You switched off the alarm, your phone screen immediately flooding with notifications - Twitter, Instagram, news alerts, emails - your focus travelling across words like ‘statement’ and ‘breaks his silence’ throughout them all. But a single text from Nick sat amongst the noise, his name like a beacon shining through a heavy fog. You opened it immediately, the last remnants of sleep seeming to evaporate from you the moment you read it. 

Are we still meeting at 12?

“Fuck,” you whispered as you realised the time.

11:30

Your limbs began to buzz with urgency, your body moving with a swift, delusional confidence that you could still somehow make it into the city in thirty minutes. You jumped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom, brushing your teeth as you peed, slathering SPF on your face as you dressed in the first thing you grabbed from the laundry pile; a loose shirt and linen shorts, scuffed trainers and white socks you weren’t sure even matched each other.

Your phone beeped and buzzed inside your bag for the entire drive, notifications stacking like dominos you weren’t quite ready to knock over. Ben’s statement had been out since nine; the details of a love that had been just yours for so long, now out there for the world to see. And you didn’t know how to feel about it; vindicated, maybe? Exposed, nervous, vulnerable? You’d never cared much what people thought of you, but this was about Ben too, and you weren’t sure you could be so apathetic when it came to him. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a shop window as you climbed out of your car; shirt billowing as you walked, skin still slightly sunkissed from last week’s heatwave. You looked normal. The kind of normal you used to be before your life somehow became a dream and a nightmare all at once. You wondered how long it would be before you felt normal again, if you actually ever would.

The café stood in the middle of a busy high street directly across the road from the Draft headquarters. The sight of it stirred something in you; its shiny, mirrored exterior and sleek sign above the revolving door, like a faint, ghostly echo of a past life. But it wasn’t a past life. It wasn’t long ago at all; they probably hadn’t even got around to clearing your desk yet. You took one last glance at the building before stepping into the café, immediately spotting Nick in a quiet corner near the back. He didn’t notice you, too busy typing on his laptop between sips of a bright green matcha to look up from the screen. 

You walked up to the counter, ignoring the barista’s obvious side-eye as she took your order. You tried to tell yourself she was just having a bad day, but you knew deep down that she recognised you, especially when you spotted her whispering to her coworker as she started making your drink. 

“You can go and sit down, I’ll bring it over to you,” she said over her shoulder. 

“Oh, okay, thanks,” you replied, before turning around and making your way over to Nick’s table.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up at you, as though he’d sensed your presence closing in on him. 

You threw your car keys onto the table and dropped into the seat opposite him with a huff. “I overslept.” 

He exhaled a slight laugh. “You’re the only person I know who could sleep through their own media storm.” 

“Storm…” you repeated the word with an apprehensive hum. “So the response isn’t good then?” 

“You haven’t looked?” 

“Not yet.” 

He finally stopped typing, peering at you over the top of his screen. “Are you okay?” he asked sincerely. 

“Yeah,” you replied, almost too casually. “It is what it is, isn’t it.” 

He shrugged, thinking for a moment before responding somberly. “Not really. It’s your life…” 

You rolled your eyes.  

“You’re doing it again,” he said with a knowing smile. “Avoidance isn’t healthy, Quinn.” 

“Neither’s the 78 pumps of sugar you’ve got in that matcha.”

“Y’know,” he began sarcastically. “People say you’re mean, and I just don’t know where they’re getting that from.”

You chuckled softly to yourself before letting out a sigh. “I’m not avoiding it, I’m just… procrastinating.” 

“Have you read it? His statement, I mean.” 

“Yeah, last night. Twice.” 

He smiled. “I think it’s good. Comes off genuine, not overly edited or PR scrubbed.” 

“Does the world agree?” 

He hesitated, pressing his lips together in thought. “It’s been… hit and miss, I suppose.” 

“Fuck sake,” you huffed, reluctantly pulling your phone from your bag.

The barista appeared beside you, placing a large iced coffee on the table without a word. You mumbled a distracted ‘thank you’ as you unlocked the screen, not bothering to glance up at her.

You scrolled with a kind of caution usually reserved for watching horror films through your fingers; eyes squinted, teeth clenched, deep breaths. It was hard to know where to start, the slurry of reports and quotes, headlines and opinions so dense it was overwhelming. 

Benedict Cumberbatch Breaks Silence on Cheating Allegations.

