hold hope for something more?"

He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I felt the weight of his gaze settle upon my heart.

"I believe," he said slowly, "that there are those who go unnoticed because they are waiting for someone who sees them for who they truly are. And when that person comes, they will see them more clearly than anyone ever has."

I could hardly breathe. "Do you believe you have found such a person, Colonel?"

His eyes softened, and for the first time, I saw a hint of a smile touch his lips. "I think, Miss Dashwood, that I am beginning to see more than I ever expected."

As we walked on, my heart felt lighter than it had in years. Colonel Brandon’s words lingered in my mind, an echo of a possibility that had never before seemed within reach. I stole a glance at him beside me—his face turned toward the rolling hills, his expression contemplative. What did he see when he looked at me? Could he truly have meant that he was beginning to see me in a new light?

But no—doubts crept in as swiftly as the hope had formed. Perhaps he was merely being kind. Perhaps I had read too much into his words, a desperate grasping for something that was never there. I chastised myself inwardly and forced my thoughts back to the present.

Marianne, who had been ahead with Margaret, suddenly paused on the path. She turned back to us, her curls catching the light of the afternoon sun. “Colonel! Miss Dashwood! You must join us,” she called. “The view from here is quite extraordinary.”

Colonel Brandon’s gaze shifted from the hills to me. “Shall we?” he asked.

I nodded, and we walked the short distance to where Marianne and Margaret stood. As we reached them, I noticed the way Colonel Brandon’s eyes softened as he looked at Marianne. She was his first love here, I reminded myself, and my hopes began to wane again.

The four of us stood together, looking out over the valley, where the sunlight bathed the fields in a warm, golden hue. It was breathtaking, and for a moment, all my worries faded away.

Marianne, however, could never be quiet for long. “Colonel Brandon,” she began with a teasing smile, “you have been in a most serious mood all day. Come, share with us what weighs so heavily on your mind. Or is it that you have a secret you wish to keep hidden?”

He chuckled softly, a rare sound that drew my attention back to him. “I assure you, Miss Marianne, I am quite content at present,” he replied. “Though, perhaps I am simply in awe of the company I find myself in.”

Marianne laughed, a light and melodic sound. “You always know just what to say, Colonel. But I still believe there is something you are not telling us.”

“I assure you, my secrets are few,” he said, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he turned his gaze back to Marianne. “Though I do think some things are best left to be discovered in time.”

Marianne, in her spirited way, rolled her eyes and turned back to the view. Margaret, on the other hand, looked between us with a knowing grin, her youthful mind ever so quick to notice things others might overlook. I gave her a soft nudge, and she giggled, running ahead to explore a small cluster of wildflowers.

That evening, back at Barton Cottage, I found myself lost in thought. I could hardly focus on the book in my lap, my mind drifting back to the Colonel’s words on the hillside. Elinor, ever perceptive, noticed my distraction.

“Are you quite well, sister?” she asked, closing her own book and setting it aside. “You seem troubled.”

I hesitated for a moment. Elinor was always so sensible, so grounded in reality. “I am merely… contemplative, I suppose,” I replied. “I have been thinking about Colonel Brandon.”

Elinor raised an eyebrow, but her expression was gentle. “He is a thoughtful man, and I believe he holds you in high regard. It is only natural to think of him, given how often he is in our company these days.”

“Do you truly think so?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “That he holds me in high regard, I mean?”

Elinor smiled softly. “Yes, I do. I see the way he looks at you sometimes when he believes no one is watching. There is a certain tenderness there.”

My heart fluttered at her words, but I still felt uncertain. “I do not wish to be foolish,” I said quietly. “He is older and has known his share of heartbreak. I wonder if he could ever see me as… anything more.”

Elinor reached for my hand, squeezing it gently. “You are kind and steady, and you see people as they truly are. If he does not see that, then he is a fool, which I do not believe he is.”

Her words offered some comfort, and I decided then to wait and see. I had no great expectations—only the smallest glimmer of hope that perhaps, in time, things might become clearer.

The weeks passed, and Colonel Brandon’s visits became more frequent. He brought with him a sense of calm that I found increasingly soothing. Sometimes, he would stay to read with us in the parlor, his low, steady voice filling the room with a quiet intimacy that made my heart ache in the loveliest of ways. At other times, he would invite us to walk, and though his steps often fell beside Marianne’s, his gaze would drift to me more often than not.

One evening, as we sat together after supper, he asked me a question that took me by surprise.

“Miss Dashwood, I have observed that you have a particular fondness for poetry,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Do you have a favorite poet?”

I looked up, startled that he had noticed something so personal about me. “I—I do, Colonel. I have always been drawn to Wordsworth. His verses speak of nature and the human spirit in a way that resonates deeply with me.”

He nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. “Wordsworth is indeed a master of capturing the beauty and complexity of life. Perhaps, one day, you would do me the honor of sharing some of your favorite passages.”

“I would be delighted,” I replied softly, my cheeks warming under his gaze.

Marianne, who had been listening, smiled broadly. “Oh, Colonel, you must hear my sister recite! She has a way with words, truly. You would be enraptured.”

I blushed deeply, but Colonel Brandon’s smile widened ever so slightly. “I have no doubt that I would be,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

As the days grew warmer, so too did my feelings for Colonel Brandon. I could no longer deny that my heart had grown quite attached to him, even if I could not be sure of his feelings in return. There were moments when I believed he saw me as more than just another Miss Dashwood, but I dared not hope too much.

One afternoon, as we walked back from Barton Park, Colonel Brandon lingered behind with me while the others walked ahead. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, and the soft rustle of leaves filled the silence between us. I could feel the weight of something unsaid hanging in the air, and I found myself wanting to fill it.

“Colonel Brandon,” I began cautiously, “I have been thinking much on our conversations lately.”

He turned to me, his expression attentive. “And what conclusions have you come to, Miss Dashwood?”

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. “Only that… I value them greatly. More than I had expected to.”

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something there—something warm and sincere. “I value them as well,” he said softly. “You have a quiet strength, Miss Dashwood. It is… a quality I have come to admire greatly.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You honor me with your words, Colonel,” I murmured. “Though I have done nothing to earn such praise.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary. You have earned far more than I can express. There is a grace in your manner, a kindness in your heart that speaks volumes.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Could it be that he truly saw me? That he valued me not just as a friend, but as something more?

Before I could find the courage to speak, Marianne called back to us, her voice breaking the moment. “Come along, you two! You are falling behind!”

We resumed our pace, but the silence that followed was no longer uncomfortable. It was filled with a new understanding, a new possibility.

It was a few days later when the opportunity for another conversation presented itself. Colonel Brandon arrived at Barton Cottage early, before any of the others were up and about. I was in the garden, tending to some of the late-blooming flowers, when I saw him approach.

“Good morning, Miss Dashwood,” he greeted me, a softness in his tone that sent a thrill through me.

“Good morning, Colonel,” I replied, brushing the dirt from my hands. “You are early today.”

He nodded, looking almost hesitant. “I hoped to speak with you alone, if I might.”

My heart began to race. “Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He took a deep breath, and for a moment, he seemed to gather his thoughts. “Miss Dashwood,” he began, “I have found great comfort in your company these past weeks. You have shown me a kindness that I had thought lost to me. And I find myself… drawn to you in a way I had not expected.”

I could hardly breathe. “Colonel, I—”

He held up a hand, his expression earnest. “Please, allow me to finish. I know I am not a young man. I have lived through much, and I do not offer my heart lightly. But if you could ever see it in your own heart to care for me even a fraction of how I have come to care for you, I would be the most fortunate man.”

Tears filled my eyes as I listened to his words—words I had never dared to hope for. “Oh, Colonel,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You have seen me when I thought no one ever would. And I… I have come to care for you deeply, more than I ever thought possible.”

His face broke into a smile, the kind of smile that transformed his entire countenance, and he took a step closer. “Then, may I hope, Miss Dashwood, that we might find happiness together?”

As the days passed, I found myself growing closer to Colonel Brandon. Our conversations were filled with a warmth and understanding that I had never known before. He would visit Barton Cottage frequently, bringing with him a quiet sense of comfort and constancy that I had come to cherish. When we were alone or with Elinor, his attention was always on me—his gaze gentle, his words thoughtful. I could feel the beginnings of a deep bond forming between us, a connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

But there was a change in Marianne—a shift in her demeanor that was impossible to ignore. She had always been the center of attention, the bright star that drew everyone’s gaze. Colonel Brandon had once been enthralled by her every word, her every movement. Yet now, his attentions had turned toward me, and though Marianne had been enamored with John Willoughby, I could see the flicker of jealousy in her eyes.

One afternoon, as we all sat in the small parlor at Barton Cottage, Marianne decided to play the piano. She chose a lively piece, one that she knew Colonel Brandon favored. She glanced at him often as she played, her eyes bright with a mixture of mischief and expectation. But though he listened politely, his attention kept drifting back to me, where I sat beside Elinor, quietly observing the scene unfold.

Marianne finished the piece with a flourish and turned to the Colonel, her smile wide. “What do you think, Colonel? Is it not a fine composition?”

He nodded, offering her a small smile. “Indeed, Miss Marianne, you play it with great spirit.”

She seemed dissatisfied with his restrained praise. “But you seem distracted, Colonel. Tell me, where are your thoughts this afternoon? Have they wandered far from this room?”

Colonel Brandon’s eyes flicked briefly to mine, and I felt my breath catch. “I assure you, Miss Marianne, I am very much present,” he replied. “But there is much to contemplate in such company.”

Marianne’s smile faltered slightly. She looked between the Colonel and me, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You have been most attentive to my sister lately, Colonel,” she said with a forced lightness. “I had thought your admiration was reserved for more… romantic sensibilities.”

Elinor, sensing the tension, interjected quickly. “Marianne, the Colonel has been a good friend to us all. There is no need to assign motives where there are none.”

But Marianne was not to be deterred. “Oh, I only jest, of course. It is all in good fun.”

I could feel my cheeks warming under her scrutiny. Colonel Brandon, however, remained calm and composed. “I assure you, Miss Marianne,” he said, his voice steady, “my admiration extends to all those whose company I enjoy.”

Marianne seemed unsatisfied with this answer, but she forced a smile nonetheless. I could see the hint of something sharp behind her eyes—a flicker of resentment that she tried to mask with a laugh.

From that moment on, her demeanor toward the Colonel changed subtly. She became more flirtatious, more eager to draw his attention back to herself. She would seek him out in conversation, touch his arm lightly when speaking to him, and laugh brightly at his every comment. It was as if she could not bear the thought of his gaze resting anywhere but on her.

One evening, as we prepared to walk back from Barton Park, Marianne pulled Colonel Brandon aside, leaving me standing with Elinor and Margaret. I watched them from a distance, trying to quell the rising tide of insecurity within me. Elinor, ever perceptive, noticed my unease.

“She does not mean to be cruel,” Elinor said quietly. “She is simply unused to sharing attention. It will pass.”

I nodded, trying to smile, but my heart felt heavy. “I only hope she understands that I would never wish to come between her and someone she cares for.”

Elinor squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Colonel Brandon is not Willoughby, nor is he someone to be swayed by fleeting affections. Trust in his character, sister.”

I tried to take comfort in her words, but the doubt lingered.

It was not long after this that an unexpected letter arrived at Barton Cottage, bearing the unmistakable seal of my brother, John Dashwood. The contents were brief and to the point: he and Fanny would be visiting in a week’s time, bringing with them “important news” regarding my future.

Elinor read the letter aloud to our mother, who immediately grew anxious. “What could they possibly want now?” she murmured, her brow furrowed with concern.

“I can hardly imagine it is anything good,” I replied quietly, already feeling a sense of foreboding.

When John and Fanny arrived, it was as though a cold wind had blown through the cottage. Fanny swept into the room with her usual air of superiority, her eyes scanning the modest furnishings with thinly veiled disdain. John, though more subdued, still carried himself with a certain aloofness that made it clear he considered himself above our current situation.

“Ah, dear sister,” John said with a strained smile, “how… quaint it is here.”

I forced a smile in return. “We have made it quite comfortable, thank you.”

Fanny wasted no time in getting to the point. “My dear, we have come to bring you some wonderful news,” she said, her voice dripping with false cheer. “John has taken it upon himself to find a suitable match for you, as it is his duty as your brother. And you shall be leaving with us for London in a week’s time to meet your future husband.”

The words hit me like a blow. “A suitable match?” I echoed, struggling to keep my voice steady. “But I have not—”

��Of course, you have not met him yet,” Fanny interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “But he is a most respectable gentleman, with a fine income and a comfortable estate. You shall be well provided for, and we have already made the necessary arrangements.”

Elinor’s eyes flashed with anger. “And what if my sister does not wish to marry this man?”

Fanny’s smile was tight and condescending. “Elinor, dear, it is not a matter of what she wishes. It is a matter of what is best for her. And John, as her guardian, has decided this is best.”

I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. I had no say in this decision, and they knew it.

Colonel Brandon, who had come to call just as the conversation took a darker turn, stood in the doorway, his face a mask of quiet concern. He had clearly heard enough to understand the gravity of the situation. His eyes met mine, and I saw the turmoil there—the unspoken question of what he should do.

That evening, as we sat by the fire, Colonel Brandon pulled John aside for a private word. I watched them from a distance, my heart in my throat, as the Colonel spoke with my brother in low, earnest tones.

“Mr. Dashwood,” I heard him say, “I understand your intentions toward your sister are, perhaps, well-meaning, but I must speak on her behalf.”

John looked startled. “On her behalf? And who are you to speak for her, Colonel?”

“A friend,” he replied, his voice steady. “A friend who believes she deserves the right to choose her own future.”

John’s expression shifted, growing defensive. “I am her brother, her guardian. It is my duty to see her well settled. And the match I have found for her is more than adequate.”

Colonel Brandon’s eyes darkened. “With all due respect, a match is more than adequate when it is chosen with the heart in mind. Your sister deserves more than an arrangement; she deserves happiness.”

John scoffed. “And you believe you know what will make her happy?”

There was a long pause. “I would hope to know her well enough to understand what she needs,” Colonel Brandon said quietly. “And I would ask that you allow her the choice to stay.”

John’s face hardened. “Colonel, I appreciate your concern, but this is a family matter. She will come with us to London, and that is final.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Colonel Brandon standing there, his expression troubled. I watched him, my heart aching with gratitude and frustration. He had tried—tried to speak for me, to stand against the forces that sought to control my fate. But it seemed all for naught.

Later that night, as the household settled into uneasy silence, Colonel Brandon asked to speak with me alone. We stepped out into the moonlit garden, the cool night air brushing against my skin.

“I am sorry,” he began, his voice low and filled with regret. “I tried to reason with your brother, but he is determined. I fear I have only made matters worse.”

“You have done more than anyone else would have,” I replied, my voice trembling. “You have shown me a kindness I did not think possible, and for that, I am grateful.”

He took a step closer, his eyes searching mine. “If you wish it, I would go to London myself. I would speak with this gentleman your brother has chosen and make it clear that your heart is not free to be given.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You would do that for me?”

He nodded, his expression earnest. “I would do anything to see you happy, even if it means letting you go.”

Tears filled my eyes, and I reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I do not wish to go to London. I do not wish to meet this man. I wish to stay here, with you… and with my family.”

#alan rickman x reader #fanfiction #reader insert #fanfic #alan rickman #colonel brandon #Colonel Brandon x reader #sense and sensibility #marianne dashwood #elinor dashwood #x reader #alan rickman fanfic #alan rickman characters

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rosebudfics · 11 months ago

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~PLEASE READ BEFORE REQUESTING~

Minors DNI or lerk in the shadows

Hello fellow snape lovers! This is a new blog however I am not new to writing! I have a separate blog specifically for writing but I will not let anyone know what it is due to the fact that I am afraid I will receive hate/threats because I enjoy Harry Potter. And before anyone comes at me, no I do not condone to the actions that JK Rowling has done!!! I simply just enjoy the series because of how much comfort it brings me.

Request Rules:

I WILL write: fluff, angst, suggestive, female and sometimes gender neutral reader unless its spicy, and domestic stuff!!

I will NOT write: Smut, incest, pedophillia, rape/no consent, racism, homophobia, abuse, professor x student, daddy kink, piss/shit fetish or anything related to those!!

As for the characters I will write for, I will mainly write for Severus Snape however I am open to recieving requests for Colonel Brandon from Sense and Sensibility, Sheriff Nottingham from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Hans Gruber from Die Hard, and David Friedman from Judas Kiss!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I will write head canons, drabbles, and short fics! Possibly full length fics if an idea that i really like is either requested or i think of!

Masterlist Below the cut!

Severus Snape

New Professor - Snape x Professor! Reader

Sick Days - Snape x Wife! Reader

Girl Dad - Dad! Snape x Mom! Reader

Secret Lovers - Snape x Wife! Reader

Colonel Brandon

Your Last Night - (ANGST) Colonel Brandon x ill! Reader

Sheriff Nottingham

Nothing yet!

Hans gruber

Nothing yet!

David Friedman

Nothing yet!

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deepperplexity · 1 year ago

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Prompt 5. Grave Of Snow [A2]

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!Reader

POV: Second, Reader & Third, Brandon

Setting: The Lands Around Delaford Estate & Delaford Estate

Continuation of: Prompt 1. Chimney Soot

A/N: This was harder to write than I'd thought it would be. My own greatest death fear is drowning, no other manner of dying scares me more than that but this fic as being buried alive and it's quite a horrendous thing too - and it's Christmas time, what a super jolly way to spend it 😂 Gosh, I hope you weren't expecting Rickmas2023 to be all sweet and fluffy 🙈👍❤

On another note, we're making an ice rink in our backyard (nearly done) and I just realised this year I have no prompt for ice skating 😱 Like, sure, you can connect almost any prompt with Ice Skating but there's no dedicated prompt for it this year - feels a little weird 😂

Tags/TW’s: Buried Alive, Fear Of Being Harmed, Mentions Past Physical Hurt (hand lashing and punishment), Fear Of Losing Someone, Mentions Past/Current Fears (being buried alive) ...and good doggies doing a good job too

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name

Word Count: 3.2k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

⩤• You •⩥

You wiped at your face, the soot still clung to your skin, leaving you looking like a bandit raccoon as the handkerchief had protected your lower face. The dusty dress lay abandoned on the floor as you pulled on the rags you’d come to Delaford in. This can’t be happening, cannot, cannot be happening! The colonel! I-, I-, oh, I’m my own ruin!

You banged open the door, and slammed it shut by cheer force while running before you even released the handle. The winding, narrow steps were a death trap in your rush to get away. You were not going to stay for a lashing, for a rough yelling, for any punishment the upstanding man deemed fit for your actions — for your lack of knowledge about the very man himself rendering you unable to treat him correctly even. You didn’t even take the time to say goodbye to Mrs Garber, or inform Cook about you leaving. You just ran out into the snowy winter land outside as the winds whipped around, tossing about that very snow. While the clouds hid the warming rays of the sun, the sky was as grey as your trembling hands.

The night had gifted the world with another few inches of snow the stable boys were helping the other servants to shovel, but the servants’ side wasn’t cleared yet so your legs plummeted into the white cold to your mid-thighs. You shivered and hissed as your dress hiked up, the long underpants you wore upon your arrival were still up in your quarters. Your rush hadn’t allowed for more than your dress, shoes, and cloak to be put on.

You clumsily forced your way through the snow, not knowing where any paths were you only focused on reaching the tree line up ahead. It was far off, but you were determined to get away before anyone could get their hands on you. His gentle eyes still lingered in your head, the sweet warmth his voice spread through you, the slight scrutiny he’d viewed you with — as if he’d been trying to see beyond the soot and covering handkerchief. You’d never felt any tingle like the one he’d made your skin warm under. What was that even? A sudden lapse of judgement? A lust, like other men throw my way when they want to take advantage?No, that thought didn’t sit right with you. His gentleness was too clear, yet you knew nothing about him and you had met people like that before. Kind, caring, sweet — on the outside. Behind closed doors, that was a different matter entirely.