Cumberbatch Denies Affair: ‘Our marriage came to a natural end.’

Actor Benedict Cumberbatch Publicly Apologises to Ex-wife, Faye Dennehy, Defends New Girlfriend.

You scoffed. New Girlfriend, like your name didn’t matter, like you were just a secondary character in other people’s stories. You didn’t know what you detested more; being named a villain, or not being named at all. But it wasn’t long before you began to see it, ‘Quinn Armitage’ peppered through comments and posts, spoken like a curse word, like if someone said it three times into a mirror you’d appear behind them like an apparition. 

Jen B: I can’t with the PR damage control. Yawn.

Alex W: 🗣️ Quinn Armitage falsely accused a man of SA 🗣️ 

Rhi R: @Alex W Right??!! Funny how he conveniently skipped over that part. 

Chris J: Benedict -  ‘The relationship I have with Quinn is incredibly sacred to me.’ Also Benedict last year talking about his wife - ‘Our relationship is an immensely special and sacred thing.’ Dude needs some new material..

Connor M: Who even cares about these people? Boring 🥱

You sighed, pressing a cold hand to your flushed cheek as you kept going, flicking through articles and news alerts, delving into the comments like a masochist searching for pain. But every so often, you would come across some relief, the occasional glimmer of hope.

Lucy H: I don’t understand what people want from him? Ya’ll bullied him for not speaking up. Now he spoke up and you’re still not happy. Leave them alone

Tori S: I believe him 🤷‍♀️ 

Sian B: As a long time Benedict fan you guys don’t understand how big this is. He NEVER addresses controversy like this. EVER. He must really love this woman.

Grayson F: It would be nice to hear from Quinn tbh. From her social media she seems super cool and funny. Feels like she’s been forced to stay quiet to protect his image 😞

You looked up at Nick. “Someone said I’m cool and funny.”

He chuckled. “I told you. It’s mixed.” 

“What about Twitter?”

“Twitter’s a cesspool at the best of times.” 

You clicked on the app anyway, refreshing your feed quickly, like ripping off a plaster. It seemed anyone with a wifi connection had chimed in, from faceless accounts to notable journalists and online social commentators. Some had kept it short, linking the statement beneath brief captions like ‘well, he finally addressed it’ and ‘declaration of love, or eloquent damage control?’ Others had laid their thoughts out like essays; breaking the statement down line-by-line, conceding, correcting, disputing. You wondered if Ben had seen it all, what he was thinking. 

For weeks, Cumberbatch’s silence has been treated as an admission of guilt. In an era where male celebrities are either carefully media-trained or frustratingly quiet in the wake of scandal, his decision to address this head-on feels like a step in the right direction. He acknowledges the hurt, accepts accountability for poor timing, and most notably, humanises the woman at the centre of it all. Armitage has been publicly crucified for her proximity to him, painted as both temptress and opportunist. Whether you believe every word or not, Cumberbatch’s insistence on defending her in such a vulnerable way feels long overdue. In a cultural climate obsessed with villains, this statement isn’t just refreshing, it’s necessary.

You exhaled softly. But the gentle relief didn’t last long, as another thinkpiece came across your feed. 

The statement reads like damage control masquerading as a love letter. Is it eloquent? Yes. Emotional? Yes. Believable? At first glance. But the longer you sit with it, the more conveniently incomplete you realise it is. ‘She did her job, and shortly after the feature was written, I pursued her’ may read as an acceptable clarification, but anyone paying attention can see what he’s actually failing to admit. Wanting to pursue Armitage after their interview means something must have happened during it. Yes, he claims his marriage came to a natural end, and while that may be true, we must acknowledge how that ‘natural ending’ was still happening when that interview took place. Later, he flagrantly refers to Armitage - a woman he’s known for less than a year - as ‘the most extraordinary person [he’s] ever met’, a statement designed to make us swoon, no doubt. But when you look past the emotional sleight-of-hand, it’s difficult not to picture his ex-wife watching on in real time as she is publicly overwritten. In elevating Armitage to a superlative in order to win her public favour, Cumberbatch inadvertently diminishes the significance of what came before her. For Dennehy, this statement will no doubt reframe everything she thought she knew about the end of her marriage. It tells her, and the rest of us, that she was never the most extraordinary person he had known, instead she was merely a placeholder, the one who came before someone better. And that is a revelation no amount of carefully chosen language can soften.