You feel forward, plummeting into the snow as your foot tripped on something. You were crawling forward a second later, determined to reach the trees, to hide among them and get away from the estate you had hoped would have been your salvation through the freezing winter. Now, well, you were even worse off than before. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I shouldn’t have tried so hard! I should have just told Mrs Thatch about the clog!

You reached the trees just as the sound of hounds filled the air. A foreboding dread filled you from within as you picked up the pace and nearly ploughed your way through the snow, your foggy breath heaving out of you while the hounds' yelps and howls seemed to turn louder. You grasped the first low-hanging branch of a pine and pulled yourself forward as the imposing trees sheltered you from the biting winds, the sounds of the hounds half drowned out as you dragged and pulled yourself forward until the snow lessened, burdening the branches above rather than the ground below.

A sigh of relief escaped you as you grabbed another branch and pulled yourself forward one final time before the snow only reached your knees. The relief was felt too soon while you sought to get deeper among the trees. You stumbled forward, snagging your foot on a hidden root below, only to grab a hold of another branch. It slipped through your numbing fingers, the pine needles like cutting blades — hardened by the cold — as they sliced at your palms while you ended up in the snow with a panted breath at the impact nearly burying your face in the white cold. Then you were pummelled.

The branch had been released with such force the tree swayed, its branches being freed of the heavy snow above before the sudden springing rippled through the nearest tree. Snow came crashing down in waves and you could do nothing but shield your face as the weight forced you to lay still — burying you completely without your cry of fear penetrating the deadly mass. Lord, no, you thought as you lay immobile with only a small bubble of air around your face thanks to your raised arms.

Why his chuckle echoed in your head, why the sturdiness of his body against yours filtered through the fear, why the gentle curiosity in his eyes shimmered before your mind's eyes you couldn’t tell. The echo of silver bells, the crackling of a fire, the swirl of dancing couples in wonderful dresses and beautiful frocks seemed like a hazy fog of a dream you’d wished for all your life and were now never to experience. Not even as an attentive maid blending into the scenery without anyone taking notice. In that foggy dream, keeping the horror of your grave of snow at a distance, he stood at the very centre and his eyes — gentle and sweet — were only on you. The tingling warmth in your numb fingers and toes felt as real as the crawling chill along your back while you struggled more and more to breathe and stay conscious.

⩤• Brandon •⩥

“Samson, search!” he bellowed, his voice travelling further than needed. Your dusty handkerchief held tightly in his harsh fist, the hound’s nose just having been buried in it before the other dogs took a whiff. The hound howled, setting the other dogs off with yelps and barks as they dove into the snow, the path your body had cut through it already starting to fill with the swirling snow the harsh winds threw about.

He had never been spellbound before. The way he had seen only your eyes surrounded by black ash ought to have discouraged any sensations within his chest but, alas, the wonder your eyes were and the manner you spoke with had taken him by such surprise his heart had no chance but to pound. He’d never thought sticking his head in a chimney while talking about Santa Claus would have lurched his entire body into a warm pounding. You had spoken so sweetly, your eyes those of someone who knew hardship yet prevailed. He was enthralled with the glimmer in them the second your eyes had connected in the dark of the chimney.

The hound howled again as he stepped out of the protective walls of stone, through the servants’ door, and felt himself sink to right above his knee in the snow. Remembering the disarray of your quarters, the discarded dress, the abandoned second undergarments that should have clad your body to protect against the snow — no matter the horridly tattered state of the thin fabrics — made his stomach twist.

He was not unfamiliar with the cold, the wetness, the dampness of melted snow, and how it would cling to one’s body. He had spent far too many seasons in service of the royals not to have experienced all sorts of weather and their respective challenges. And now you were out there, exposed and frightened given the horrendous look you had offered him before running away in a poof of swirling ash dust. There had been something wrong with that look, the dread of it — and the manner you had wrung your hands before you. what harm has befallen you before? Have hands been laid atop you for such a small thing as spreading ash?

He gave chase, following the loud dogs with servants following behind him with his heart in a harsh pounding. The snow wasted no time clinging to him, seeping through his clothes not suitable for the weather in the slightest. The only thing he’d done was drape a heavy cloak around himself while Mr Barkley had fetched the hunting dogs, his beloved hound at the helm of the pack. He was grateful for having taken that extra second to at least do that as the wind was bitingly cold, nearly clawing at his cheeks while the sky above seemed to darken by the second until the snow being thrown about was so thick the clouds above were no longer visible.

“Samson! Search!” he called, the hound howling back while your trembling shoulders filled his head. Something had been done to you, someone had hurt you for something akin to what had just happened and he could not fathom anyone harming anyone over cleaning, or stumbling, or not knowing the face of a man they had never before met.

Samson howled and came bolting back toward him, Christopher felt his heart stop as the dog kept sniffing the ground at his feet, searching for a fresher scent. The trail you’d left behind was gone, he could barely see an inch before him as the snow stuck to his lashes. He pulled out the handkerchief again, beckoning Samson to take a new whiff — the hound ignored him while sniffing the ground harder, burrowing his nose below the top layer before digging his way through the snow toward the trees Christopher knew lay not far away even if he could not see them.

“Sir Brandon!” Mr Barr called behind him. “Sir! The winds are too strong!” the man called over the howling of that very phenomenon of nature. “We shall find her! Or she will perish out here!” he called back, not stopping his trudge forward despite the snow gripping him nearly to his mid-thighs by that time. I shall not lose her to this storm , he thought while leaning forward to push through the snow faster, following the small dent after Samson and the rest of the dogs. “Sir! It’s too dangerous!” Mr Barr called, but he ignored it. He had faced danger, and the storm wrapping him up was nothing compared to the horrors of his past, or the pain contained within it.

They reached the trees and the thickness of the branches kept the worst of the winds at bay, the snow on the ground lessening for each step until it barely came to his knees and he could move faster. Samson’s howl up ahead caught his attention, he’d found something. Christopher barged forward, running despite the snow and whipping branches, until he found his dogs digging at what appeared to be a mound of snow created by yielding branches.

His heart leapt toward his throat, making it difficult to breathe. Are you in there? His mind had time to wonder before he lurched into action. If you lay buried under such heavy snow, had you any air to breathe? Had you broken anything? Were you crushed? To be buried alive had been one of his greatest fears back in the East Indies, and even before that. When he was a lesser man, fighting in trenches filled with muddy water that could have easily turned into a watery grave in the madness of battle.

He dug, and dug, and dug until his skin felt as if it would slide off his icy fingers and his nails crack with the cold. That was when your fingers appeared, icy cold and unmoving. His lungs stuttered on a sharp intake of air while Samson licked the fingers quickly. He dug with all his might just as the servants appeared behind him. “Dig, men! Dig! ” he demanded with such a dark rumble he barely recognized his frantic voice himself.

A frantic moment later you were dug out from the snowy grave he would not allow to become an eternal resting place. He dragged you too forcefully into his arms, wiping away snow from your cold face, smearing the ash further — hiding your face from him behind a blotchy mess of black and grey — but he could not have cared less as he saw foggy air part from between your lips. His shoulders sank with relief before he held you up and took off his cloak by interchanging his arms. You were tightly wrapped but unresponsive as he stood with Samson by his leg, his entire body wiggling with the motion of his tail as it wagged relentlessly from having found his target.

⩤• You •⩥

You shivered, a wet rag graced your forehead in a rubbing motion while the deep sigh of a woman echoed all around you. “Stupid child, why would you run in such a manner,” Mrs Garber nearly whispered, the familiarity of her voice softening the pounding of your heart. “And from the colonel no less, foolish girl.” You couldn’t tell if your mother’s long-lost friend was angry or worried, her voice didn’t let it slip through fully.

When your eyes blinked open she was leaning over you, and you were almost too warm. “Oh, Y/n,” she said while you blinked a few more times to clear your vision. “Foolish girl, you had me so worried!” she chided, but, perhaps affectionately so. “Mary?” you asked and she sighed but nodded. “Where-, where am I?” you asked as your eyes flicked about the glorious room as you tried to move your stiff limbs. A giant canopy of thick fabric was above you, the mattress beneath was the most comfortable one you’d ever laid upon, and the covers atop you felt lush — like silk, expensive silk.

“Oh, sweet child, you’re in—” “Mrs Thatch,” came that gravelly voice which sent goosebumps along every inch of your skin while your heart picked up the pace a notch as you turned your eyes toward the slightly ajar door. “Give me an occupation, or I shall run mad,” he continued so quietly it shouldn’t have been possible for you to hear the words. But his voice travelled far, even in such a low tone appearing to be far away given the echo to it. “Colonel, sir,” that shrill voice from the grand room before said. “There is little to do but wait. She is in good care with Mrs Garber, sir.”

Your eyebrows scrunched, he sounded anxious — it didn’t suit that voice at all to have such a tone. You found yourself wishing to hear that chuckle of his again. Perhaps you had a fever and were delirious? “You have had the master so worried, Y/n. How could you do such a thing to the good man?” Mrs Garber chided quietly but you couldn’t quite grasp the words. “Now, you lay here and I shall fetch the man before he drives himself to insanity. You apologise, you hear me? He is a gentle soul, I will not have you tormenting the respectable man with your nonsense behaviour. Your mother wasn't able to run away but that does not give you the right to bolt in such a manner.” Her eyes were harsh, nearly glaringly so, as she rose and tucked the cover all the way up to your chin before smoothing out your hair in what you believed to be an attempt at making you appear more decent.

Your heart pounded harder with each step she moved toward the door. When she pushed it open you sat up, the cover pooling around your waist while the nightshirt placed on you kept you covered from your collarbones and down. “She’s awake, sir,” Mrs Garber said and, not a second later, he was in the doorway. “Miss Y/l/n,” he said without taking so much as half a step into the room itself. His voice was that of relief, his gentle eyes warm in the glow of the hearth at the opposite end of the room from where you lay in a giant bed.

You felt your cheeks heat, your fingers gripping the cover atop your legs harshly while your eyes folded from his intent viewing of you. Your heart ran amok as he stood in figure-disclosing attire with his black frock coat nearly clinging to his waist while the shiny boots adorning his feet glimmered in just as black a colour.

“Miss Y/n/l? Are you fairing?” he asked while taking a step closer, making your head jerk up. “I-, I am,” you stuttered. “Sir, I’m-, I apologies, for my behaviour,” you continued while you endeavoured to remember what had happened after you lost your grip on the branch with slicing blades for pine needles. “Not a word about it,” he said as he began moving in, toward the foot of the bed. The light of the fire encased him in a glowing halo, making his hair shimmer and the glimmer in his eyes appeared brighter as his eyes held yours.

Why is my heart running rampant? I’m-, I’m all tingly all over when he views me. Your thoughts were uncertain but your body seemed to react in a wholly new way to the grand man before you. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice dipping lower. You could only manage to shake your head. “You were buried in the snow,” he said after a moment. His fingers curled around the footrest of the bed, his knuckles whitening at the force used. Your breath hitched at the sight, so alike hands around a riding crop used for lashings.

Your fingers began fidgeting, your hands wringing and rubbing atop the cover. The memory of the pain was far too fresh. “Miss?” he said, snatching your attention. “Are your hands hurting?” You stiffened for a second before you let go and grabbed the cover anew while shaking your head. “Did someone lay harm upon you?” You didn’t move, didn’t say a thing, only kept your eyes on his whitening knuckles. It was a common thing, after all. Masters laid hands upon their servants as they deemed fit, and you had time and time again ended up at the mercy of such wicked, cruel men and women were either fate or a coincidence.

Your breath hitched as he suddenly pushed off the bed frame, stepping around to stand at your side in less than three long strides. You shrunk into the mattress, his imposing figure hard to take so closely — yet, it wasn’t just fear of retribution that made you do so. No, no there was something else entirely imposing about him that you fought against so as not to be drawn in. If it were his handsomeness, the memory of his sweet chuckle, or those gentle eyes that now seemed to flare with something darker you couldn’t quite say. But he warmed you in places he ought not to have been able to reach at all.

“No matter,” he said quietly, a mere drawl of a whisper. “You are safe here, miss. No harm will befall you within my estate.” “S-sir?” you squeaked out, confused at his sweet words spoken in such a harsh tone. “Are you not to punish me?” you continued with a tremble to your voice that had far more to do with the warmth he spread within you than the question you’d just asked. His eyes flared before his entire face softened. “No, my sweet. No punishment shall ever befall you for breathing life into my heart with those eyes of yours.”

…To Be Continued…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Ugh, theses two... Gosh, I do love it when emotions are instant and soulmate-like 😩👏 And another cliffhanger it is - are we excited to see where this goes? 👀😘

I'm working as hard as I can to make sure I'm as early as possible posting and I'm going to start working on tomorrow's prompt right away, I have a little extra time today (aka I'm taking the time today 'cus I need it 😂) so perhaps I'll start working on Thursday's prompt too - tomorrow we're getting back to Turpin again anyway! 🥰👏

Q: If you had to choose between only listening to Christmas music and no other music or only watching Christmas movies and no other movies through all of December - what would you choose? 👀 A: I'd say I'd choose Christmas music - but, I love it and almost exclusively listen to Christmas music through November and December anyway 😂 Only watching Christmas movies would be harder 🙈

TAGLIST: @mamawolfsmith87 @snowblossomreads @ladykardasi @a-queen-and-her-throne @eternal-silvertongued-prince @lyrixsnape @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight14 @caseydoodles98 @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @sunnylikesfrogs @mamawolfsmith16 @dianilaws @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87 @sunset90 @daddythanatos

Want to be tagged? 💚 You can tag yourself HERE! Or tell me and I’ll gladly tag you! 😍

[Dec:2023]

#colonel brandon x reader #rickmas2023 #colonel brandon #sense and sensibility fic #christmas fic #alan rickman #rickmaniac #rickmas

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dreamlandcreations · 2 years ago

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Imagine seducing the 'Rogue Prince'

Imagine seducing the 'Rouge Prince', Lord Daemon, after you were sent away from home with nothing to your name, thanks to him.

Your father's tragic death left you at the mercy of his cousin, who he said he loved like a brother. But Daemon felt betrayed when Viserys chose Otto Hightower over him in an old argument. And now he can finally have his revenge.

Months after your exile into the cheaper country house where you had to count every penny your benefactor oh so graciously provided, you finally see an opportunity for revenge. The ball in celebration of his other cousin's wedding to the Hightower girl.

Seducing him was easy, not falling for him would be more difficult.

He married you the day after, much to the shock and outrage of the noble people in your circles. Daemon didn't care, he wanted you, so he would have you... or so he thought.

After consummating the marriage, you refused to share his bed, finally revealing your feelings to him.

"Maddening, isn't it? Knowing for sure what to expect, only to be left with nothing."

But what you didn't calculate with is the infatuated man who wanted you even more now. How foolish of you, to think you can beat a Rogue at his own game.

#sense and sensibility-ish au #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x you #alternate au #I wanted to make a moodboard but meh #my stuff #my fics

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catchthewindd · 1 year ago

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these eyes (part one) - hugh grant

two ex best friends. one party. lots of alcohol. what could go wrong?

you had an intense love/hate relationship with one hugh john mungo grant. an intense relationship, in that you loved to hate him.

the pipeline of childhood friends to adulthood enemies is not uncommon by any means, but hugh and your’s situation was by all means the definition of the word. uncommon. for in fact, you two were on the best of terms just last year. that is, until “the incident”.

“the incident”, or “that one time hugh made out with my best friend right after i confessed my feelings to him” as you like to refer to it as, absolutely shattered you. and on your birthday of all days? definitely a cad-like move on his part.

yet here you are. another year, another birthday, another excuse to cry over him. except you won’t- or you’re trying not to, anyway. you are totally over him. he’s an asshole. he quite literally ruined your life.

needless to say, he’s not invited to your birthday dinner. neither is his girlfriend: your ex best friend.

who is invited, is jamie. jamie is a sweet guy you met at work, who you think has taken a shining to you. you’re starting to warm up to him yourself, but your (unfortunately) unresolved feelings for hugh have annoyingly been getting in the way. you plan on fixing that tonight.

hugh has hurt you. the fact of the matter is, it’s time to move on. you have a perfect new suitor in jamie, it’d be foolish to let him slip away from you.

—

it’s finally party time and guests are showing up in abundance. laughter fills your usually-silent apartment, and the snack food you had set out 20 minutes ago already seems to be gone. it’s as though you’d forgotten you had invited this many people!

the party goes on as parties do, you mingle with the guests, and let them all serenade you with birthday wishes and compliments. you drink. a lot. and with dinner time fast approaching, you make it a mission to seek out jamie. surely he must have arrived by now?

as you walk through the sea of people in your living room in attempt to find jamie, you are caught off guard by a seedy blonde with ringlet curls. you’ve seen those curls before. those curls surely weren’t invited to your birthday soirée. and to your utmost shock and despair, those seedy ringlet curls had brought their fuckwit fluffy brunette boyfriend to match. she spoke with utmost confidence, “darling! so good to see you, it’s been far too long. you remember hugh, of course?

dumbfounded, you had to make a quick escape- so that’s exactly what you did, finding shelter in your room. you couldn’t face this strange reality, not now, not today. it was your birthday! this was not part of the plan!

but instead of being greeted with lonesome bliss, you saw jamie foraging around your things. he looked up at you with sad eyes. knowing eyes. you didn’t even find reason to question his whereabouts, you simply ran over to him and melted. crying into his shoulder, letting your perfectly applied birthday makeup run down your face and onto his shirt sleeve. he didn’t ask for an explanation of your sorrow, he only held you and comforted you through your time of need. jamie was so perfect for you. he was everything you could ever want in a man.

yet you felt nothing. in fact, your tears only amplified from it. this incredibly sweet, handsome, doting man was right in front of you. holding you as you broke down. yet your heart was still attached to the absolute douchebag downstairs.

once again needing to flee, you apologized to jamie profusely and swiftly left his embrace. you were running out of “safe” spaces- your apartment had only so many rooms. maybe it was logic, or maybe it was the alcohol, but you soon found yourself fully opening the already half opened bathroom door. desperate times call for desperate measures. letting out a sigh and slamming the door behind you, you sunk to your knees in another sob. at this point, party guests were surely confused to where their host had gone, and likely even more confused as to why they kept hearing loud sobbing coming from the bathroom, only breaking cries to shout a profanity or two every now and then. you were a wreck in there, so much so that it wasn’t until 10 minutes after your less-than-graceful entry to the bathroom that you realized you weren’t alone. once again, a pair of sad, knowing eyes looked at you. but these eyes didn’t belong to jamie.

these eyes belonged to hugh.

#angst #part two will be happier!!#happy birthday hughie <3 #hugh grant #hugh grant x reader #90s hugh grant #notting hill #four weddings and a funeral #sense and sensibility

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stxrshxpxd · 1 year ago

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autumn

pairing: 90s professor hugh grant x reader

word count: 3k

warnings: student x teacher

prompt: reader falls for her university professor and she thinks it just might be a mutual feeling…

requested by anonymous <3

September.

I had seen Mr. Grant twice in passing on my walks across campus and through the seemingly endless hallways of marble flooring and dark stain wooden arches, on my little quests to navigate my way through my new university. The first time I had turned my head rather indiscreetly and nearly walked into a massive pillar as I studied his locks of brown hair bouncing away from me along with his rushing steps. The second time I had felt a stab deep in my stomach at the sight of him across the library, pulling his hand through said locks of brown hair, before ending his short conversation with the headmaster and quickly disappearing again.

My third encounter with him came on a September morning with ambiguous weather. I sat watching the strong sun begin to beam through the patchy coat of clouds and chase the morning mist away. As the doors opened to the lecture room I expected a large pregnant belly to enter first, but instead that pain in my stomach returned at the sight of Mr Grant marching inside. There were scattered whispers and mumbles around the room. I had no one to whisper to, and so I took a deep breath and secured my gaze on the bronze buckle of his belt and bit the inside of my cheek.

“I take it Mrs. Sherman hadn’t told you who would be filling in for her,” he chuckled at the palpable surprise in the room. “Well. It’s lovely to meet you all. I’m Professor Grant. I do recognise a few faces around the room.” His gaze hopped between students and he gave a handful of them soft smiles, skipping over me. “Well… Mrs. Sherman went into labour on Sunday and now has a little baby girl at home.” I noticed he spoke with his whole face and half his body, smiling, raising his brows and opening his arms in celebration at the happy news. “So, I will be teaching the rest of your Literary Analysis course this year.”

The sun had come to lay across half his body and was making the silver ring on his pinky glow brightly.

“I heard you’re reading Sense and Sensibility,” he said and a few of the students nodded in silence, backs straight and ears eagerly open. Mr. Grant swiftly pulled out a small, weathered copy of the book in question from the back pocket of his black suit trousers. For some reason that act made the stabbing in my abdomen worse. I held in a sigh at the fear that everything he did would make my stomach wrench in agony.

October.

The rain was beating aggressively against the large windows to my right and added to the soundtrack of Mr. Grant humming between his nods as well as tapping his index finger softly against the desk he was half sitting back on. I had lost track of what the student behind me was saying about Children of the Corn but forced myself to hurriedly tune back into the monologue once I felt Professor Grant’s eyes resting on me occasionally. I anticipated his question and I searched my mind quickly.

“That’s a very nice analysis, Thomas, thank you. Y/N, what thoughts did this story provoke for you?”

I couldn’t recall a time when I had properly shared my analysis directly with him before. My written words about Sense and Sensibility had been met with a seeming intrigue on his behalf though.

I greatly appreciate the depth of your character analysis. It shows you have a strong sense of morality and can view a person from a number of perspectives without favouring one. That is a very helpful tool. I am eager to hear more of your thoughts this year!

I had read the scribbled comment at the bottom of my short essay over and over, and right now they were the only words in my brain.

“Um, well, I think King has an incredible way of creating an atmosphere with just a few words. It’s quite remarkable.”

Mr. Grant nodded and smiled in agreement. Finally my thoughts caught up with me and I stammered on, all the while staring at the previously hidden forearms now sticking out of Grant’s rolled up sleeves.

“And, um… the thought that followed me all the way through the story is the exploration of religion in the modern world. Oftentimes I feel that religion is this untouchable and completely unstoppable thing that is, sort of, ironically out of our hands. You know, do we create it or does it create us?” Professor Grant’s smile grew slightly and I looked away, desperately trying to not lose my train of thought to the beauty of his pale, soft face.

“And also what is the difference between religion and cult, what defines them? …And why is one seemingly the pinnacle of good and the other inherently evil, if the line between them is so blurred, or indeed can’t be drawn at all? …Is ruthlessly shunning and marginalising people not just as bad as brutally killing them in a corn field? It’s just a choice of mental or physical death really. Except there isn’t a choice.”

I looked back at my professor once I had gotten my sentences out. He nodded slowly and pondered calmly with that satisfied smile on his lips, as I sat half panicking in the silence. All I could hear were my words echoing in the air between us.

“And do you think it should be stopped? Religion.”

He tilted his head and I took a deep breath in, in the midst of my light panic. He chuckled sympathetically with me, realising the magnitude of the question he had just asked.

“Yes and no, of course… I just think that it’s been a hell of a long time since society existed without religion, it might well be very healthy for us to step back and consider the world without it.”

“So, yes?” Mr. Grant suggested for me with a charming grin and an eye with a big twinkle in the centre. I laughed shortly and looked down at my nervous hands toying with my pencil.

“So, maybe,” I responded, looking up again. He chuckled and nodded once more and combed his fingers through the left side of his hair, only for it to bounce right back to its previous position.

November.

My eyes ached as I sat with my head hanging over my borrowed copy of E.M. Forster’s Maurice, reading the same line over and over again. I had read the book a few years earlier and adored it, but re-reading it now as the time was nearing 11 pm on a Friday night the words carried little meaning. Even my own words in my neat notes appeared increasingly alien.

The library was lit up softly and was about as silent as it could possibly get. It felt wrong to move and make sound as I stared out at the vastness of the room and the hallway outside of the library walls. Suddenly, just as my gaze had fixed sleepily on a framed painting hanging in line with my eyes, a person startled me as he came walking down the hallway. It was Professor Grant.

I shortly pondered the concept of fate as he turned his head casually and locked eyes with me. A smile came upon his face and he steered his steps inside the library without hesitating. He was in his usual black suit trousers and tight belt, a button-up without a tie, and a long coat and knitted scarf draped over his forearm. Under his other arm sat a thick stack of stapled papers caged in firmly against the side of his ribs. Shortly again I pondered the concept of jealousy now, before he spoke and washed my mind clean of everything else.

“Why aren’t you at that big dormitory party?”

Mr. Grant sat on the edge of my table and glanced down at me. He tossed his stack next to my stuff, at which my eyes scanned it and noticed several little notes and markings in red ink scattered throughout the text. I concluded that he had stayed late in his office to mark essays.

“How do you know about the party?”

He laughed quietly and looked around the room momentarily, allowing me a few seconds of shamelessly staring at his strong jaw as he looked away from me.

“Kids always think they’re very secretive. My hearing and deductive skills are excellent in fact.”

I smiled when he looked back at me, but the sentiment of the smile faded quickly from inside me.

“Do you think of us as kids?” I asked in the most neutral tone I could manage. He was only fifteen years older at the absolute most. He couldn’t be a day over thirty-five.

Mr. Grant’s soft stare dropped down my body in stages, seeming to halt at my collarbone and ribs and then my hinged hips where his gaze settled a short while.

“No,” he decided after a moment’s silence.

I didn’t know how the rest of that conversation was meant to go or indeed how to deal with the apparent tension that had built in the quiet room. Instead I backtracked to his initial question of why I was in the library on a Friday night.

“Well… You set an essay due Wednesday, didn’t you,” I chuckled breathily and impulsively looked down as I closed the book in my hands. We both gazed down at the cover and it felt like a strange form of eye contact. When I looked back up I saw a soft smile on his lips.

“That’s one of my favourite books.”

I exhaled and responded quickly.

“I will choose my words carefully.”

My professor’s smile grew and he met my eyes with his visibly tired ones, shaking his head.

“I trust you.”

Something in the air made me feel as though our conversation was coming to an end and it made me sad, which was why I grabbed onto a bit of substantial conversation I could find in our repertoire.

“I’m not big on parties anyway.”

Mr. Grant had crossed his arms now and nodded with the remnants of a smile.

“I understand.” He thought for a second and licked the corner of his mouth. “The parties in your future will be much more up your alley, when you’re an esteemed author. Trust me.”

He spoke of me being a revered published writer, yet all I felt like was a silly teenage girl as I tried to control my blushing cheeks at his sweet words. And then a soft groan escaped him as he reached to grab his essays again and stood on his long legs, clearly on his way to exit again.

“Just don't forget your old Literary Analysis professor when you’re famous,” he demanded sweetly and I simply kept smiling and blushing as he headed out, leaving me with my own company again. I had to fight to stop grinning and I found I was on the verge of breaking a sweat under my knitted jumper.

December.

For a few weeks now I had noticed an increase in stares between me and Professor Grant. I had found him resting his eyes on me several times across the room and once I thought I had made him blush, simply by looking up and meeting his eyes. He had looked down quickly and stuck his one hand into his hair, tensed his brows and stared down at his books again. I had mirrored his actions but hadn’t been able to make a single note for the next few minutes, completely consumed by the idea of letting my lips gently kiss his brow bone and feel him soften at my touch.

I was currently wrapped up in another one of those thoughts as I stared out the window, where light snowflakes were falling and slowly but surely forming a thin white coat over the lawn. I could hear his voice loud and clear as he was in the middle of a lecture - something about anti-heros apparently - but I wasn’t listening to the words. In my mind my lips were attached to his jaw and my fingers rushing to unbutton his shirt. Just as my mouth had reached his collarbone, his real life self changed his tone of voice and I tuned back in.

“Right, we’ll continue this tomorrow for a bit. And we will also have a chat about the exam in two weeks. So, bring all your anxieties and questions tomorrow and we’ll talk it through. Does that sound alright?”

I scanned the room quickly to find all the nodding and smiling students begin to toss their books into their bags and I scrambled to do the same, but once my eyes turned back to the front of the lecture room I found Mr. Grant on his way over to me.

“Hi,” he uttered quietly with a kind smile and I returned it. His hands were in his trouser pockets and his head tilted slightly as he looked down at me.

“I heard,” he began, glancing away at the last few students leaving the room. “from Mr. Holland.. that you’re doing quite well in your Creative Writing class.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I shrugged and laughed shyly as I fidgeted with the pages of my notebook.

“Now, I would hate to find out you have a favourite class that’s not mine, but,” Grant sighed jokingly and then gave me another soft curl of the lips. “I would love to read some of your writing if you wouldn’t mind. I promise to give you nothing but praise, of course.”

I chuckled and had to force my mind out of the gutter of imagining what type of praise he might give me.

“No, I want your critique,” I nodded, still anxiously toying with the notebook that conveniently enough held a lot of my creative writing drafts and half-ideas. Mr. Grant nodded back and swivelled around to my side of the table as I began flicking through my notebook to the sound of my umming and ahhing nervously.

He had planted his large palms on the table and his head hung between his broad shoulders as I finally decided on a page that felt somewhat representative of my work. His thin-rimmed glasses had been pushed up into his hair for the majority of the lecture, and he pulled them down now as he focused his eyes and mind fully on my text.

He was so close to me I could feel his scent begin to fill my nose, and his tricep was nearly brushing against my shoulder. I studied the few veins on his hands as his fingertips instinctively held the paper down against my table.

“It’s really good, Y/N,” Professor Grant finally concluded with his voice just a step above a whisper. “Really good.”

I looked up to make shy eye contact again and found his expression had changed from his sweet, composed smiles he would usually give me. There was something behind his spectacled eyes that suggested conflict. I realised there were just a few inches separating us and the urge to stand up and press my lips to his grew quickly, until I simply couldn’t fight it.

Pushing my chair back and half standing up, I planted a desperate kiss on his already slightly parted lips. For a second everything stood still and I wasn’t sure if he was kissing me back, but at least he wasn’t pulling away. Then I felt those gorgeous hands coat my sides, if only to help stabilise me as I staggered to my feet. It felt like everything happened within the space of a nervous heartbeat. Soon he backed away a step, his warm palms being the last to leave my body. Grant anxiously threw a glance behind him at the half open door as he wiped his bottom lip with his thumb. The sounds from the hallway came back to me again and regret washed over me with such power it nearly made me lightheaded.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I breathed.

“No,” he simply said and shook his head. The empty space in the air made me feel like he was supposed to or wanted to say something else, but he didn’t for a while. His eyes hopped from one corner of my face to the other and his chest rose and fell with his stressed breathing. At last his gaze settled on my lips.

“Y/N, you’re…” He rubbed his forehead and took a few more steps further away from me. “You’re very special and I really admire you… There’s just no way this can happen. You understand that, don’t you?”

He turned around to find me standing in the spot he left me, horrified by my own actions.

“And you have no idea how common it is to fall for a professor. It’s a very peculiar relationship; a student and a teacher… It happens. It’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, okay?”

Fully knowing I was going to be excruciatingly embarrassed by this incident maybe for the rest of my life, I nodded.

“Really, it’s alright,” Professor Grant spoke in a warm voice with a definite sadness behind it. My whole body was vibrating with nerves and heartache and I managed to move my stiff limbs enough to pick up my books and bag.

“Okay,” I exhaled, wanting so badly to believe him. I left his concerned expression behind as I passed him and stepped out into the hallway, managing to catch the heavy sigh he let out behind me. Even still, with embarrassment weighing down my steps, the only thing I could think of was the incredible feeling of his lips against mine and his hands holding my waist. My insides ached as I realised I would never be allowed to kiss him again. Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to kiss him this time. My lower lashes held heavy tears as I stomped outside and kicked my boots through the fresh snow, heading towards my dorm.

#I wasn’t sure how I wanted the ending to play out and idk how I feel about it #but I kinda wanna write a part two. perhaps #also the mentions of sense and sensibility & maurice hehe #hugh grant #imagine #fic #au #hugh grant x reader

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justafairytailofinnocence · 2 months ago

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Colonel brandon x mermaid fem reader 🧜‍♀️🎩

It was the summer of 1792, within the Barton cottage of Devon in the countryside. Mrs. Dashwoods daughters wandered through the rich, vibrant field's plain accompanied by Edward and Colonel Brandon—much to the annoyance of Marianne. They were chatting about the yester nights supper.

As Edward and Elinor speak of their own personal affairs. Marianne remained silent, livid, and stultified along the walk. She had no interest in Colonel. He insisted to Mrs Dashwood on going along for the mere purpose of protection. In reality—it was primarily to grow closer to Marianne.

"I must say, tis quite a swell morning." Elinor lightly smiled at Edward. He was rather dashing in her eyes, a kind spirit who grew attached to her. She yearned for him despite having a polite demeanour. "I believe it is. The way the sun rose over the fields is truly a picturesque view."

Marianne, feeling the colonel's eyes linger on her, fastly walked, pacing with her sister Elinor. "I think it much more of a romantic scene, actually, the way the light reflects onto the grassy Plains as a man proposes on one knee, professing his undying love for her—".

"You read too many books, Marianne, romance is a complication, one must work hard to strive for what one can achieve, tis not all true love at first sight." Elinor interjected, speaking from a rational standpoint.

"Love is not all logic and reason. Tis an emotion, a beautiful part of life, when one falls in love only then does nothing matter but their one true love. You may think it foolish, but I see it as something special." Marianne protested passively. She was a poet, a romantic at heart who believed in true love whilst Elinor saw the realistic outlook.

"I think it romantic. That's how princes and princesses marry." Maragret skipped beside her sister's, causing Elinor to smile balmily.

"I'm afraid that's only in fairytails," Edward stirred at a kind jest.

"Is not, I swear it's true," She smiled back.

"Even fairytails don't paint the reality of such." Elinor kindly remarked.

The colonel remained silent and stern, as they were traversing across the rich, grassy plane. They came across a creek. The colonel nobly stood in front. From the first look, it was a small ledge following down into a creek with sand. Luckily it wasn't that hard to cross, they only needed to mind the gap which was a wide step to cross. There was a small twig within the middle.

The colonel stepped widely across. Firstly, he offered his hand to Elinor. At first she was cautious, stepping across as much as she could. She landed in his arms at least, thanking him for the help. Second was Edward, then Maragret. And finally—Marianne.

She gently grabbed his hand covered by a leather glove, averting his gaze. She landed safely but, she did not say a word thank the Colonel. "Quite a step I must say" Edward gleamed at Elinor.

"Indeed, but at least we're all in good spirits." Elinor assumed, though, she knew Marianne would've rather John. She wished Marianne would see how hard the Colonel is trying. He may not be as favoured within Marianne's romantic ideals but, he was a good man at heart despite his reserved outward nature.

Maragret had decided to follow the creek on her own, though, Elinor was rather against it. She didn't like the idea of such a young girl going off. What if she got hurt. How would mother react. They wouldn't be able to save her.

Though her thoughts were put to ease as Colonel Brandon assisted to keep a watchful eye over the thirteen year old child. Elinor thanked him, although, in the nick of time. Seemingly to the answered prayer of Marianne, a horses gallop could be heard gathering closer.

"John!" Marianne's face sprung a glint of joy. She was relieved to say the least, perhaps her dull end could be put to an exiting new, romantic rendezvous.

"Marianne" he grinned, sliding one leg off and stepping down from the horse. In well-manners, he bowed, kissing the back of Marianne's hand. "Oh how delightful it is to see you again."

"I've gathered word from Mrs Jennings of your outing, I knew you hadn't traversed far for I wished to accompany you."

Elinor smiled out of politeness but deep down, she knew this wounded the Colonel wanting the attention of Marianne. Within the Colonel's cold exterior, he greeted John formally. "Good morrow, Mr. Willoughby." He said with a cold tone and bowed.

"Sir Brandon, good morrow." He bowed back with a polite demeanour.

"I've come to ask permission if Miss Dashwood shall accompany me." John offered a hand to Marianne. Of course. She obliged willingly.

The two walked in front, Marianne delicately placing her arms around John as he offered his arm. Elinor felt sorry for the Colonel, she wanted to speak up, but, the Colonel had coldly agreed to keep a watchful eye over Maragret. "I shall bid you farewell Elinor, Edward, John—Marianne." He gazed at her expecting a politeful curtsy back, though, she ignored him. Fixated on John.

"I shall catch up with you for this afternoon's tea." He bowed formally and seemingly wandered off to keep an eye over Maragret. Elinor gently sighed to herself, walking beside Edward "shall we continue to stroll."

The colonel trailed upward the creek's stream, for what seemed like nearly half an hour. Maragret skipped along side the stream, holding a cottail crop from the waterside. Just as they were traversing and chatting. Margaret stopped in her tracks spotting something within the water.

She edged closer, taking a peek curiously. Twas it a fish? Mayhaps a yabby? Or—

At first it, within the water's stream, within the deeper part of the creek. It almost looked like the tail end of a fish, a big fish at that.

She stared closer. Concentrating.

Again. The movement of a fishes tail-end slithered within the water. She gasped at the discovery, nearly thinking it was some sort of weird snake.

In instinct, she climbed down the ledge of the creek, landing on the white sand. She trailed further appearing near a small grotto, big enough to fit baby cattle. She crouched, her white dress getting wet yet she didn't care.

She crept closer along the stream, only to see a tail slither in the water. She crept closer, her childlike curiosity getting the better of her. As she trailed closer, she was standing on rocks to keep her balance, her slippers now soaking wet.

She was often good and well mannered, yet, she was very inquisitive. Suddenly, as her hand tried to reach the side of the grassy mount. However, something slid beneath her foot, causing her to trip and fall.

She fell backwards into the river yelping, luckily she had not hit her head and only recieved a bruise. Within distance, Colonel Brandon heard her call and rushed to find her. He was often quite diligent when it came to such things but this time—she had wandered out of sight. "Margaret!" He called out.

"Colonel! There's something in the water!" Maragret called out. She was rather weary at first but, she put on a brave face. She cautiously looked further trying to gain her balance.

She saw movement in the water, though, it was a tail. Flapping in the stream, as if, the thing that tripped her was also frightened. "I'm not afraid of you! You needn't not be afraid of me."

The colonel trailed down the mount, following the voice of Margaret. To his relief—she was safe. "Thank heaven's" he sighed. He approached Marianne, similar to a father worrying over his daughter. "Your not hurt are you."

"No, I'm fine, just. Cold." She replied, afraid she'll get in trouble.

"I'm sorry Colonel. I was only curious. I-I-."

"I'm relieved your not hurt, but I do believe Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings will be rather perturbed." He said. She was expecting to be scolded but instead.

"But that's all part of the adventure tis is not" he smiled sympathetically.

She grinned back in response. He was truly a good man with a good heart, even though she never understood why her older sister Marianne never paid much attention to him.

The tail slithered once more within the water and in response. The colonel protectively stood in front of Maragret pulling her behind him so whatever may come at them, would go through him first.

"Margaret, I wish you to listen intently. Shall anything happen, I want you to run back to Elinor, Marianne, or Edward." He said simply, though, she noticed he did not mention John.

"Very well." She muttered, growing fearful.

The colonel, instinctively, grabbed a sharp rock from within the water. Walking back slowly.

Once more the fish tail flapped out of the water. The colonel nobly wandered forward preparing to attack whatever may come their way. As he walked closer, crouching, within the grotto. His eyes widened at something that seemed impossible.