You grimaced and shook your head. “My god, I’m so sick of all this ‘poor Faye’ bullshit.” 

Nick shrugged. “They think she’s the sad, wronged ex-wife.”

“Yeah, and she’s fucking playing into it.” You shifted angrily in your seat. “Ben’s on fire and she’s just fucking sitting there, warming her hands on it.” 

You clicked on a tweet when Dan’s name caught your eye, the mere thought of him making your skin crawl. 

Cat Smiley🐱 @ catherinesmythewriter · 2h Until Quinn comes out herself and addresses the Daniel Swain situation, I just cannot accept this statement. Okay, so there was no cheating (allegedly), so there was no conflict of interest (allegedly) and she didn’t conspire with Benedict on the Draft article (allegedly). But right now there’s still a man out there claiming he lost his livelihood because of false accusations made by Quinn. It doesn’t matter how many statements Benedict releases clearing his own name, if he’s willingly siding with/supporting someone who falsely reported SA/SH for personal gain, his name will never be clear.

Daniel Swain @ DanSwain89 · 2h Replying to @ catherinesmythewriter Thank you for saying this. ❤️

You slammed your phone face-down on the table, letting out a hot, uneven breath. Nick stared at you with a raised brow, like he was trying to figure out what finally tipped you over the edge.

“You good?” he asked. 

“Dan,” you said through gritted teeth. 

His expression shifted, the slight smile at the corner of his mouth dropping like someone had unplugged him. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “Swain?” 

“What other Dan would I be talking about?” you replied, snippier than you’d intended. “He’s loving this. His fucking five minutes of fame based on a total lie.”

“I take it he’s been tweeting again.” 

“Of course he has.” You laughed once, sharp and humourless. “He’ll probably have a fucking podcast by next week.”

You picked your phone back up, thumb hovering over the screen, heart thudding a little heavier, before putting it down again. 

“I think you need to speak out,” said Nick. “Put all of this to bed, show everyone what a creep he is and how pathetic they are for siding with him when they know he’s lying.” He nodded in the direction of the Draft building. 

Your eyes drifted over to it, to the sun glinting against its shiny glass exterior. 

“I mean, you’ve tried silence,” he said. “That’s not really working out.” 

“I just don’t want to embarrass him any more than I already have,” you said softly. 

“Who? Dan?” 

“No. Ben.” You turned back to him. “This statement was… a big deal for him. He doesn’t do this, he doesn’t…” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “His reputation’s ruined just for being with me. He’s so private, and because of me he’s having to defend himself like some fucking influencer with a notes app apology. It feels like anything I do at this point is just going to make it worse for him.” 

“But what about you? It’s all well and good making sure he comes out of this unscathed, but you can’t just stand there like a human shield taking all the shit so he stays clean. Letting Dan prance about like a prick playing victim at your expense.” 

You pressed your fingertips into your eyes, rubbing them gently. “Ben’s lawyers said they were going to try a cease and desist. Maybe I should just wait and see if-”

“Not to sound cliché, but the Quinn I know wouldn’t hang around waiting for lawyers to fix things.”  

You sighed, allowing a moment of quiet between you, the rush of traffic outside and the steady hum of the café settling in the silence. A reminder that life kept going, no matter how much you wanted to put it on pause. 

Nick was the first to speak again. “You haven’t touched your coffee…” 

You glanced down at it. “Yeah. I’m not convinced she didn’t spit in it. Not worth the risk.” 

He laughed, taking a sip of his own drink. 

“How’s Lace?” you asked, desperate to talk about anything but yourself. 

“Mm, she’s good. Did I tell you we’ve booked a date for the wedding?” 

“No!” you said, your back straightening with excitement. “When is it!?” 

“This time next year. The 14th.” 

You smiled, your first genuine smile all day. “Am I invited?” 

“Of course,” he laughed. “Oh, and you’ll love this… I got a new job.” 

You blinked rapidly, his quickfire revelations giving you whiplash. “Since when?” 

“I accepted last week.” 

“Where are you going? Another magazine?” 

He shook his head. “Ink Media. Y’know, celeb interviews, long-form profiles, press junkets, festivals, red carpet coverage, all that jazz.” 

“Nick. That’s literally perfect for you.” 