Margaret stood still, clasping her hands together above her chest. Fearing what might become of Colonel Brandon.

He dropped the rock, his eyes were in disbelief that this would be the first moment, Maragret would see him show genuine emotion. "Colonel! What tis it."

"Go and retrieve Edward, quickly!" He said calmly yet sternly. Maragret not wasting anytime rushed from the creeks water to a ledge she could climb. Running to find, Elinor, Marianne, John and Edward.

The colonel approached cautiously, seeing a tail that belonged to a fish, flapping within the water. Seeing the upper half—twas a woman. She exhibited a hard time trying to breath as her gills on the side, was trying to find the water.

The colonel, unkowing of how to proceed, took off his black waist coat and placed it around the odd creature. She was half fish and yet half human. What sort of madness is this? Was he really seeing a mermaid? Something only in fairytails now exists.

You look up, bare and exposed. Vulnerable. Trying to seat yourself carefully not to slip. The Colonel instinctively placed something soft yet velvet around you. You couldn't speak. Only looking up into his cold, hazel/light brown eyes.

He took a glance at you. Examining you. She was unlike anything of this world, if the heavens had made such a creature, then she was something to behold. She was truly stunning, had my eyes feasted upon a rare beauty? I—had no idea how to interpret this—this feeling. She must be protected.

His hands slipped under your tail and around your shoulders. They were rough, calloused, and squishy.

He lifted you from the ground with ease, adrenaline kicked in as he carried you out from the grotto, from the creek, into the exposed air. As your tail draped, you felt the sun's beaming warmth touch your skin. To even more of Colonel Brandon's astonishment, your tail began to move and transform. The tail you once had transformed into legs.

The gills on your neck had disappeared.

You had turned human. And the colonel wasted no time to carry you back to the cottage.

It was quite a walk but—the colonel had handled worse, when he was in the war he traversed for miles and miles until he sighted the enemy.

He eventually made it back to the cottage. Carrying you as Mrs. Dashwood, to her surprise, quickly rushed to aid you. "Good heaven's, what's happened."

Mrs. Jennings sat up from her seat, seeing the poor woman within his grasp.

"Quickly, we must set up a bed and give her water." The colonel trudged through the room, his lower half drenching wet. Mrs. Dashwood frantically opened the door to set you down in a soft place.

Your eyes were closed and you had no recollection of how you traversed here.

"Colonel, is she well? Has she any injury" Mrs. Dashwood spoke worryingly.

"She is out cold. She needs a warm rag." The colonel quickly rushed to grab a rag, dipped it in a bucket of lukewarm water and placed it on your forehead.

"Colonel!" A young voice called from the front door. It was maragret. Along with the Elinor, Marianne and Edward. John had fallen behind due to other matters.

"Brandon, what's going on, what's this madness—" Elinor reached his side and gasped at the sight.

Marianne quickly rushed into the room "To who is this woman. Is she ill?" She said worried.

"I'm afraid, she'll be out for a while." The colonel reported not taking his eyes off you.

"I'll send word to the doctor." Mrs. Jennings wasted no time.

Within a few hours, your eyes opened. You took note of your surroundings, frightened and yet comforted. Within the corner, there was a chair, and a man—the same man that brought you here.

As the room was quiet, a middle aged woman with golden tresses tied into a neaten bun entered the room, carrying a tray of fresh bread. "Oh good, your awake, we were all worried." The woman offered a kind smile, it was clear she had no ill intention. She spoke gently with a posh accent.

"Here, it's freshly baked from this afternoon's tea." She figured something light would suffice, she didn't want you to have an upset stomach. You could smell the hot brew of green tea, pour at your table side. Looking down you were donned in a nightgown.

"Poor thing, he's been asleep for hours, never leaving your side." She glanced over at Colonel Brandon. "He deserves to rest, after all he's been through." She explained vaguely.

As she approached closer, you jolted your legs inward. Hissing in defence. Mrs. Dashwood holted only for a second, but kindly touched your hand. "Your welcome here, so long as you have no intention of hurting us."

"I'm not going to harm you, nor hurt you, my dear." Within her words she reassured you.

She placed a warm, soft blanket around you. You quickly softened as she offered you tea. She was a kind human, motherly even.

Elinor had entered the room "Mrs. Jennings has bid farewell mother, she was kind enough to leave us a gift of herbal tea and chocolate behind in care of her."

You looked up seeing Elinor, a young woman aged nineteen with golden hair and a rather sensible and intelligent gaze.

"She awoke moments ago, I will run her a warm bath. Feel free to let Marianne know Supper will be in a few minuets." Mrs. Dashwood told Elinor.

"Yes mother." She muttered.

A young face appeared from the corner of the door frame, she seemed curious and effusive. Tresses of light, golden, curly hair fell gently down her mid-back. As your gaze met hers, she quickly dashed away, retreating.

"Is she well mother? She's not dead is she." A young girl no younger than thirteen appeared on the bed wearing a white gown. Her golden hair—unlike her sister's—was rather unkempt, reaching only her shoulders.

"Supper's nearly ready, we mustn't wake the Colonel, go set out the cutlery." Mrs. Dashwood quietly ushered her youngest daughter out of the room.

As the ladies left and gently, partially shut the door. Your gaze lept over to the colonel. Curious, you pulled off the sheets and stumbled over to the colonel. Gripping onto the oaken surface to help you balance.

You learnt quickly however, like a doe that's just been born learning to walk. You stood in front of the colonel.

Curiously gazing back at the door. You reached to touch him, allowing your finger to gently feel his cheek. You felt the stubble against his chin and cheeks. In comparison to Mrs. Dashwood, it was rougher, like his hand yet, softer.

Soon from your finger, you gently placed your palm against his cheek. You parted your lips slightly. The man in turn, gently smiled. Was it you, he was dreaming of? Or was it Marianne.

Your thumb trailed further to his lips, cautious, you leaned forward. Your head growing closer. Just enough to nearly press—

Suddenly his eyes were flickering open. You rushed back in defence, jumping back into bed. Pulling the sheets over you. The colonel had woken up, gazing at you as you pretended to sleep.

As he gently approached, he loomed over you. His eyes roamed over your figure. Innocent. Gentle. Kind. It was almost as though you reminded him of someone.

His hand hesitantly, yet gently reached to move a strand of hair away from your face.

Just as his fingers touched your forehead. You snapped up, hissing as a warning. He held both of his arms up "My apologies, my lady. I had no intention of any ill-intent toward you."

You instinctively glared at him, defending yourself. "Your, in a place you have no knowledge of but—if you let me—I shall take care of you."

You were hesitant. You couldn't trust him. But something in you changed your mind, he did stay by your side and rescued you, instead of leaving you for dead.

You pulled the sheets from your bed and allowed your feet to feel the floor. He placed his arms around you, you nearly hiss at him once more but instead, you allow him to touch you.

He held your waist, helping you walk. "Come, you must be hungry, exaughsted."

Over the next coming weeks. You had learnt a few things about humans. For one, they walk on two feet. Two, they live in homes similar to caves but—homely. Three, they have delicious food. And four, they are kind. Accepting.

The Dashwoods accepted you into their home and accepted you as one of their own. Colonel Brandon had spent hours, by your side, teaching you of the human world.

However, you didn't speak much. The colonel had taken upon himself to teach you how to read.

"T-the man w-went up, the hill," you said as the Colonel praised you gently as you sat in his lap. "Well done, yes, you spoke it correctly."

One word caught you off guard however. "L-love?, what is Love?".

The colonel looked rather sincere yet, a hint of sadness lingered. "An emotion many feel, when, you find someone special and—."

"And?."

He trailed off in thought but then came to reality, smiling reassuringly. "And spent the rest of your life with."

"Have you loved?" You asked.

"Once. Twice. Years ago. A young woman, a ward that I could never have."

"And the other?"

"Will be but a dream."

You looked down, not knowing what to say. Instead your head curled into his chest.

One night, you heard a melodic voice. There, a young woman played the piano and sung. Curious, you asked how she could play on the—tapping instrument. She smiled with amusement and taught you how to play.

Upon the next suppers evening. The colonel had come, day by day, when he could, to visit you.

When everyone was preoccupied. You began to sing, staring out the window. The colonel drawn to your voice came in that night and stared at you in awe.

He came closer, drawn to your voice and visage. He had never heard anything like you. It was true mermaids had an alluring voice.

As you saw him, you stopped. He gently flushed and asked "p-please continue."

Out of request, you continued to sing. He was gazing at you like he witnessed an angel come below from the heaven's.

With that, he cupped your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. In response your eyes widened and didn't back away.

You followed in motion, allowing him to take over.

From the next morning, the Colonel had announced he wished to take your hand in marriage. Mrs. Dashwood smiled in glee at the good news, Elinor rejoiced for the Colonel's happiness and Edward did so in unison. Marianne, smiled but—it was not of joy, rather, disappointment. Ever since the Colonel spent more time with you, she began. To feel. Envious. Your receiving his attention. When she should have been the one he was pinning for since the start.

In a way, she started to rethink her choices. She mightve been fairly cold and dismissive but, he was always there for her. However, now she had hoped John would propose to her.

Within the next coming of days, everything seemed joyous and content. Except, you began to miss your home. The water. It was apart of a who you were.

You planned on leaving yet, unsure of how to, perhaps you should stay and marry Brandon. Or, tell him you wanted to go back.

So far, this was happening all so fast.

#colonel brandon x reader #sense and sensibility x reader #sense and sensibility 1995 #sense and sensibility #alan rickman #jane austen x reader #jane austen #jane austen headcanon #colonel brandon

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muiitoloko · 6 months ago

Note

hello, do you plan to write a part 2 for the Colonel Brandon ? The reader could tell him more about her past treatment as she grew to trust him enough to do so. And Brandon being Brandon, I guess we will have a lot of fluff.

Title: Whispers of Doubt

Summary: Doubts still gnaw at you.

Pairing: Colonel Brandon × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, doubts, fear, inferiority complex.

Author's Notes: You asked, I delivered—well, sort of! Here it is, not exactly what you ordered, but hey, it’s the sequel you didn't know you needed! Enjoy the ride!

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

The days since you and Brandon had declared your love for each other passed calmly, yet there was an undercurrent of intensity. With your newfound openness, your life together had taken on a rhythm both passionate and serene. You now spent most of your time in the main house, a change that brought you closer to Brandon in every sense. Remarkably, the peace seemed to help stave off your episodes, at least for now, and the household settled into a new normal.

However, beneath the veneer of daily life, a fervor burned brightly. The pretense of trying to conceive children masked the true nature of your physical relationship, a relationship that thrived on unspoken desires and mutual need. It became clear that both of you were reveling in the intensity of your newfound intimacy.

Brandon, once the epitome of the disciplined, reserved colonel, had shed his gentlemanly constraints in the privacy of your shared moments. In the throes of passion, he transformed, his demeanor wild and untamed, driven by a raw, primal need that matched your own. The stately mansion became the backdrop to your fervent lovemaking, each room holding the memory of your shared abandon.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the library, engrossed in a book about childbirth and early child-rearing. You were seated at a large oak table, the room's vast collection of books providing a comforting backdrop. Brandon entered quietly, his presence filling the room with an electric charge. He moved behind you, reading over your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

"Thinking about our future children?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, unable to speak as his hands found your shoulders, kneading gently. His touch was a soothing balm and a promise of what was to come. One thing led to another, as it often did these days, and soon the book was forgotten, the table's solid surface supporting you as Brandon's need overpowered any pretense of restraint.

He positioned you with firm but gentle hands, bending you over the table as he stood behind you. You gripped the edge of the table, your breath coming in shallow gasps as his fingers traced a heated path down your back. His touch was both a caress and a claim, each stroke igniting a fire within you.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

Before you could respond, he entered you with a swift, powerful thrust that left you gasping. The transformation was instant; the disciplined Colonel Brandon was gone, replaced by a man driven by an all-consuming need. His movements were relentless, each thrust deep and demanding, as he held your hips firmly.

The library, a sanctuary of knowledge and calm, was now filled with the sounds of your passion. The table creaked beneath the intensity of your coupling, the bookshelves standing as silent witnesses to the raw, primal connection between you. Brandon's hands roamed your body, gripping, caressing, his lips finding the sensitive spot at the nape of your neck.

"Christopher," you managed to gasp, his name a plea and a prayer.

He responded with a growl, his pace quickening, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The disciplined veneer of the colonel had given way to the fervent lover, his need for you overriding all else. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, your shared desire a blazing inferno that consumed you both.

When the climax came, it was a shattering release, your cries mingling with his as you both surrendered to the wave of pleasure that washed over you. The intensity of the moment left you both breathless, clinging to each other as the world righted itself around you.

Brandon held you close, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, "I love you, [Your Name]. Never doubt that."

You turned in his arms, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of love and awe. "And I love you, Christopher," you replied, your voice filled with a conviction that matched his own.

In the aftermath, you both stood there, entwined, the library once again a place of quiet reflection. But now, it also held the memory of your love, a testament to the bond that had grown between you, stronger and more unbreakable with each passing day.

Brandon stuffed himself back into his pants and helped you get dressed too, his hands gentle yet firm as he fastened the ties of your pants. His touch, though tender, seemed accompanied by an unspoken hesitation. By this time, you knew him well enough to read the subtle tension in his posture and the way his eyes avoided yours.

“What is it, Christopher?” you asked softly, your voice laced with concern. “You seem troubled.”

Brandon sighed, taking a step back as he ran a hand through his hair. “I received a letter this morning,” he began, his tone hesitant. “An old friend of mine from the army is hosting a dance. We've been invited to attend.”

You felt a pang of anxiety at his words. Social events had become a source of fear for you, the thought of being in public, exposed to prying eyes and gossiping tongues, filled you with dread. You had made very few public appearances since your episodes had become known, and the rumors of your condition, though never confirmed, had been enough to keep you isolated.

Brandon continued, his gaze searching yours for understanding. “I know how you feel about being in public,” he said gently. “And I would never force you to go. But I haven't seen my friend in quite some time, and... I miss the camaraderie we shared.”

The apprehension in your chest tightened. You didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to hold Brandon back from something that clearly meant a lot to him. Yet, the fear of what might happen, of how you might be perceived, loomed large.

“I understand if you don't want to go,” Brandon added quickly, sensing your hesitation. “I won't attend if you're uncomfortable with it. Your peace of mind means more to me than any social engagement.”

His words only deepened your conflict. You wanted to protect him from the potential scandal of your condition becoming widely known, but you also didn't want to be the cause of his isolation. Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your thoughts.

“Christopher,” you began, your voice trembling slightly, “I’m terrified of people seeing me… having an episode. I’ve worked so hard to keep my family's reputation intact, and now yours as well. The thought of public scrutiny frightens me to no end.”

Brandon stepped closer, taking your hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring. “I understand your fears,” he said softly. “But you are not alone in this. We can face it together, just as we've faced everything else. I will be by your side every moment. And if, at any point, you feel overwhelmed, we can leave.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the earnest sincerity there. His presence, his unwavering support, was a balm to your frayed nerves. “I don’t want to be the reason you miss out on seeing your friend,” you admitted. “I can see how much it means to you.”

Brandon's gaze softened, and he lifted your hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers. “Your comfort and well-being mean more to me than any dance or reunion. But if you’re willing, even if it’s just for a short while, it would mean the world to me to have you by my side.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded slowly. “Alright,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “I’ll go. For you.”

A smile spread across Brandon’s face, and he pulled you into a warm embrace. “Thank you, [Your Name],” he murmured. “We’ll take it one step at a time, and if at any moment you want to leave, we will.”

As you held onto him, you felt a mix of fear and resolve. The journey ahead would be daunting, but with Brandon by your side, you felt a flicker of hope. Together, you would face whatever came your way, united by love and the promise of brighter days ahead.

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the room as you stood before the mirror, a pile of dresses spread out on the bed. It had been a long time since you had prepared for a dance, and the thought of it filled you with both excitement and apprehension. Most days, you preferred the comfort of boyish clothes, which allowed you to move freely and escape the constrictions of societal expectations. But tonight was different. Tonight, you wanted to feel beautiful for Brandon, to be worthy of standing by his side in public, to rekindle the grace you once took pride in.

You slipped into one of the dresses, a deep blue gown with delicate lace at the sleeves and neckline. It was a beautiful dress, but as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite right. You tried another, a soft lavender gown with intricate embroidery, and then another, a simple yet elegant cream-colored dress. Each time, you arranged your hair in different styles, pinning it up with hairpins or letting it cascade down your back in soft waves.

But nothing seemed good enough. With a sigh, you sank onto the edge of the bed, frustration gnawing at you. You felt a mix of self-doubt and determination, the desire to be beautiful for your colonel clashing with the insecurities that had haunted you for so long.

Looking out the window, you saw Brandon working with the workers in the field. His shirt was stuck to his body with sweat, highlighting the strength and dedication that defined him. The sight of him, so strong and sure, brought a small smile to your lips. You admired him deeply, not just for his physical strength, but for his unwavering kindness and the love he had shown you.

Determined not to let your insecurities get the better of you, you stood up and returned to the mirror. You chose the cream-colored dress, its simplicity appealing to you in a way the others hadn't. As you adjusted the fit and smoothed the fabric, you thought about the hairstyle that would complement it best. After a moment of contemplation, you decided on a loose, elegant updo with a few tendrils framing your face. It was a style that felt both refined and comfortable, and you hoped it would make you feel as beautiful as Brandon saw you.

Tying your hair in place, you decided that this was it; this was how you would do it. This decision brought a sense of calm, a rare moment of certainty in the midst of your doubts. You then took off the dress, carefully folding it and putting it away, changing back into your men's clothes—garments that allowed you the freedom you so cherished.

Once dressed, you made your way outside to where Brandon was working with the workers in the field. The afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the scene, making the sweat glisten on his brow. As you approached, he looked up and smiled, the sight of you in your usual attire bringing a twinkle to his eye.

"Do you need any help?" you asked, your voice carrying a note of determination.

Brandon chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You know, you never cease to surprise me," he said, his tone affectionate. "Most women would be preparing for the dance, not offering to join in manual labor."

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Well, I guess I'm not like most women. I don't mind getting my hands dirty."

He studied you for a moment, admiration mingling with a touch of exasperation. "I know you're stubborn and determined," he said, his voice softening. "And as much as I find that both fascinating and frustrating, I wouldn't have you any other way."

With that, he handed you a tool, and together you worked side by side. The labor was hard, but there was a certain rhythm to it that you found soothing. It was a stark contrast to the upcoming dance, but in this moment, you felt more at ease.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the field, Brandon paused and looked at you, his expression serious. "You know, there's something I need to tell you," he began, his voice hesitant. "About the dance... if at any moment you feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable, please let me know. We can leave whenever you want."

You nodded, appreciating his understanding and concern. "Thank you, Christopher," you replied softly. "I promise I'll let you know."

The evening air grew cooler as you finished up the day's work. The fields, now empty of workers, felt peaceful, the only sounds the distant calls of birds and the rustling of leaves. Brandon turned to you, his gaze filled with warmth and love.

"Let's head back," he said, reaching for your hand. "We still need to get ready for tonight."

You smiled and took his hand, feeling a surge of affection for the man who had stood by you through so much. Together, you walked back to the house, the bond between you growing stronger with each step.

Back in your room, you once again donned the cream-colored dress, this time with a sense of purpose. Brandon had been right; you could face this together. As you tied your hair in place, a wave of calm washed over you. Tonight would be a challenge, but with Brandon by your side, you felt ready to face whatever came your way.

Brandon waited for you at the bottom of the stairs, dressed impeccably in his formal attire. When he saw you, his eyes lit up with admiration. "You look stunning," he said, his voice filled with genuine awe.

You blushed, feeling a mix of pride and nervousness. "Thank you," you replied softly. "Shall we go?"