“I know. So I gave notice at Draft today, and I can’t promise all the HR records won’t accidentally fall into my bag as I’m leaving.” 

You shook your head with a smile. “God, marriage, new job, it’s almost like you’re a proper adult or something.” 

“I know. Still dodging the TV license though.” 

You laughed. “I’m really happy for you.” 

“Thanks. I’m happy for you too.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What for? For being the most hated woman on earth?” 

“For being happy and in love,” he laughed. “And for bagging yourself a sexy, sexy man.” 

 You rolled your eyes. “Careful, or I’ll tell Lacey.” 

“Tell her. She fancies him too.” 

You scoffed, relaxing back into your chair, allowing another quick glance towards the Draft building looming across the street. 

As evening crept in, you found yourself feeling surprisingly calm. You’d been home for hours; long enough to eat, change your clothes, pace, sit, stand again, long enough for your muscles to ease and your stomach to stop turning, for the noise of the outside world to dull into something less daunting. It wasn’t gone, but it was quieter now. 

Ben had thrown his statement to the world like a slab of meat to a pack of wolves, starved and searching for something to sink their teeth into. They’d torn at it, clawed and snarled as they swallowed down their headlines, spat out their opinions and speculations like rabid growls. But eventually they would pick it clean, until nothing remained to gnaw at but bone, then they would wander off in search of their next fill. You clung to that thought; the strange, brittle comfort in the fact that outrage never seemed to stick around. 

It was raining again, pattering gently against the windows as you climbed the stairs with an armful of laundry. The sky was darkening, casting a soft glow across the bed you hadn’t made, the pyjamas you’d left strewn across the floor outside the ensuite. You tidied up and stripped the bedding, remaking it with fresh sheets and fluffed pillows. He’d be here any minute, and you couldn’t help but wonder what version of him would walk through that door; would he be exhausted? Relieved? Quietly devastated? Maybe he’d been so busy that he hadn’t seen anything yet.

You were stuffing the used bedding into the laundry basket when you heard the front door open, the clattering of keys on the table in the hall. It made your heart skip, your cheeks flush with excitement, and you immediately felt ridiculous for it.

“Quinn?” Ben’s voice echoed through the house. 

“Up here,” you called back.

You could hear him trudging up the stairs, his footsteps making each step creak, the floorboards groaning beneath the carpet as he made his way down the landing towards the bedroom. You glanced over your shoulder as the door opened, smiling softly when you finally laid eyes on him. 

“Hi,” you said. 

“Hi,” he replied, the word leaving him in a sigh.

You turned to face him fully, reaching your hand out to gently beckon him over to you. He crossed the room instantly, lacing his fingers through yours and pulling you into him. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, almost lifting you off the ground as he hugged you tight. 

You were going to make a joke, a sarcastic comment about how it had only been a few days. But you refrained. “You okay?” you muttered instead.

He let out a long, deep groan against your skin. 

You exhaled a laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Long day?” 

There was a moment before he answered, a roll of his eyes and another soft sigh. He brought his hands up to cup your face, thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “It’s just never going to end, is it,” he said quietly. 

“You’ve seen the responses, then?”

“Unfortunately.”

“They’re not all bad.”

“No, but the bad ones are… Bad.” 

“They’ll get bored eventually,” you said, rubbing your hands along his arms. “You had your say, you set the record straight, that’s what matters.”

He gave a gentle huff, shaking his head in defeat. “And what about you? I said I was going to fix this. Instead I just… Cleared my own name and left you hanging out to dry.”

“I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I can,” you said, soft yet firm. “I’ve had a word with myself.”

He dropped his head with a breathy laugh, before meeting your gaze again. “You’re being suspiciously level-headed about this.”

“I wasn’t this morning. But I’ve had the day to sit with it.”

He stroked your face, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear as he looked down at you with glassy, wistful eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head. “Ben, you stood up for me. It’s not your fault people don’t want to listen.”

“I really thought it would work.”

“Nothing’s ever that straightforward.”

He closed his eyes, letting his head roll from side to side with a tired exhale. “I’m exhausted.”

“Well I just put fresh bedding on.” You gestured towards the bed. 

“I’m going to jump in the shower first.” 

You nodded as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, taking a step back and watching him make his way towards the ensuite. 

He glanced over his shoulder at you as he pushed open the door. “You want to join me?” There was no wink or nudge behind the question, no proposition or flirtatious edge. He wanted comfort, company, to simply know you were there.