He offered you his arm, and together you stepped out into the night, ready to face the world with love and courage. The journey ahead was uncertain, but with Brandon by your side, you knew you could conquer anything.

In the carriage to Brandon's friend's house, your initial resolve began to falter. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the cobblestone streets, once soothing, now only served to amplify your growing dread. Every bump and jolt seemed to shake loose another fragment of your confidence, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed. You glanced at Brandon, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to your inner turmoil, and tried to draw strength from his presence. But the closer you got to the mansion, the more your fears began to take hold.

As the carriage finally rolled to a stop, your heart pounded so loudly you were certain Brandon could hear it. He stepped out first, his movements deliberate and graceful, but when he turned to help you down, he paused. Your hands were trembling uncontrollably, your body frozen in place. The sight of the servants gathered outside the mansion, their curious eyes fixed on the carriage, made your breath catch in your throat. The thought of facing them, of being seen and possibly judged, was paralyzing.

Brandon noticed your distress immediately. His expression softened, a mixture of concern and understanding crossing his features. He looked up at the coachman, then back at you, his eyes silently pleading with you to come out. The servants continued to watch, their whispers just audible enough to feed your anxiety. Brandon reached out his hand to you, his gesture filled with a quiet desperation, silently begging you to trust him, to take that first step.

Your fear was almost overwhelming, but you knew Brandon deserved more. He had given you so much of himself, and you couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him. With a deep breath, you forced yourself to move, extending a shaky hand towards his. The moment your fingers touched his, you felt a surge of strength flow through you. Brandon's grip was firm and reassuring, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made the world around you fade away.

"Come with me," he murmured softly, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with fear, but you nodded. With Brandon's help, you managed to step out of the carriage, your legs feeling weak and unsteady. The servants' murmurs seemed to grow louder, their eyes following your every move, but you kept your focus on Brandon. He didn't let go of your hand, his grip a constant reminder that you were not alone.

As you walked towards the mansion, your steps slow and hesitant, Brandon stayed close by your side. His presence was a comforting shield against the judgmental gazes and whispered comments. Every now and then, he would give your hand a gentle squeeze, a silent message of support and encouragement. With each step, you felt a bit of your fear begin to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of determination.

Inside, the grand hall was a swirl of color and movement. The guests, resplendent in their finery, danced and mingled beneath glittering chandeliers. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter and music, a stark contrast to the silent, dark place of your fears. Brandon led you through the throng, his hand never leaving yours, until you found a quieter corner where you could catch your breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with genuine concern.

You nodded, though your heart was still racing. "I will be," you replied, your voice trembling slightly. "Thank you, Christopher. For everything."

He smiled, a tender and reassuring expression that made your heart swell with affection. "We're in this together," he said simply. "Always."

The moment of quiet between you and Brandon was abruptly interrupted by the approach of a distinguished-looking man, his posture erect and confident. He appeared to be Brandon’s age, if not slightly older, his eyes crinkling with familiarity as he spotted the colonel. Brandon’s expression brightened, and he greeted the man with a broad smile.

“Good evening, Colonel Brandon,” the man said, his voice warm and jovial. He saluted, a gesture that Brandon immediately returned before they both laughed heartily, embracing in a way that spoke of long-standing camaraderie.

Watching their interaction, your curiosity piqued, momentarily eclipsing your lingering fears. Brandon turned to you, his arm still draped over the man’s shoulder. “My dear, may I introduce you to an old friend and the organizer of this ball, Lord Frederick Amherst? Frederick, this is my beloved.”

You composed yourself, straightening your posture and offering a polite bow. “Lord Amherst, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Lord Amherst’s eyes twinkled with amusement and respect as he returned your bow with a slight nod. “The pleasure is mine, my lady. Christopher has spoken so highly of you.”

Brandon’s friend had a commanding presence, his demeanor radiating both authority and warmth. As you engaged in conversation, you felt the weight of the room’s scrutiny lighten, your focus shifting to the amiable exchange between the two men.

“Frederick and I served together for many years,” Brandon explained, his tone filled with nostalgia. “We’ve shared countless campaigns and even more stories.”

Lord Amherst chuckled. “Indeed we have. And many of those stories I’m sure the good colonel here would prefer remain untold.” He winked, a playful glint in his eye.

You smiled, finding comfort in their shared history and the easy rapport they maintained. “I can only imagine the adventures you two have had.”

Brandon squeezed your hand gently, his eyes reflecting pride and affection. “Frederick has always been the more adventurous one, but we balanced each other out.”

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself relaxing, the earlier tension slowly dissipating. The familiarity between Brandon and Lord Amherst offered a glimpse into a part of Brandon’s life you hadn’t fully known, deepening your admiration for him.

Lord Amherst smiled at you, his gaze kind yet curious. “If you’ll excuse us, my lady,” he said, his tone polite. “I’d like to steal Colonel Brandon away for a bit to introduce him to some old mutual friends.”

You nodded, attempting to mask your apprehension. “Of course, Lord Amherst. Enjoy your reunion.”

As Brandon and Lord Amherst walked away, you watched them go, a mixture of pride and anxiety swirling within you. The bustling room, filled with unfamiliar faces, felt suddenly more intimidating in Brandon’s absence. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself to remain composed and dignified, determined not to bring any shame to Brandon’s name.

Meanwhile, Lord Amherst led Brandon through the crowded hall, a jovial expression masking the serious conversation he intended to have. Once they were out of earshot of others, Amherst turned to Brandon, his tone shifting to one of concern.

“Christopher, I must admit, I’ve heard some troubling rumors about your wife,” he began cautiously. “Is there any truth to them?”

Brandon frowned, his expression darkening. “What rumors, Frederick?”

Lord Amherst hesitated, then continued. “People are saying you left Miss Marianne Dashwood to marry a woman of… unstable mind. Is there any truth to this?”

Brandon’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with anger. “You are misinformed, Frederick. I did not leave Miss Dashwood. She was committed to someone else at the time, and I respected her choice. When that engagement ended, I had already met and fallen in love with my wife.”

Frederick’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “But Miss Dashwood is still single, and the rumors about your wife...”

Brandon cut him off, his voice low and firm. “My wife is not ‘unstable,’ Frederick. She is a remarkable woman, and I love her deeply. The rumors are nothing but vicious gossip, spread by those who do not know her.”

Lord Amherst’s skepticism was evident. “I understand your loyalty, Christopher, but the talk is persistent. Are you sure you’ve made the right choice?”

Brandon’s temper flared. “Frederick, I came here to see an old friend, not to listen to slander about my wife. If you cannot respect her, then perhaps this conversation is over.”

The tension between the two men was palpable. Amherst’s expression softened, realizing he had overstepped. “I meant no offense, Christopher. I’m just concerned for you.”

Brandon’s gaze was steely. “Then trust my judgment. She is my wife, and I will not tolerate any disrespect towards her.”

Frederick raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Very well, Christopher. I see you are resolute. Let us leave this matter and enjoy the evening.”

Brandon nodded curtly, though the anger still simmered beneath his calm exterior. “Thank you.”

As they rejoined the gathering, Brandon’s thoughts remained with you, standing alone among strangers. His love for you and his determination to protect you from gossip and scorn were unwavering. The night was meant for reconnecting with old friends, but it had also become a testament to his steadfast loyalty and devotion to you.

Back in the grand hall, you stood by a table laden with refreshments, trying to look at ease. A few guests approached you, engaging in polite conversation, and you responded with measured grace. Yet, your eyes kept drifting towards the spot where Brandon and Lord Amherst had disappeared, a quiet worry gnawing at you.

When Brandon finally returned, his expression softened as he found you amidst the crowd. He made his way to you, his presence a comforting anchor. But he was stopped halfway to his destination by none other than the Dashwoods. Brandon froze as he caught sight of Marianne Dashwood; her beauty still enchanted him despite everything. She was as captivating as ever, and his heart fluttered involuntarily.

"Elinor, look who it is," Marianne exclaimed, her eyes sparkling as she noticed Brandon. "Colonel Brandon, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!"

Elinor Dashwood, always composed and gracious, greeted Brandon warmly. "Colonel Brandon, it is indeed a pleasure to see you. How have you been?"

Brandon turned away from Marianne's eyes to greet Elinor back, trying to maintain his composure despite the rush of emotions that seeing Marianne stirred within him. "Miss Dashwood, Miss Marianne, it is a pleasure to see both of you. I trust you are both well."

Marianne, still as spirited and lively as ever, was quick to engage him further. She took a step closer, fanning herself lightly with a delicate fan that drew Brandon's eyes to her cleavage for a moment before he quickly averted his gaze. He searched the room over Marianne's shoulder, looking for his wife.

"It's been such a long time since we last saw you, Colonel," Marianne said, her tone teasing yet affectionate. "I was hoping you might accompany me for a dance tonight."

Brandon's heart skipped a beat. He knew he had to tread carefully. "Miss Marianne, I appreciate the invitation, but I'm afraid I must ask my wife for permission first."

Marianne's eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and curiosity crossing her features. "Your wife?" she asked softly, her tone betraying her emotions.

Brandon nodded, his gaze softening as he spoke. "Yes, my wife. She is here with me tonight."

Elinor smiled understandingly. "Of course, Colonel. We shall look forward to seeing both of you on the dance floor later."

With a polite nod, Brandon excused himself from Marianne's invitation, but before he could take another step, Marianne put a hand on his arm, her touch gentle yet insistent. "Oh, come now, Colonel," she said with a playful smile. "Surely one dance wouldn't hurt."

Elinor, ever the voice of reason, tried to dissuade her sister, casting a concerned glance towards Brandon. "Marianne, perhaps it's best to let Colonel Brandon be. He may have other obligations tonight."

But Marianne seemed determined, her grip on Brandon's arm tightening slightly as she squeezed it. Brandon looked at her, his expression torn between politeness and discomfort. He knew he couldn't refuse her without causing a scene, yet the thought of dancing with Marianne, with all the memories and emotions it would stir, filled him with apprehension.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, you watched the exchange with a heavy heart, insecurity gripping your chest. You had heard whispers from Brandon's employees about his past feelings for Marianne, even though Brandon had assured you that those feelings were long gone and that his love now belonged to you. But seeing them together, with her hand on his arm, brought a surge of doubt and unease.

They made a striking pair, Brandon's tall, stoic figure contrasting with Marianne's vivacious charm. They seemed to match in a way that you and Brandon never quite did, and the sight filled you with a sense of inadequacy.

Feeling your hands shaking, you set aside your drink and gathered your skirts, making your way outside in search of some fresh air. The night air was cool against your skin, the gentle rustle of leaves a soothing contrast to the turmoil within you.

As you walked, you tried to push away the nagging doubts and insecurities that threatened to overwhelm you. You reminded yourself of Brandon's words, of his love and devotion to you. Yet, the image of him with Marianne lingered in your mind, a painful reminder of the past that refused to be ignored.

You found a secluded spot in the garden, away from the prying eyes and whispered conversations of the party. Sitting down on a bench, you closed your eyes and took slow, deep breaths, willing yourself to regain control of your emotions.

"I'm not good enough for him," you whispered to yourself, the fear of being a burden to Brandon resurfacing. The weight of societal expectations and the relentless whispers of gossip clawed at your resolve. "I will ruin everything," you muttered, your voice tinged with despair.

Looking up at the stars, you sought solace in their quiet beauty. Among them, Venus shone brightly, a beacon of hope and love. "Venus will take me away, won't she?" you murmured, a desperate plea to the heavens above.

Just as you felt yourself slipping further into a spiral of anxiety, a voice interrupted your thoughts, calling your name. You turned, startled, and froze in shock at the sight of your old doctor approaching you. His presence brought back memories of his treatments, the pain, and the fear you had felt during those dark days.

"Miss [Your Last Name]," the doctor greeted you with a calm demeanor, his voice soft yet unsettlingly familiar. "It's been a long time."

Your breath quickened at the sight of him, the old wounds reopening fresh in your mind. His presence was a stark reminder of the life you had fought so hard to leave behind. "Dr. Peters," you managed to reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "What... what are you doing here?"

The doctor's gaze was steady, assessing. "I heard about the party tonight and thought I might see some old acquaintances," he explained vaguely, his tone giving away nothing of his true intentions. "And here I find you, looking as lovely as ever."

You shrank back slightly, a mixture of fear and unease coursing through you. "I... I was just taking a moment," you stammered, attempting to mask your discomfort. "I didn't expect to see you."

Dr. Peters inclined his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Forgive me if I've startled you," he said, his voice silky smooth. "It's just that I couldn't help but notice you sitting here alone. Is everything alright?"

Your heart raced, the memories of his treatments flashing before your eyes. "Yes, everything is fine," you replied, your voice strained. "I just needed some air."

The doctor's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with something akin to satisfaction. "Of course," he said, his tone almost mocking. "It's a lovely night for a party."

You glanced around nervously, trying to find a way to excuse yourself. "I should... I should go back inside," you muttered, your voice shaking.

As you moved to stand, Dr. Peters reached out and placed a hand on your arm, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "You know, Miss [Your Last Name]," he began, his voice low and conspiratorial, "I always admired your strength."

You froze, his words like a dagger in your heart. The memories of the pain he had inflicted, both physical and emotional, flooded your mind. "Please," you pleaded, your voice trembling, "don't."

But Dr. Peters ignored your distress, his grip tightening on your arm. "You were always so resilient," he continued, his voice taking on a sinister edge. "I wonder how you've managed to survive without my treatments."

Panic gripped you, your breath coming in short gasps. "Let go of me," you demanded, your voice stronger now despite the fear coursing through you.

"But you're not a miss anymore, are you, Lady Brandon?" Dr. Peters said softly, almost to himself, as if relishing the power he held over you. "I heard about your wedding to Colonel Brandon. Quite the scandal, isn't it?"

Your heart raced, and you began to murmur, calling out for Venus, seeking solace in the stars above. But Dr. Peters only tightened his grip on your arm, pulling you closer until his face was mere inches from yours.

"Control your mind, Lady Brandon," he whispered in your ear, his voice a chilling command. And against your will, you froze, unable to resist his hypnotic influence.

The doctor's smile widened as he released your arm, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze fixed on you. "I don't understand why your parents stopped your treatment," he mused aloud, his tone mocking. "There was progress, you know. You could control yourself more because of me. I could make a good research study out of it, help other people. But then, it was all abruptly stopped."

You remained silent, unable to find your voice as the memories of his treatments flooded back, the pain and the fear intertwined with his taunting words. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the power he wielded over you like a weapon.

"I was surprised to hear you would be at this dance," Dr. Peters continued, his voice low and menacing. "Everyone is focusing on you, the unstable-minded wife of Colonel Brandon. Some ladies speculate that he only married you out of obligation, that you must have done something inappropriate with him, and the Duke, your father, forced him into this marriage."

The doctor's words cut through the haze of fear and doubt that clouded your mind, piercing straight to the heart of your insecurities. You tried to deny his accusations, to protest the lies he was weaving, but his raised finger silenced you once more. The weight of his words settled heavily upon your shoulders, crushing you with the fear of tarnishing Brandon's name.

As you hung your head, feeling like a burden, the doctor saw your doubts and smiled, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and malevolence. "You see, my dear Lady Brandon," he said softly, his voice dripping with honeyed malice, "I could help you. I could ensure that your... issues don't become a permanent stain on your husband's name."

His words struck a chord within you, sparking a tumultuous battle of conflicting emotions. On one hand, the thought of returning to Dr. Peters' treatments filled you with dread, recalling the pain and suffering you had endured under his care. Yet, the fear of causing further harm to Brandon's reputation gnawed at your conscience, threatening to overwhelm your resolve.

"You know where to find me," the doctor continued smoothly, as if sensing your internal struggle. "My office address remains the same. Think about it, Lady Brandon. Think about what is best for your husband."

With a final smirk, Dr. Peters turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the garden, your thoughts in turmoil. You watched him disappear into the darkness, his figure a sinister silhouette against the moonlit path.

Alone with your thoughts, you paced back and forth, grappling with the weight of Dr. Peters' proposition. Could returning to his treatments truly save you from the demons that haunted your mind? Would it prevent the rumors from spreading further, sparing Brandon from further humiliation?

But as you wrestled with these questions, another voice broke through your turmoil, a voice that echoed with calm reassurance and unwavering love. "My Lady," a familiar voice called out softly from the garden's edge.

You turned, heart skipping a beat as Brandon approached you, concern etched on his face. His presence was a balm to your troubled soul, grounding you in the reality of his unwavering love and support.

"Christopher," you whispered, relief flooding your senses as he drew near. Without a word, he closed the distance between you, enveloping you in his strong embrace.

"You left the ball so suddenly," he murmured against your hair, his voice tinged with worry. "Are you alright, my love?"

You clung to him, seeking solace in his embrace, uncertain if you should reveal the unsettling encounter with your old doctor. The night had shattered your composure, and Brandon's warmth offered a refuge from the storm raging inside you. You must have been silent for a long time, lost in the comfort of his arms, because Brandon began to speak softly, his voice tinged with concern.

"My love, I apologize if my conversation with Miss Marianne upset you," he murmured against your hair. "If it made you uncomfortable, I promise I won't let it happen again."

Your heart sank at the mention of Marianne Dashwood, her image flashing vividly in your mind. You turned away slightly from Brandon, grappling with the weight of your insecurities before gathering the courage to voice your fears.

"Christopher," you began tentatively, "do you... still have feelings for Miss Dashwood?"

Brandon looked away, his expression conflicted as he clenched his fist lightly. The silence that followed was enough of an answer for you. Your heart broke slightly, though you had expected such an outcome. How could anyone not be captivated by such a young and beautiful woman?

Taking a step back, you composed yourself, mustering the courage to broach a difficult topic. "Perhaps... perhaps we should consider an annulment," you suggested quietly, your voice trembling slightly. "You could try again with Marianne."

Brandon shook his head, his heart sinking at the direction the conversation had taken. "No, my dear, not that again," he said softly, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and concern. He gently lifted your chin, meeting your eyes with a tender gaze. "Seeing Miss Marianne again... it did bring back memories, but it doesn't mean I'm in love with her. It's you, only you, that I love."

You scoffed bitterly, unable to hide the pain in your eyes. Brandon glanced over his shoulder, noticing a few people in the distance who seemed to be observing the two of you. His grip on your arm tightened slightly, a silent plea not to make a scene.

"Let's not discuss this here," he whispered urgently, his voice laced with worry. "People are looking."

You followed his gaze and saw the curious glances directed your way. A wave of inadequacy washed over you, making you feel unworthy, a burden—a crazy woman no one wanted to be around.

The doctor's words echoed in your mind, intensifying your inner turmoil. Maybe he was right. Maybe you were embarrassing Brandon's name. The thought twisted your gut, reinforcing your insecurities.

"I..." you began, your voice trembling as you struggled to find the right words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I just..."

Brandon's expression softened, his concern deepening as he tried to comfort you. "Shhh," he whispered, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "It's alright, my love. Please, let's go somewhere more private."

Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on you, you nodded silently, allowing Brandon to lead you away from the prying gazes. As you walked together, the doubt and fear continued to gnaw at your heart. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were letting Brandon down—that you were somehow not enough for him.

Brandon guided you to a secluded corner of the garden, away from the curious onlookers. He turned to face you, cupping your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours with gentle intensity.

"I know tonight has been difficult for you," he began softly, his voice filled with empathy. "But please, believe me when I say that you are everything to me. Miss Marianne is a part of my past, and though I may have cared for her once, my love for you is different—it's deeper, stronger."

Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart aching with the intensity of your emotions. "I... I want to believe you," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "But seeing you with her, it just..."

Brandon's thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I understand," he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. "I should have been more attentive, more considerate of your feelings."

You shook your head, feeling guilty for causing a scene. "No, it's not your fault," you protested softly. "I'm just... I feel so inadequate, Christopher. She's so young, so beautiful, and I..."