“Sure,” you said. “You go. I’ll follow in a second.”

The shower came to life with a familiar, hollow thud, followed by the rush of water through the pipes. You lingered in the bedroom for a moment, tucking the corners of the duvet under the mattress a little tighter, smoothing the pillows so Ben could fall right into them afterwards. You stood for a second longer to admire your work, before making your way slowly towards the ensuite, like you were giving him time to let the day fall away from him first. 

By the time you stepped into the bathroom, steam had already fogged the mirror and his clothes were in a pile on the floor; socks abandoned wherever they’d landed, jeans still keeping the shape of his waist like he’d somehow managed to jump out of them where he’d stood. He was beneath the stream now, still and quiet, head tipped forward, hands braced on the tiled wall as water ran over his shoulders. 

You undressed quietly, tossing your clothes to the floor before stepping in behind him. Warmth bloomed across your skin as you wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your chest to his back, the side of your head resting in the space between his shoulder blades. You felt him exhale as you leaned into him, the tension in his body easing beneath your touch.

He gestured silently for you to come and stand in front of him, raising his arm for you to duck under it and slip around him. You stepped into the stream, feeling the warm water soak into your hair and run down your back as you looked up at him, offering a slight smile as you reached for the shower gel.

“How was Scotland?” you asked, your voice just loud enough to be heard over the rushing shower.

He returned your smile as you began lathering the soap across his chest, over his shoulders and down his arms. “It’s a near-perfect place,” he replied. “You would have loved it. Clear skies, fresh air, the most… Unbelievable scenery. And so, so quiet.” 

You traced the familiar lines of his frame; the divots near his ribs and slight curve at his waist, how his stomach turned harder and more defined when he tensed beneath your fingertips.

“Sounds beautiful,” you said. 

“Mm,” he murmured. “I wish I’d had more time to actually enjoy it.” 

He shifted his weight slightly to one side, propping himself up with his palm flat against the tiles, his other hand reaching up to slick your wet hair back from your face. You continued to wash his body, slow and unhurried, as you returned your gaze to his, tilting your head to look at him. 

“I’ll come with you next time,” you said. 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded, moving slightly to allow the water to wash the suds from his skin. 

He smiled, gesturing for you to turn around with a twirl of his fingers. You did as he instructed, leaning back comfortably against his torso as he took your body wash from the caddy and squeezed it directly onto your shoulder. You felt the cold shock of the gel against your skin, followed immediately by the soothing warmth of his palm, gently working it across your back and down your arms, around your waist, stomach, over the curve of your breasts, his touch lingering but never crude. Like he was so familiar with your body now that he didn’t need to explore it. He knew it, he loved it, and he understood exactly how to tend to it. 

“How have you been?” he asked, leaning forward to place a kiss to the side of your head. “While I’ve been gone.” 

“Fine, just… Keeping myself busy,” you replied as you reached for the shampoo. 

“Let me,” he said. 

You were hoping he’d say that. You loved it when he washed your hair for you; always so thorough, deft, firm hands and the perfect amount of scratch against your scalp. You handed him the bottle, melting further into him and closing your eyes as he began to work a lather into your hair. 

“I did so much around the house,” you said. “I don’t think I ever even did that much at my own flat.” 

He laughed softly to himself, you could feel it in the way his chest moved against your back. 

“I did miss you, though,” you continued. “I’m glad you’re back.” 

“Me too.” He turned you gently to face him, tilting your head back into the stream with his hands, rinsing the suds from your hair. 

When you looked at him again, his expression had softened, something heavy and sad settling behind his eyes. You reached up in response, taking his cheek in your hand and pulling him down to kiss you. 

It was supposed to be a peck, but he kept you there; his hands sliding instinctively from your hair to your waist, his touch growing a little firmer, less chaste, more covetous. Water cascaded over you as your lips moved slowly, tenderly. You draped your arms over his shoulders, holding him close to you as the first flickers of desire began to kindle deep in your stomach.  

You’d purposely avoided delving below his waist, respecting his exhaustion, proud of your restraint. But it was impossible to ignore the feeling of him growing hard against your stomach, like being close to you had ignited something inside of him too. When you broke away, you caught his eye, breath hitching slightly, before being pulled into another kiss. It was deeper now, more ardent, giving you the confidence to allow your hand to slide slowly down his chest, over his stomach, fingers curling around his cock with a gentle touch. 