Brandon's expression softened further, his heart breaking for the pain you were feeling. "You are not inadequate," he insisted firmly, his voice unwavering. "You are my wife, my love, and you bring me more happiness than I ever thought possible."

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "But what if I'm not enough?" you whispered, the fear lingering in your voice.

Brandon gently tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. "You are more than enough," he said firmly, his eyes searching yours. "I married you because I love you, because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Nothing and no one could ever change that."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, your heart warming at his words. "I love you too," you murmured, your voice filled with gratitude and relief.

Brandon pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if trying to shield you from the doubts and insecurities that plagued your mind. "Let's go home," he said softly against your hair. "We can leave this place behind and focus on us."

You nodded against his chest, feeling safe and loved in his embrace. As you left the garden together, the weight of the night's events began to lift from your shoulders. You knew that the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Brandon by your side, you were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

And as you walked away from the whispers and the doubts, you knew deep in your heart that Brandon's love was the anchor that would keep you grounded, no matter what storms may come.

As you and Brandon arrived home, the weight of the evening’s events seemed to dissipate, replaced by the comforting familiarity of your shared sanctuary. Brandon guided you gently up the stairs, his hand warm and steady in yours. When you reached your bedroom, he closed the door behind you, enclosing the two of you in a cocoon of privacy and intimacy.

Brandon’s eyes met yours, filled with a blend of concern and love. Without a word, he began to help you out of your cream-colored dress. His fingers worked deftly at the buttons and laces, his touch gentle yet firm. As he eased the fabric from your shoulders, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your exposed skin. The warmth of his lips against your shoulder sent a shiver down your spine.

“You looked stunning tonight,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sent waves of heat through you. “It’s a shame I didn’t dance with you.”

You sighed softly, feeling the last of the tension melt away under his touch. “It’s alright,” you whispered, though a part of you wished you had shared a dance with him.

Brandon’s hands slid the dress down your arms, letting it pool at your feet in a soft whisper of fabric. He stepped back slightly, his gaze taking in the sight of you standing before him in your undergarments. “The dress is beautiful,” he said, his voice huskier now, “but I much prefer it on the floor.”

His words sent a thrill through you, and you felt your cheeks flush with a mixture of desire and anticipation. Brandon stepped closer, his hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you against him. His lips found yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, conveying the depth of his feelings more eloquently than words ever could.

“I’ve missed you tonight,” he whispered between kisses, his breath hot against your lips. “Every moment I spent away from you felt like an eternity.”

Your hands found their way to the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling slightly in your eagerness. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and helped you remove his clothing piece by piece. Soon, he stood before you, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your bodies.

As he guided you towards the bed, his hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and contour with a reverence that made your heart swell. He laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re everything to me,” he whispered, his voice a fervent promise. “Never doubt that.”

You reached up, pulling him down to you, your fingers threading through his hair as you kissed him deeply. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you and the love that bound you together. Brandon’s hands moved with a surety that spoke of his familiarity with your body, his touch igniting a fire that burned brighter with each passing moment.

“Christopher,” you breathed, your voice filled with longing and need. “I love you.”

He responded with a kiss, his lips trailing a path of heat down your neck and over your collarbone. “I love you more than words can express,” he murmured against your skin. “And I intend to show you just how much tonight.”

But even as Brandon's tender words enveloped you in warmth, doubts hovered in your mind. How could he truly love you, a woman plagued by insecurities and fears? The whispers of Dr. Peters and the sight of Marianne's enchanting beauty resurfaced, making you question your worth.

Brandon seemed to sense your turmoil. He sighed softly, pulling away slightly to look into your eyes. "You are you, and that's why I love you," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Crazy or not, I love you."

You opened your mouth to protest, to voice the doubts gnawing at your heart, but Brandon silenced you with a kiss. His lips were a tender reassurance against your own, whispering softly against them, "You are my crazy woman, and I am your colonel, old and stupid."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mixture of amusement and arousal sparking within you. The playful tone in his voice, combined with the fierce sincerity of his gaze, melted your insecurities. Brandon's hands roamed your body with a newfound urgency, his touch igniting a fire that burned away the remnants of your doubts.

He kissed his way down your neck, his lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "You drive me wild, you know that?" he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. "Every part of you—your mind, your body—sets me ablaze."

You gasped softly, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. "Christopher," you whispered, your voice trembling with desire and emotion. "I need you."

Brandon responded with a growl of approval, his hands moving to unfasten your undergarments with deft precision. "I'll show you just how much I need you, too," he promised, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Every inch of you belongs to me."

He kissed his way down your body, his lips and tongue exploring your curves with a reverence that made your heart race. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Tell me what you want, my love," he urged, his voice a velvet command. "I want to hear you say it."

Your breath hitched, the intensity of his gaze sending a wave of heat through you. "I want you," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want all of you."

Brandon's smile was both tender and wicked as he lowered his head, his mouth finding its way to the most intimate part of you. His tongue moved with a skill and precision that left you gasping, your fingers tightening in his hair as waves of pleasure coursed through you.

He took his time, savoring every moan and gasp that escaped your lips, drawing out your pleasure until you were on the brink of begging for release. When you could take no more, he rose to his knees, his eyes dark with desire. "You are mine," he whispered fiercely, positioning himself between your legs. "And I am yours."

As he entered you, a moan of pure ecstasy escaped your lips, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was both primal and tender. Brandon's hands gripped your hips, his movements sure and deliberate, each thrust sending you higher into a realm of pleasure where only the two of you existed.

"Say it," he urged, his voice strained with his own desire. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, the intensity of your feelings overwhelming you. "I'm yours, Christopher."

Brandon's pace quickened, his grip tightening as he drove you both toward the edge. "And I'm yours," he groaned, his voice thick with emotion. "Always."

Your release came in a wave of ecstasy, your body trembling in his arms as he followed you into the abyss, his own climax ripping through him with a force that left you both breathless.

In the aftermath, as you lay entwined in each other's arms, the doubts and insecurities that had plagued you earlier seemed to dissipate. Brandon held you close, his hand gently stroking your hair, his heartbeat a steady reassurance against your own.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice a soft caress. "No matter what, I will always love you."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with a love that matched his own. "And I love you," you replied, your voice steady and sure. "Always."

As you drifted into a peaceful sleep in his arms, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. For you were his crazy woman, and he was your colonel, old and stupid—but more importantly, you were each other's, bound by a love that would withstand any storm.

#colonel brandon x reader #sense and sensibility #colonel brandon #alan rickman x reader #alan rickman

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dragon-kazansky · 1 year ago

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Everytime she entered a room he looked at her as if she had put the stars in the sky. She was beautiful and kind. Her smile made him feel so many things, especially when she was smiling at him.

His hand accidentally brushed against hers and he nearly flinched away, but her finger reached put and gently wrapped around his. She wanted him there. She wanted his hand there. That was more than enough for him to know he wasn't going to this woman go.

#colonel brandon #sense & sensibility #Colonel Brandon x reader

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starry-eyesanddaydreams · 11 months ago

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December 24: Christmas Party

Colonel Brandon x Reader

Last entry for @deepperplexity 's Rickmas2023!!! The second part of "Snow Prints". Not my best but I wanted to get this finished before new years, lol. I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and that the New Year brings you wonderful things.

It was the night of the Christmas party Christopher was hosting. You watched Delaford house from the carriage window. The beautiful house was brightly lit and the warm glow from the windows cast across the surrounding snow, making it look like a chandelier in the night. You were wearing the finest dress you owned, wine red with gold embroidery. You had a very special reason to be excited for tonight and to want to look your best. A few days ago, Colonel Christopher Brandon had come to your house and asked permission to court you. Your aunt and uncle had happily granted their consent and you’d felt like you were walking on clouds ever since. Christopher met you as the carriage with you and your aunt and uncle arrived at door. By the look on his face when he helped you down from the carriage, the lengths you had gone to in your appearance were appreciated and you felt your cheeks heat in a blush under his gaze.

It was a wonderful party. The house was beautifully decorated with garlands and candles, music and chatter filled the air and everyone was in a jovial, festive mood, fuelled by fine food and Christmas punch. As the night went on, he spent as much time as he could by your side. As much as his duties as host would allow him. Young Margaret Dashwood had secured a dance with Christopher at one point and the sight of him dancing happily with the child endeared him to you even more. Since your first meeting where he had rescued you from your long walk through the snow, you had seen each other many times and written often. You knew you were easily and quickly falling in love with him. And while exchanged letters and time spent in the company of your family warmed your heart, you also longed to be close to him again. The feeling of being held close to him as you’d ridden double across the fields that day had stayed with you and you needed to feel that closeness again.

You had danced together several times tonight, happily becoming lost in the music. After a while, when you said you could use a rest from dancing and the crowded room, Christopher offered to show you some more of the house. You walked together and ended up in a picture gallery, lined with beautiful paintings. “Are you enjoying the party?” He asked. “Very much. It’s a wonderful evening. I’ve enjoyed dancing with you.” “I’m glad. You dance beautifully. But I’m afraid most of the popular dances are a bit fast for my meagre skill.” “I think you’re a very fine dancer. You have travelled a great deal, do you know of other dances.” “Well, these is one I like, called the waltz, but I fear it may cause a scandal when it reaches England.” You were intrigued now, “What would make this waltz so scandalous? Please, tell me.” Christopher took your right hand in his, the warmth of it soaking through your glove as his large hand wrapped around yours. “It’s danced between two people, and you must hold each other quite close.” “Show me.” You almost whispered. Christopher took a breath before answering, “You place your left hand on my shoulder”. You did as he said and almost gasped as his right hand settled on your waist and pulled you closer.

Your face was mere inches from his. Your softness under his hands was entrancing and Christopher wanted nothing more in that moment than to abandon all propriety, to wrap you up in his arms and kiss you. You felt yourself leaning closer towards him, drawn to him as if by an invisible spring. Softly, sweetly, your lips met his arms wrapped firmly around your waist as you clung to his shoulders. It was an intoxicating mix, the feeling of warmth and safety you felt in his embrace mixed with the dizzying thrill of his kiss.

A burst of chatter from the nearby doorway startled you both away from each other. Christopher’s expression was hard to read, “I’m…”he stumbled over his words, “I’m so sorry. Please…forgive my transgression.” “There’s nothing to forgive.” You said softly, “I was hoping you would kiss me. I’ve wanted to be held by you again since the day we met. Is that to forward of me?” Suddenly feeling vulnerable at your confession. Christopher took both your hands in his, “No. You are wonderous.” He wanted to kiss you again, but he couldn’t risk your reputation. Thinking clearly now, anyone could have walked passed and seen your passionate embrace. “We should so back before we’re missed.” He said. You nodded, still a bit breathless. And he linked his arm with yours and you headed back to the party, where you found some of the guests had started a game of Snapdragon. As you and Christoper watched the game, amused at the players antics, you thought to yourself how you didn’t need any game of Snapdragon to tell you that you would marry your true love soon. _____________________________________________________

Hope everyone who reads this enjoys it. (Snapdragon was an old party game where you'd light a bowl of brandy-soaked raisins on fire and try to grab them out of the bowl. The one who gets the most was said to marry their true love within a year) Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!!!!

#alan rickman #rickmas2023 #rickmas 2023 #colonel christoper brandon #Colonel Brandon x reader #sense and sensibility

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tinystarbites · 2 months ago

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accidents pt. II | Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Summary: during a long case away, Spencer accidentally sees Reader's nudes on her phone and can't cope because he is a MESS for reader whoops pt.II The Reckoning /j, this is basically just 10k words of porn with feelings yikes

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff, some angst (still Spencer feeling he isn't good enough 😔), EMOTIONSSS, Spencer STILL loves you so much, he gets a hug, and so much more!, talk about sex, detailed asking for CONSENT (be safe people), sex (piv), some frottage, uhhh what else, dirty talk, some dom/sub understones (sub!Spencer ofc), little bit allusion to subspace, Spencer discovers so many kinks in this awww we're so proud of you bby (mentioned kinks: praise kink, squint of liking being embarrassed, tiiny bit of a voyeristic thing), also I made him a virgin whoops so virgin!Spencer, proofread but prolly not perfect lol. Tell me if I'm missing any tags I am so tired

(also, Spencer will be bisexual in all of my Spencer fics because I am not a coward like the writers were and I will honour Spencer the way he was intended to)

HERE you can read pt. I, I do recommend it to have context and all but do whatever you want lmao I'm not your mother anyway have fun being completely wrecked like I was while writing this!! also thanks so so MUCH for 400 followers and almost 2k likes on the first part, you guys are the best and I hope you enjoy this fic as a thanks!!<333

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Spencer’s never sprung from his bed faster in his life before.

His heart is a jackhammer in his chest, chipping away at his ribs one bone splitter at a time because-

It’s you. In front of his door. And Spencer is so hard it hurts but- he can’t just-

“Spencer?”

He sucks in a haggard breath, hands reaching up and messing up his hair even more. His thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at once and he just needs to- needs just a moment to-

“Uh, yeah, just a second!”, he calls back, voice scratchy and used from the- the moaning Jesus Christ because he was about to come with your mental image and he somehow, magically, managed to apparently conjure you up in front of his door with his pathetic pining and oh god-

He has to- ugh- has to wash his hands and make it go away and –

“Okay, I’ll just…chill with that weird plant here.”

An overwhelmed whimper slips past his lips and he just, stands there for at least another five seconds before something in his mind snaps back into place and he rushes to the small, adjacent bathroom of his room.

After he thoroughly washed his hands, his erection has flagged off enough so that it’s not the first thing greeting you when he opens the door and thank god for that.

And oh- seeing you after doing that actually knocks the wind out of his lungs because you are just so goddamn lovely it makes Spencer want to do stupid, stupid things like cry or kiss you or spontaneously combust into a million pieces.

For once, he does something okay-ishly sensible though.

“Hi.”

You look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement or scepticism, he doesn’t know for sure. Your eyes hold mirthful sparkles in them when he finally manages to meet your gaze, so he settles for the former of the two options.

You’re not wearing your work clothes anymore. Rather, you went for a cozy looking, oversized sweater and funkily patterned leggings. Your fashion sense outside of work always reminded Spencer of Penelope’s.

“Hi to yourself”, you chuckle, “Can I come in or are you too busy reading ten books at once?”

Spencer feels himself flush under your gentle teasing.

“Only seven books. But, yes, of course you can come in.”

He turns out of the way, creating room for you to pass him into his room. As soon as you are inside, you don’t hesitate to jump onto his bed and flop on your back with your arms spread wide.

Spencer’s breath hitches and he has to do some very extensive mental gymnastics to supress all the inappropriate thoughts from escaping the box he banished them into. Controlling his body’s response to seeing you in the same bed he was just jacking off in is… a different story. He pulls down the hem of his shirt as discreetly as possible, as he takes a seat next to you. Making sure that there is not too much distance between you two as to raise any suspicion and make it obvious he’s trying to get some distance between you, but also enough space so that he isn’t enticed to do anything unwise. Like, reach out and feel your warmth underneath his fingers. Or the softness of your skin. Or anything else really.

The more seconds tick by in which neither of you say anything, the more nervous Spencer becomes. He starts fiddling around with his fingers, aborting more than one move to steal a glance at your face to see what you’re thinking.

“Spencer”, you then finally say, voice kind of pout-y and if that didn’t make Spencer whip his head around to face you, the next thing you say for sure does. “Do you hate me?”

“Wha-“, he sputters your name, “No- no! Of course, I don’t- whe- why would you think that?”

You let out an exasperated groan, moving around until you are lying on your side, head propped up on your arm and frowning up at him. “Because you’ve been acting hella weird these last few days and you won’t tell me whyyyy”, you drag out the last syllable, pout on your lips and Spencer has to look up at the ceiling or else he’s just going to confess everything without second thought and that will definitely not happen.

“I haven’t been acting weird, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You remain silent again and Spencer feels the judging glare you send his way without having to look at you. Yes, he has been acting weird, he knows that, but you can never ever know the reason why tha-

“Is it because you saw my nudes?”

Spencer almost breaks his neck with how fast he whips his head down to look at you again. A strangled noise escapes him without permission and what. What.

“Because, that would actually explain so much, especially the way you’ve been acting and really, that’s probably on me because I’ve always been telling myself to put them behind a password block but I somehow always manage to forget that because apparently I have only one braincell left that’s stuck spinning on the deep-fried version of Funky Town and well, I guess I’m glad it was you that found them and not someone else and-“

“What? No, no, I didn’t- What- that’s not- what-“, Spencer cuts off your rambling with a horrified, screeched version of a protest because how- how could you have guessed what’s going on with just one try? Is Spencer so- so absolutely besotted with you that he’s so obvious? Spencer is so very confused and overwhelmed with whatever the hell is going on, he kind of misses the slight twitching of your mouth.

“Come on, Spencer. I said it’s fine and basically my own fault. Uh- well, actually… sorry. Because, well, that’s probably not very work-appropriate… I will pay for your therapy session, just send me the bill.”

Spencer thought he’d reached the limits of confusion seconds ago but apparently, he hadn’t. What. What are you even saying?

“Therapy sessions?”

You just- ignore him.

“Oh, also, please don’t tell Hotch? He’ll be pissed, despite me literally just doing hot-girl shit, y’know-“

Oh, Spencer cannot take it anymore.

He says your name and, “Stop, please, please, just-“

You snap your mouth shut, pulling your lips between your teeth and Spencer definitely doesn’t miss the way you have to force your mouth to stay still this time.

“Are you- is this a joke?”, Spencer asks, frazzled and desperate and so confused he just wants to bury his head under the duvet and never come out again. Because if you don’t actually know but- are just joking around, oh Spencer is overwhelmed, alright.

Your expression changes into something panicked then. “No, no, Spencer, sorry. I’m- sorry. Of course I’m not joking, I’m so sorry. It’s just a little bit too easy to tease you. Sorry.” You actually look apologetic now, lips downturned and frowning slightly.

“Not joking- so… so, you know?”, there’s something big and anxious pressing inside of Spencer’s chest. The urge to hide away and never face daylight again intensifies tenfold. He’s flushing before he realizes, hands trembling and breathing a bit too fast to be considered normal. Oh god, you know, you actually know, you’re going to- you’re never going to speak with him again you are probably here to tell him how weird and- and-

You must’ve noticed the frenzy he is thinking himself into, because you reach out with one hand and gently nudge his thigh with one knuckle. “Spencer”, you say, voice serious and steady and not the slightest bit disgusted or harsh and it snaps him out of his anxiety spiral.

“I knew the second I walked back into that room after you basically fled the precinct. I am, really, genuinely, sorry for making you uncomfortable. Like, it wasn’t actually my intention for you to see them. And then, after I realized what… I just wanted to wait and see what you’d do, if you came to talk to me or, well…”

You sigh, the hand that nudged him ruffling through your hair.

“I didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m really sorry. So… “, you trail off, scrunching your nose in that adorable way of yours that makes Spencer want to kiss it until it scrunches even further because you’d laugh and try to fight him off.

“We can just- forget about this. Forget that it ever happened, or-“, you hesitate again.

Spencer feels suddenly breathless. Like he stands in front of a cliff face, seconds before taking the step to send himself careening towards something immeasurably great or devastatingly fatal.

“Or…?”, he breathes, voice small and unsure.

You meet his eyes again after what feels like hours. There’s something intense in them, burning, and it’s like an electric shock to Spencer’s system. He’d give anything for you to keep looking at him like that forever.

“Or”, your hand returns to his thigh, but this time you let your fingers travel along the shape of it and Spencer whimpers. The burning in your eyes intensifies and Spencer feels hot, suddenly, so hot he’s burning with it. “Or we can do something else.”

“Something else?”, Spencer basically croaks because his throat is so dry and it’s difficult for his body to function properly when you are touching him like that.

You hum in agreement. “Whatever you want. You can tell m-“

“You.”

You look a bit startled when he cuts you off with that one, desperate syllable. Startled but also endlessly amused and Spencer just- his mind is apparently turned off, what the-

You laugh quietly, and your eyes soften, and it does something to Spencer that leaves an ach-y feeling in his chest. Oh, he loves you so much he can’t take it.

“Sure. You can have me”, you say simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for you to admit, “Tell me what exactly you want, because I’d give you the world if you asked.”

And suddenly there’s hot pressure behind Spencer’s eyes, at the back of his throat. You’re just- just- amazing and so lovely and so kind to him, no one has ever said something like that to him, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Spencer blinks up to the ceiling, desperately willing these stupid unwelcome tears away because crying about you treating him kindly is so on the bottom of the list of acting casual about this, so he rather feels than sees you sitting up next to him. Your hand slips from his legs and he feels the loss of your touch as if someone sucked the marrow from his bones. Before he can say something embarrassing like ‘please touch me again’ he feels your hand covering his. It fills him with a heady kind of courage.

“I want…”, Spencer starts, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with having to state his deepest and darkest desires. There’s the old familiar urge to start picking at his nails nagging at him, but you just interlace your fingers with his and start tracing random patterns into the skin there with your thumb. Spencer melts against you and tenses up at the same time because it’s just so- so nice. It feels so nice and Spencer never thought he’d ever get to have things like that with you but you’re here. You’re here, with him, and basically offering Spencer the entire world on a silver platter but it’s still so so unfathomably difficult just saying what he so badly wants.

“You want…?”, you hum slightly, voice soft and so tender as you continue painting patterns on his skin and Spencer would literally die for you. And that’s the entire problem. Spencer doesn’t know if you’d do the same. Well. Maybe not die die for him but. He can’t just sleep with you, and it not meaning anything to you. It would kill him. It would kill him, if after you give him tenderness and pleasure and acceptance in a way he’s never dreamed of receiving, you would go back to normal. Always politely distanced, close, but never close enough and it already twists his chest just thinking of that possibility.

“I just-“, he tries again, but when the words are stuck in his throat, sticky molten sugar that tastes like bile and fear, he pulls out of your grip and buries his face in his hands. He’s so bad at this. He’s the worst. No wonder he’s never had- had something like Morgan has, one night stand after one night stand (not that he particularly wants that, god no, but just-) because Spencer is just so bad at spilling all of the things that plague his gut and keep his thoughts in overdrive at night. No wonder he’s never even had a girlfriend or boyfriend before.

“Hey, hey, Spencer”, he feels your hands cupping his own, still over his face. Not taking them away, but just – there. “It’s alright, penguin, we can always come back to this another time. I’ll wait.”

Spencer’s face crumples and his breath hitches a little because- penguin. That’s the frankly ridiculous nickname you’ve been using for him ever since he apparently once looked like one, with that white scarf and knee-length black coat he wore during one of your cases where a blizzard surprised not only the team, but also the unsub. Spencer, like most of you, wasn’t prepared and thus, had to make do with what the helpful officers provided them with. And well, Spencer drew the penguin stick it seemed.

It’s ridiculous but sweet and it always makes him feel so loved, loved by you, because it’s adorable and theirs and he just loves it irrationally much, okay? And also, penguins are just really fascinating because-

“Did you know that most penguins live monogamously? The Emperor penguin is actually one of the only ones that mate seasonally, they only have one mate per breeding season. But most others have a mate for life, like, like swans and bald eagles.”

Before Spencer even opened his mouth, he was aware of the fact he was going to ramble on about some unimportant stuff. It’s always like this, it always feels like a breath he’s been holding in for too long, like an itch somewhere in his weird brain that only stops when he opens his mouth and infodumps and he cannot stop it. No matter how consciously he is telling himself to cut it out or screaming at himself to shut the fuck up you weirdo, it’s unavoidable. As soon as his brain latches onto a statistic or a fact it is reminded of, it’s an unstoppable force.

Like now. He is kicking himself. Why, oh why can’t he ever be normal? He feels himself flushing bright red from embarrassment and shame and frustration. He can’t believe he is rambling about birds while- while whatever the hell you two are doing right now. While in the middle of a conversation that started out with you confronting him about him seeing your nudes, jesus christ.

Spencer is about to suffocate himself with a pillow when you let out a graceless snort.

It confuses Spencer so much he lowers his hands to look at you and- oh.

Your eyes are shining with something that looks so close to what he would call affection, and it makes him want to bawl his eyes out and at the same time, smile so hard there’ll be laugh lines on his cheeks for the rest of the week.

“Well, that fits perfectly then”, you say, and Spencer doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

You smile just a little wider, a little more teasingly but in a nice way, in a kind way and it leaves Spencer’s chest blooming with warmth.

“If you’re my penguin, I’ll be your penguin.��

Youryouryouryouryour-

Spencer feels entirely braindead. Only the fact that you called him yours registers. Because yes. Yes. Spencer is so yours he’d gladly let you make every decision for him from now on in his life and yes. That’s not exactly a very normal thing to think. Or to want. Spencer doesn’t care. He’s never felt normal about you for a day in his life and he definitely won’t start now.

“You- you mean- like, as, as mates?”

You scrunch your nose in disgust. “If you want to call us that, I think I’ll take back my offer.”

It punches a giggle out of Spencer, sudden and kind of light-headed. He watches your face break into a wide grin.

“But you- you’d like that?” You’d like me?

You pull a face, sniffing in a nonchalant way, direct your face to your nails in fake disinterest.

“Sure. Whatever.”

And Spencer can’t help himself. He sobs out a laugh- laughs out a sob or, whatever that weird noise he makes is, because you’re so ridiculous and he loves you more than anything in the world.

You roll your eyes, fondly, shake your head slightly.

“Of course, Spencer. I’d like that very much because I like you a very unnormal amount. Literally. On my knees, crying, screaming etcetera”, you say just like that, smiling just like that.

Spencer feels like he’s dreaming. He must be. There’s no other explanation for it. He just can’t wrap his head around the fact that you could like him. You. You’re so, so lovely and amazing and you deserve everything good in this world and Spencer is just. Spencer.

“You- you like me? Me?”, Spencer can’t hide the incredulous tone that seeps into his questions because you like him?

There’s no traces of humour in your eyes anymore. Your eyes look painfully honest, face suddenly serious, and it steals Spencer’s breath away.

You lean closer to him again, grabbing his hands with yours. Your gaze bores itself into his, intense and steady and he can’t look away. “Spencer. I know it’s- I know life has been hard on you for way too long. And that leaves its marks on you. That’s fine. It’s human. But. You do not deserve any less love because of that, do you understand me? Of course I like you, what isn’t there to like? You’re kind and funny and sweet and just so- Spencer. You’re so lovable and it kills me to know that you don’t see how you are so worthy of being loved.”

Oh.

You can’t just- can’t just say things like that and expect him to not cry a little. Can’t expect him to act completely nonchalant and cool about all of this when you say things like that to him. Are you trying to kill him? Because it sure does feel like that.

Spencer is so completely at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to that- not to mention what to do. How do you always do this? How can you see straight to the hidden, bruised core of him, littered with all these ugly and bad things and. Just. Figure out what to say to strike him exactly there.

It should scare him, being known so deeply. It should, but it doesn’t because it’s you. You are warmth and acceptance like his favourite place in front of a fireplace, book in hand and rain gently knocking against windows. You are quiet mornings at work, you are soft rays of sunlight in his hair, you are gentle hands helping you up when you fall and bruise your knees. You are –

A touch to his cheek startles him. He opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to your fingers brushing some stray tears away, so softly as if he’s something precious, something to be held delicately. That thought sends new tears spilling down his cheek. He can’t believe this is affecting him so much, so completely he simultaneously feels like he is going to shatter and be stitched back together again.

He never knew he needed this so much.

“Sorry for making you cry, penguin. I didn’t think this discussion about my lack of nude etiquette would get this emotionally damaging”, you say, voice hushed in the big silence of the room, a small smile on your lips and eyes so kind.

Spencer snorts, despite himself. This has really been a very bizarre evening. He feels almost drunk on the weirdness of it all, on the rollercoaster that his emotions have ridden all evening. That’s probably why he does what he does next.

“Neither did I, especially after you interrupted me while I wa-“

Spencer shuts his mouth so fast he clicks his teeth together, eyes wide and suddenly horrified. He- what-

Why?

Why can’t Spencer ever keep his big mouth shut? Is he completely and utterly insane?

There’re alarm bells going off somewhere in Spencer’s head and a concerning warmth settling deep in his stomach when your grin takes on a slightly devilish edge, one he knows all too well and. And. Oh. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Why did he have to say that?

“After I interrupted you while?”, you prompt him, eyes electric and hot and oh god-

Spencer is so dumb. An idiot. Of the highest order. High IQ, where?

“Nothing”, he says, voice high-pitched and rushed and he curses himself and his ability to act everything else but nonchalant. He’d be the worst actor of all time.

“Spencer.”

The tone of your voice rearranges something in his neurons. He can feel himself sit up just that little bit straighter, can feel his mind buzz at the edges. He’s never felt like this before.

He loves it.

“Hmm?”, is all he gets out. Trouble, so much trouble.

Suddenly you’re standing up, away from him and Spencer wants to whine because you should stay there next to him, forever fixed to his side. He doesn’t have to despair long, because you take one of your knees and gently nudge his legs apart with it and okay. Okay. That definitely didn’t just send Spencer’s mind reeling. That wasn’t just totally the hottest thing that ever happened to him.

You slot yourself between his legs as if you own that space and. In his humble opinion, you do. You so do. Spencer is willing to give you a map of his entire body and a marker and tell you to please demarcate every part of him you want. He’d give it to you, no questions asked.

He is looking up at you, at your burning eyes that still hold something so soft in them that makes the lump in his throat bigger again. And by god, Spencer just needs to hear you say it again-

“You like me?”

You move closer to him, lifting one hand and placing it underneath his chin. Your thumb traces along his jaw and Spencer feels like he is going to burst into a million embarrassed pieces.

“Yes”, you say simply, but the way you say it. Spencer can’t help but shiver and exhale shakily. He feels so warm, everywhere. His skin burns where your fingers are touching him. He never wants this to stop.

“You- You want me?”

Your hand grips his face a little stronger, your other fingers splaying over and down his throat and there’s a high noise coming from somewhere and there’s goosebumps on his body everywhere and oh, wait- it’s him. The noise. Well, how embarrassing but. He doesn’t care. Nope. Not at all.

…Okay maybe a little. His face feels warm, suddenly, warmer than the rest of him and yes. He’s blushing, okay?

“Spencer”, the way you say his name it- god, “I want you. I said it before, but. I will give you anything. Tell me what you want, Spencer, and you will get it from me.”

Your eyes are so dark and your voice so low and Spencer actually whines and. He’s hard again, so hard, because he didn’t come before and now, he’s even more pent-up and his thoughts are a mess, but you haven’t even touched him more than this and he’s already so worked up from you just saying these things to him-

“I want you”, Spencer pants, currently finding no other English words in the dictionary of his mind. And well. Emily was right about him. IQ slashed to zero when pretty person do thing.

He watches you take a deep breath, as if to steady yourself, as if this whole thing is affecting you as much as it affects him but that’s- ridiculous. Impossible. Because. Have you seen yourself?

“I know that, Spencer. But what do you want from me? Do you want me to kiss you?”, you ask, face suddenly so close to his Spencer feels your breath fan over his skin, and he whimpers because yes he wants that wants that- “Do you want me to touch you more?”, your other hand grabs his side, gentle but just a little bit roughly and Spencer is suddenly vividly reminded of the fact how strong you are and he feels kind of lightheaded-

“Do you want me to fuck you, Spencer?”

Spencer is going to pass out. And die. And moan and say, “Please yes yes yes”. Maybe not in that particular order.

“Okay, angel, anything you want”, you say, smiling softly at him as if he’s the best thing in the world and angel. Angel. Angel.

Before he’s even started to process you calling him angel, he sees a glint in your eyes, that edge in your smile again and before he knows what’s happening, you’re kissing him.

You’re kissing him and it’s- everything.

Your mouth is soft against his, and Spencer’s insides twist and flutter and his brain is kind of lagging behind, but he wants to be closerclosercloser-

It’s so good Spencer completely blanks on everything. There’s nothing in his mind except the feel of your lips moving against his. There’s no insecurity, no embarrassment tainting this moment even though this is literally like, only the sixth kiss or so of Spencer’s life and he has no idea what he is doing. But it’s so good.

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes him when you lick into his mouth and Spencer’s soul almost leaves his body. He feels you shudder where you are pressed together, chest to chest.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe against his lips, in between wet, hot, kisses. You rub your nose against his, eyes closed.

“Hmm?”, he hums, his voice somewhere in Canada or wherever. His mouth is too busy smiling so wide it hurts, anyways. No time for articulating anything.

“You’re amazing, Spencer, amazing.”

And he wants to shake his head, no, because the only one amazing here is you. But it’s impossible to disagree with you when your mouth has returned to his in a way that is probably ruining him for anyone else. (He’s okay with that.)

You peck him on the lips once, twice more, before you press your lips against his jaw, exactly where you had your fingers before. Your hands are basically the only thing holding Spencer up in a sitting position, because he feels like molten chocolate in your hands. Muscles apparently forgetting to do their job and well. Who can blame them? Spencer has stopped thinking in proper sentences the moment you had walked into his life, so. Only a matter of time until you broke the rest of him as well.

You kiss his neck and Spencer gasps. It’s really been a hot minute - three years, one hundred, twenty-one days and twenty hours to be exact – the last time he made out with someone. Everything feels heightened on his heated skin, especially you opening your mouth against him and licking him oh god-

It almost feels like a reward when you gently bite at his skin next. Spencer almost screams.

“So good, so so good for me”, he hears you whisper into the skin of his neck and this time, Spencer does make a noise. Because yes. He wants that. Be good for you. That’s the only thing in his fuzzy mind that feels clear, that feels graspable.

He can see your pupils dilate. Can see the wicked lilt to your lips. “You like being good for me, don’t you, angel?”

ANGEL. Spencer is nodding his head before he knows he does so. “Yes, yes.”

“Fuck”, he hears you breathe against him and it’s strange, seeing the effect he has on you. Did really he do that? “I can’t believe how incredible you are, sweetheart.”

And you need to stop. If you keep calling Spencer these things- he’s pretty sure he won’t survive this. The team would need to find another genius to solve cases with. His cactus Greg would dry out and wilt and die. You and Penelope would need to find another victim to send confusing memes to.

“Did you like my pictures, Spencer?”, you then ask and that’s so not fair. You can’t just ask him that while he’s so utterly in your hands that he’s sure he’d tell you about every little fantasy he’s had about you ever if you asked.

Because Spencer wants to be good, feels that need so deeply in his bones, he nods frantically. “Yes, I- I liked them.”

At the same time the words leave his mouth, something feels wrong. There’s an ugly thing twisting in his stomach, so unpleasant it momentarily occludes the high-octane bliss-fuzz fogging up his mind.

You notice the shift in mood almost immediately. “What’s wrong, angel?”

And well. It’s just- that guilt. Of not saying anything to you about Spencer seeing your nudes, of just ogling you like that without your permission. That wasn’t very good of him. Actually, the opposite. He’s been bad and he hates that. Hates that so severely that there’s suddenly tears on his cheeks and oh no. That’s mortifying. Who cries before sex? Jesus Christ he’s such a virgin it is genuinely embarrassing.

“I’m- I’m sorry”, he stutters, a little bit hysterical, creating distance between you, arms slung around himself, “I should’ve, should’ve said something, I’m so so sorry, I’m the worst friend and now I’m- I’m crying, oh god, I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, hey hey whoa. Spencer, darling. Penguin. Look at me, please?”

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve to look at you again. What was he even thinking? He was- so creepy and now- now-

Two warm hands grab his face and then Spencer is looking into your eyes again. He squeezes his own shut, but all that it does is send more tears spilling over his cheeks and he’s so fucking stupid-

“Baby, please.”

Spencer sobs.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing he has ever heard but he doesn’t deserve these things.

“Of course you deserve it, silly goose”, you say and oh. He’s said that out loud.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks and Spencer can’t not lean into your touch, despite everything. Because that’s just the way it always is. He’s drawn to your warmth and tenderness like a moon revolves around its planet.

“I thought we’d established that it was an accident? And if it was someone’s fault, then mine, because no password, remember?”

Spencer opens his eyes. The deep affection swimming in yours makes him sob again. He’s a mess. A crying, horny mess and Spencer definitely fucked this up. Why does Spencer always ruin the few good things in his life?

“Spencer, Spencer. Hey. It’s okay, I promise you. We wouldn’t be doing this, if it wasn’t, okay?”, you kiss his nose. “Do you want to lay down, maybe?”

He nods, not really thinking clearly. He moves up the bed, under the covers and curls up on his side. He waits for you to get up from the bed, for you to walk over to the door and leave. To say that this was a mistake, he was a mistake. To say that you take back everything you said to him in the last half hour.

He’s not just a little surprised to feel your weight dip the mattress, to feel even more sudden warmth engulf him when you spoon him from behind. You start tracing swirly patterns over the skin of his arm and he feels goosebumps spread all over his body.

Some minutes tick by, you still holding him, when his tears have finally dried up. He doesn’t remember crying so much in one day. Spencer feels miserable.

“Do you still like me?”, he asks, and yes, it’s pathetic and stupid but. He doesn’t care if you never have sex or if you’re not going to be more than his friend now. Because the thought of you not being in his life in any capacity anymore- just no.

He can feel you freeze and take in a sharp breath. “Wha- Spencer. Of course, I still like you. I don’t care what we do, I just want to be with you. In any way you’ll have me.”

You sound so understanding and sincere and actually confused about his fear as if you’d never even think of not liking him anymore and and and-

And something in him just- snaps. He wants you, needs you so much he’s going to die if he doesn’t-

He shuffles and turns in your arms until he’s face to face with you. You look at him, eyebrow raised in question but so beautiful and lovely and you still like him-

“I want you so bad”, he says and then he presses his lips against yours again.

You respond immediately, low moan escaping you and Spencer is greedy, he wants to hear more, feel more, feel everything with you.

He’s kissing you as if he’s going to die if he ever stopped, which, yes, he absolutely would, and you kiss him back as if you can’t live without him. It makes everything become hazy again, like before, and every bad feeling suddenly feels eons away. Like he’s underwater, floaty and relaxed. Safe, he feels safe in the way you kiss him and hold him. Like you always do.

You move your kisses to his neck, sucking and biting and Spencer is moaning and moaning and can’t stop and then suddenly, you’re gone, what –

“Spencer, Spencer, wait”, you pant, out of breath and flushed and he wants to cry again, “Sorry, sorry I just-“

You frame his face in your hands, a little bit roughly. “I’m so sorry for making this so hard, you’re being so good for me, but Spencer. Have you done this before?”

Somewhere in the fog that is his minds, Spencer finds his voice. It’s high and airy but he doesn’t care. “No, no, I haven’t.”

He watches you take a deep breath, feels your fingers digging into his skin a little bit more.

“Tell me. Do you want this, Spencer?”, your voice is shaking as if you need to keep yourself in check and Spencer can’t believe he’s getting to see you like this.

“Yes”, he says because he can’t ever want anything else, and, “Please make me feel good.”

You inhale sharply, your grip on his face bordering on painful. “Spencer, you’re incredible, amazing, the best- I’ll make you feel good, okay? I’ll make you feel so good because you deserve it.”

“Yes”, Spencer is not ashamed of how whiny he sounds. No. He’s owning it now. This is his thing now, okay? He’ll gladly be your pathetic wet cat, or whatever the term was that you sometimes use to describe him with. Whatever it even means.

“Good”, you grin, and then you push on his shoulder hard and he’s on his back. And you. Sitting on top of him, thighs on either side of him. Straddling him exactly where he wants you most and he exhales a needy ‘ah’. His hypothesis of liking being manhandled is… yet to be disproven. He’s discovering so many things about himself today.

Pleasure radiates in waves from where you’re passively giving pressure to his hard cock and yeah okay. This is good. Amazing. He’s never felt better. But-

“Please.”

“Please what, angel?”

“More?”

“More what?”

Your fingers trailing along his throat and jaw, down his chest and teasing ghost-like over his nipples are not really helpful in finding the right words to what he wants. You take pity on him.

“More touch?”

Spencer nods his head, so fast he almost gets dizzy because he’s at that point again where everything feels liquid, hazy, a little bit unreal. So, speaking is already quite the task.

You smile at him as if he just solved the most difficult equation. “Doing so good, Spencer. Incredible.”

He moans. Okay. Another hypothesis to add to his ever-growing list of scientific discoveries today.

“Where do you want touch, Spencer? Here?”, there’s hands in his hair. He shakes his head.

“Hmm… Here?”, fingers drawing circles on his chest and yes, that feels nice, so nice but he wants-

“Here?”, you ground your hips down and jesus-

“Yes!”, Spencer almost chokes on the sound. Pleasure shoots up his spine and he whimpers. “Please.”

You exhale shakily, looking flush. “Okay. Because you ask so nicely.” There’re two little taps on his lower stomach through his shirt. “Do you want to take this off first? Or no?”

The way you give him the chance to say no- the way you respect his autonomy so deeply-

It’s basic human decency, yes, but it’s also the hottest thing and Spencer feels so valued and understood and safe that he’s not even hesitating when he mutters a quiet yes.

You help him sit up because he’s currently not really heir over his body like he usually is. Help his head out of the shirt and thread his arms out. And then, he’s half naked in front of you and suddenly, the doubt and insecurity that’ve been so quiet so far are back with a vengeance.

The urge to cover himself is so big it’s impossible to stop his arms from wrapping around himself.

Spencer knows he’s not ugly. He’s not that bad looking actually. Can’t be too bad if Morgan keeps insisting on calling him pretty boy, even though Spencer sometimes still has the sneaking suspicion that he’s teasing him. But his friend wouldn’t be so cruel.

But other people like to be. Pipe-cleaner, leek, straw, big-eyes. He’s heard it all before. He has matured enough and grown into himself so that these things don’t bother him like they used to. But still. Still. These things are arduous to scrub from under his skin.

Your gaze on him though- he’s never felt so, cleaned from all of these mean words before. You look- you look reverent while mapping his skin and maybe that’s the reason why he lowers his arms again.

“Spencer. You’re a dream”, you say, almost in trance. Almost as if you’re hypnotized by him, and he’s flushing. But. Being watched so intently, being admired like that. He feels his dick give an indigent twitch against your clothed core. Another thing for the list.

“So impatient”, you tut and Spencer flushes more. He thinks he’s waited long enough for this. But he doesn’t say that. If you stopped now- he would definitely combust spontaneously.

You lean down, over him. Hands trailing along his sides like you did earlier, but without any clothes between your skin and his. It’s almost too much. And not enough. He feels electrified, where you touch him. His heart is hammering against his ribs so hard you must be able to feel it. His stomach is in knots, fluttery. He’s never felt more alive.

You connect your lips to his throat, placing kiss after kiss along the arched length of it. Follow the same path with your tongue and Spencer whines, curves up against you a little. Everything feels so good Spencer is floating in it.

You shift your attention to his collarbones next, kissing but then gently biting and Spencer feels the indents of your teeth all the way through to his back and he hopes, wants, you to sink them into him so deep they’ll leave marks. So that he carries the evidence of this with him for the rest of this case, so that there’s absolutely no more doubt to who he belongs to. That thought alone makes him whimper, makes him feel that tiny little bit more lost in you.

You start kissing along his chest, down his stomach. Open mouthed, wet kisses and Spencer shivers when the places you put them feel cold after because of your spit. The lower you get, the noisier he becomes and at one point, Spencer would’ve been embarrassed. Well, he kind of is, but he’s also so turned on that the embarrassment doesn’t feel as stifling like usual. Rather, in a weird way, it makes everything hotter, and he does not own enough brain capacity right now to decipher that. But he does add it to the list.

When your face is dangerously close to the waistband of his pyjama, Spencer tenses, holds his breath. Being shirtless is one thing, but… well.

“It’s okay, Spencer. We only do as much as you feel comfortable with”, you murmur, giving a small peck to the left of his belly button. You calmingly follow his sides with your hands, smiling at him with so much affection in your eyes that Spencer feels speechless, breathless, until the tension releases his muscles again and he melts into the sheets.

“’m just…”, he tries, he really tries so hard to tell you that he wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted but that he just feels… insecure.

You kiss his stomach again. “How about we only take off the pyjama? For now? If you want to take off your underwear too later, we can still do that.”

That… that’s actually a good idea. So, he nods.

“Words, angel.”

“Yes, yes. That’s- good.”

You look so proud of him. “You’re so good, Spencer. Perfect.”

He moans embarrassingly loud. He really should be more concerned about this. About how you are basically pulling him apart, thread by thread and he just lets you, willingly. How you know which threads to pull to reduce him to a sweaty mess in what felt like 0.2 seconds.

There’s a finger dipping beneath the waistband, moving back and forth along the newly exposed skin. Your eyes watch him intently, almost predator-like. A question is in there somewhere as well and Spencer nods again.

You help him lift his hips, help him pull down the pants. Spencer is kind of busy kicking his legs a little to shake them off completely but when he looks back and down himself to where you are hyper-focused on the outline of his cock through the thin fabric he blushes.

Even more when he notices the big, dark blue splotch in front of his underwear. That’s definitely never happened before. How embarrassing.

When you look up at him again, you’re also flushed. Eyes dark, wide, voice kind of unsteady. “Spencer, Spencer, can I?”

“Please”, and then you palm him with your hand, and it feels so good it takes all of his concentration to not come on the spot. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive this until you arrive to the main thing.

It’s not the first time someone has touched him like that, but it is the first time you are doing it, and it already feels better than anything he’s ever felt before. You’re either a wizard or Spencer is just biased because he thinks everything you do is ten times better than the same thing done by someone else.

Probably the first reason.

He has his head angled back, one of his arms thrown over his eyes. If he looked at you now, he’s pretty sure, he’d come. Visual stimulation on top of physical would probably be the end of him. It’s already too much, just feeling your hand move up and down his dick in various pressures. Almost as if you are testing what he likes best, and Spencer is definitely here for it. Definitely. He’s happy to just let you experiment with him until you know all the different ways to drive him mad with pleasure with just a few moves.

Which, you apparently already figured out, judging by the way Spencer can’t form a single coherent thought anymore. It’s already, so good, so freaking good holy shit, and you’re still not touching him. Still a layer of fabric between your hand and him and he kind of- just-

“Take it off?”

You still your hand, looking up at him. You look kind of crazed, almost a little pained. It takes two deep breaths for you to process what he just asked, eyes a little unfocused before they fix Spencer to the bed with an intensity that makes him feel unfocused. “You sure, angel?”

Spencer literally can’t do anything but nod. You stay in your position for some moments longer, before you sigh out a long breath, mumbling something that suspiciously resembles you’re gonna be the death of me. Spencer misses your warmth on top of him the second you hoist yourself up. It’s kind of crazy and destitute of him. You are literally right there but he’s waited for this for so long it feels like he’s suffocating without your weight pressing him down. Which is ironic and also, insane.

Your fingers are gentle, when they move under the stretchy fabric of his underwear. Even gentler when they pull down and down and down until Spencer is entirely naked in front of you.

Oh, he feels so exposed. While he has been the recipient of a mediocre hand job before, it’s been in his trousers. This is kind of the first time someone sees him naked like that, because school locker rooms and his mother don’t count.

He doesn’t dare look at you. If there’s anything akin to disappointment, not to mention disgust on your face- Spencer probably would have to jump out the window, stat. His gaze is frozen on his cock, steadily leaking precum on his stomach (which, embarrassing). He’s abashedly trying to insert himself into your point of view, tries to imagine what you think about seeing him like this. What you might think about his dick, if it’s too short or too thin or if it looks weird, if he should’ve shaved. If his legs look strange and too gangly now, or if his stomach connects to his pubic area wrong or-

“Holy shit”, you say, and Spencer is too curious for his own damn good sometimes, because he can’t force his gaze to stay away from you.

You look at him- like before. Reverent but more, so much more. He almost feels like a deity, the way you look at him. Someone to be awed by, someone that should be worshipped. Spencer feels his already in overdrive heartbeat quicken even more, blood flushing his cheeks so much it leaks down his throat, to his chest.

Spencer would literally kill to have you look at him like this for the rest of his life.

“Holy shit, Spencer”, you repeat, eyes now meeting his, “You’re like- a literal fucking dream. I cannot believe- you’re so beautiful, how are you so beautiful everywhere?”

Spencer whimpers and he needs you to touch him kiss him fuck him anything please now or he will absolutely die from heart palpitations.

Some of his despairing thoughts must’ve come through to you, because the next thing you do is moan, which is the best thing he’s ever heard. Then, you take off your sweater. Second to go is your cropped tank top and you aren’t wearing a bra and good heavens.

Pictures could never compare. Not even Botticelli could’ve adequately committed you to canvas.

Spencer must’ve taken some brain damage from seeing you half naked. He doesn’t remember you taking off the remainder of your clothes, nor does he remember you straddling him again. But, fuck.

Spencer kind of doesn’t use the f-word that often but-

fuckfuckfuckufuckfkcufuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcufkc-

You’re warm against him, and wet, so freaking wet, and it feels so mind-blowingly good- it’s a miracle he’s still holding on. But-

“Won’t last long”, he gets out, breathy and whiny and just so goddamn fuzzy from pleasure. The world could literally perish right now, and he wouldn’t care. He can’t care, because this is the best thing that ever happened to him and he won’t ever care about anything else ever again other than feeling you, you you you you, against him.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe, gasp, and fuck, the way you keep using his name. “Are you okay? Do you still want this?”

It’s ridiculous you even ask. But the warmth in his chest, the feeling of comfort and safety and ease – because everything with you is so easy, so natural - he feels with the way you look after him-

He feels your thumbs caressing his wet cheeks. You put small, sweet kisses all over his face. Take the time to brush away some of his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead. Place kisses there too. You end with a drawn out, gentle kiss to his lips.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

There’s really only one way for him to answer that. He trusts you. Plain and simple. There’s no one else he could ever do this with.

“Yes, I want. Please.”

You kiss him again. “So good Spencer, you’re so fucking good to me. I can’t believe you are trusting me with this. You are incredible, angel.”

Spencer doesn’t know how it’s anatomically possible, but he blushes even harder. Also, feels his cock twitch against you because he apparently likes to be called good almost as much as he likes being good. For you. Only you. Jesus Christ.

“Do you have a condom?”, you ask and ah. Well.

“Suitcase”, and wow. First word with more than one syllable since you straddled him the first time. He’s being so brave right now. He deserves a medal. Proof of Being Able to Speak Polysyllabic Words While Getting Fucked (Almost).

There’s humour glistening in your eyes, when you hide a fake gasp behind your hand and say, “Oh my god, Spencer you dog. Can’t believe you planned this entire thing.”

Spencer almost chokes on his own spit. “N-no! I just- uh, like being prepared.”

You grind down a snort, drive your teeth into your lower lip. “In case you accidentally saw your coworker’s nudes and them being down to fuck you about it?"

Oh my god, you’re the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. He can’t stop himself from grinning because seeing you trying to keep your laughter at bay-

“Yes. That.”

“But what if- what if it was Rossi instead of you seeing them? How would’ve your plan worked out then, huh?”, you wheeze, shaking from literal suppressed laughter and Spencer makes a sound like a dying horse.

“Rossi? Rossi?”

“Oh my god, imagine it would’ve been Hotch. He would’ve probably fired me so hard and then called me a week later to disappointed-dad-talk me to come back but to please, refrain from bringing personal files to work in the future.”

Spencer laughs. He’s still rock-hard underneath you, but he’s laughing because that’s what you always do. Being so absurd and silly that he’s shocked to laughter.

He adores you with every fibre of his being.

“What the fuck?”, you ask, incredulous but laughing yourself, “Is my misery amusing to you?”

And Spencer feels like being a little bit of a brat. “Very.”

You flick his nose. Grumble something like I’ll show you misery and then you move your hips against his and Spencer sees stars. Let’s out an embarrassingly high whine.

Ah well. It was still worth it.

“Don’t move”, you order, when you climb down from him to retrieve a condom. Spencer watches you, lets himself look at you. All the times he’s wondered how it would be, how it would feel like, being in this kind of situation with you. He’s never in a million years thought it would feel so familiar. Like you’ve done this before, so many times that it’s just become something normal between you two. He’s actually relaxed. So turned on it feels like he’s going to burst any second, but he’s calm. He feels comfortable, so much so that it doesn’t even matter that it’s the first time he’s doing this and he’s so clueless about all of this.

But he knows, if it’s with you, he never ever has to worry about anything.

“Do you have lube as well?”, you ask, rifling through his suitcase and distracting him from his sappy thoughts.

“Hmm. No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, angel”, you say while returning to Spencer, and the nickname kind of switches something off again in his brain. Perfect. He’s never going to be able to be normal again about that word.

“We’ll have to get some, for next time. Always feels better with it.”

Spencer hasn’t really registered more than next time next time next time-

He’s pulled out of his daze of knowing your intentions of this not only being a one-off thing, when you straddle him again, a bit lower on his legs. Spencer moans, loud and high, when you grab him by the base and god, fuck, his skin is tingling with anticipation.

With your other hand, you grab the condom and then use your teeth to open the packet, and his cock jumps in your hand. How are you so hot. How does everything you do turn him on so much, what.

He watches you take out the plastic ring as if he’s watching from above, out of his body. He watches as you position the condom over his tip and then pull it down, down and Spencer’s brain must be lagging because he feels everything with at least a two second delay and shit, god, son of a-

“You ready, baby?”

He makes a noise between a sob and a whine. He’s losing his mind. “Please please please-“

“Fuck, Spencer”, you whine, lift yourself up a bit with your legs and then you are sinking down on him, inch by agonizing inch.

It’s so good, it’s so good, you are so warm, so hot, and Spencer can’t stop making noises until your hips are flush to his and he’s inside you.

You let out a loud, drawn-out moan above him. “Fuck, fuck, Spencer. You feel so fucking good, holy shit.”

He feels like he’s one move away from coming. God, oh god, it feels so incredible.

“Can I move? Spencer, please?”, your voice is wrecked, you’re flushed down to your navel, and you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Please please please please”, it’s the only word he remembers how to pronounce.

“Fuck”, you almost sob, lifting yourself almost completely off him. You lower yourself back down again, one swift move, and you both moan.

You pick up the pace a little, fucking him with still languid but purposeful thrusts. Every time his cock sinks back into you, Spencer feels bits and pieces of his sanity crumbling away. He can’t think, can’t speak, his mind so fogged up and fuzzy he’s having troubles remembering who he is. He’s so completely at your mercy he’d let you do anything to him.

That turns him on a worryingly huge amount. List, something about a list somewhere.

“Oh, god, look at you. Spencer, baby, angel. You feel so good inside of me, so good.”

He keens, grabs at your strong thighs bracketing his slim hips. Arches up into you, closerclosercloser-

“You like being good for me, right angel?”, you ask, hips slowing down to a gentle grinding that absolutely drives Spencer insane and he’s too far gone to even nod, “It suits you. Being so wrecked for me, moaning and shaking. God, fuck, you’re divine, Spencer, fuck.”

The pressure behind his cock, low in his stomach, that’s been building all evening, all week, holy shit, it’s too much. Spencer feels delirious, feels your hotness around him, feels your hands pressing his chest down into the bed. He’s going to die it feels so good.

“You going to come for me, Spencer? You gonna be good for me and come inside of me?”

Please please please please- it’s all he can think, all he can feel, because because-

You give a particularly hard thrust and-

Spencer’s coming, moaning and moaning, shaking everywhere. He’s coming and it feels so good, so fucking good. He’s never come so hard in his life before.

He might have blacked out a little. The next time he’s aware of something, it’s you cleaning him with a wet washcloth. Slow, and gentle and Jesus.

“What?”, is the first thing he manages to say, and you snicker beside him. You caress his face, hand running through his hair, down his chest. Peck his lips. You’re both still naked.

“Feeling good?”, you ask and what kind of question even is that. You just fucked the soul from his body, and you ask him-

“I almost died”, he says, tagging your name at the end with an incredulous tint to it.

You snort, setting the washcloth on the nightstand behind you. You lie down close to him, cuddling into his side. “That was the plan.”

“Killing me with sex?”

“Yep. That’s for ogling my nudes without my permission, you creep.”

He says your name again, exasperated but so fucking fond it’s a miracle you’ve never noticed his pining before. You shrug, pull a ‘what can you do face’. Spencer rolls his eyes and then, unceremoniously, flops on top of you.

“Uffff”, you press out. “You’re smothering me, penguin.”

Spencer shrugs and copies the expression you just did. You bark out a laugh.

“Ha! Didn’t know post-sex Spencer is such a cheeky little shit. I’ve created a monster.”

He can’t entirely control his face, some parts of a smile slipping into his features. He does manage to poke out his tongue at you though, before he buries his face in your neck.

Some minutes tick by, you both enjoying the other’s presence and warmth and idleness, before something in his brain-

“Wait-“, Spencer splutters, pushing himself away from you so that he can look at you. “Did you- did you even finish?”

He’s kind of horrified. He was so focused on his pleasure- he- how did he forget? He doesn’t remember you coming and oh no, he’s such an asshole, who doesn’t make sure the other person has come as well and-

“Spencer, Spencer”, you shush him, fingers trailing along his back, and he shivers, eyes rolling back.

“I made myself come right after, don’t worry. You were kind of busy in your post-orgasm, pussy-drunk coma.”

Spencer flushes. “But I wanted to…”

You laugh softly. “You can do whatever to me, next time, sweets. This was about you. We’ll go on a date as soon as we’re back home. Fucking Florida is driving me nuts.”

Oh, he suddenly feels shy. A date? You want to go on a date with him?

“Really?”, he asks, and he hates how insecure he sounds.

You send him an unbelieving look. “Uh, what about the last hour makes you think otherwise? Seriously, Spencer, we need to work on your confidence.”

“Okay”, he mutters, a little bit pout-y and you scoff, pulling him down on top of your chest again.

There, with your hands painting patterns on his back and him completely lost in your warmth and familiarity, Spencer thinks that maybe, Florida isn’t that bad.

Bonus

“So, then. Made any scientific discoveries last night, pretty boy?”

Spencer chokes on his coffee.

“What?”

“Nothing”, his ‘friend’ says, smirking and leaning against his table, “You just seem to have figured out that little problem that’s been keeping that pretty head of yours all messed up.”

Spencer feels himself flush. Stupid body and stupid involuntary, physiological reactions. Morgan picks up on it, of course.

“Ohhhhh, want to share with the class what those discoveries were?”

Briefly, so very briefly, Spencer thinks of his self-compiled list but- no no no no.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tags: @sebastiansstanswhore @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @wasitforrevenge @wannabewolf @tommorecommendedfics @winterhi09 @theoraekenslover @chaewondrful @okeyhoezayy @busy-buzzing @laurakirsten0502 @redros3y @trashxqueen @kitty-kei @so-long-daisymay @hayleythecannibal @jsnsnsnszjzj @reeidsluv @kayane28 @moonysreid @desperately-seeking-serotonin @munsonslunchbox @tul1p-mimi @anuttellaa @pinkgomie @elizabethmidnight2017 @evrmorets @cyanidebitsg @bangchansdog @pinterestwhore145 @some-one-yiu-dont-kno @emma-e-a

i hope these work lmao, also let me know if you wanna be on my eternal tag list for any future Spencer fic ;)

#tinywrites #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader fanfic #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x y/n #tinywrites:accidents #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #criminal minds x reader

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