He exhaled as he kissed you, rocking his hips into your grasp, but you could feel a hesitancy in his movements, like something was holding him back. Still, you continued, tightening your grip slightly as you began moving your hand up and down his length with a lazy yet steady rhythm. 

He broke the kiss with a heavy sigh, resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes, planting a hand on the glass shower screen beside him, the other holding you by the waist. The water ran on, enveloping you in a cloud of steam and the heady blend of masculine and feminine that had become so familiar to you now. You kissed him again as you continued to touch him, feeling his weight suddenly shift, moving you gently until your back made contact with the tiled wall, like he’d forgotten himself for a moment, allowing desire to outweigh his gloom.

You let out a gentle hiss against his lips as the cold ceramic sent a shock across your skin. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes still clouded by something dark and sad. He raised a hand to your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he began to speak. 

“I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” 

“I promised you,” he said. “I promised I’d protect you from all of this-”

You cut him off with a kiss. “Stop it,” you muttered. “I told you it’s okay.”

“But it’s not okay.”

“It is okay,” you repeated, stroking him more firmly, watching as he battled to maintain his composure. 

“Quinn…” His voice was earnest, strained, like he didn’t think he deserved your touch.

But you continued anyway, trailing kisses down the line of his throat, slow and deliberate, letting your mouth linger wherever his breath hitched. After a moment, he finally leaned into it, like he couldn’t help himself, resting a forearm on the wall beside your head and looking down through heavy lids as you worked your hand over him.

His apology still hung in the steam between you; warm, heavy, looming. But it was quieter now, drowned out by thudding heartbeats and the soft moans catching in his throat. You looked up at him, water collecting in droplets on your lashes, and smiled as you watched his expression shift. Like a breath he’d been holding for days finally escaped him, guilt he’d been harbouring slowly melting out of him with every glide of your hand.  

His fingers traced a path down the side of your neck, grazing over your chest as they travelled lower, stopping at your waist and flexing there, as though he needed a moment to focus, to keep moving through his own pleasure. He leaned further into you, pinning you flush against the wall with his own body as his lips brushed your cheek, hips rocking to meet the rhythm of your hand. 

His fingers continued to move down your side; over the curve of your hip and along the crease of your bikini line, making your skin tingle, anticipation ripple through your stomach. When his palm finally settled near the space between your thighs, the contact was light, careful, like he wanted to be certain that this was mutual, that your offering of pleasure had been more than just a way to distract him. 

You gasped quietly as his fingers slid between your legs, the brief, sweeping connection sending a jolt of electricity to your core. You tilted your pelvis towards him, seeking the pressure of his fingertips as they glided back and forth, letting out a quiet moan when they finally returned to the perfect spot. He sighed in satisfaction, bringing his lips back to yours to kiss you deeply. 

You had been the one setting the pace up to now, working his cock with steady, deliberate strokes, your rhythm almost soothing in its control. But as he began to swirl the pads of his fingers over your clit, your breath snagged, your hand stilling like you’d forgotten how to move. Then you felt it; two long, agile fingers sliding into you, deep yet careful, as they curled to press against the soft, sensitive spot that turned your legs to jelly. 

Your body shuddered with the sudden, intense pleasure, your hips grinding against his hand as your mouth fell open, the kiss you were holding onto dissolving into a whimper. And he noticed. He always noticed. Resting his forehead against yours, he watched your face, adjusting the pressure of his fingers until you began to melt into the tiles.  

Your hand stuttered again as heat curled low and tight in your belly. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back as another moan escaped you. He let out a soft, ragged sound - half pleasure, half sympathy - as his free hand moved from the wall to your face, making you look at him again. 

“Don’t stop,” he whispered. 

You nodded as he returned his lips to yours, swallowing another moan before it could surface.

You found your grip again, regaining your rhythm stroke by stroke, steered by your own pleasure, chasing every jolt and shiver like you could somehow make him feel them too. Hot water poured over both of you, splashing and spraying between your bodies as his arm flexed, shoulders sagging so he could kiss you with more ease. Your hand slipped for a moment, before finding him again, and he groaned at the sensation, his head falling to rest on your shoulder. 

It was like a conversation; every time your wrist faltered, his fingers would press deeper, steadier, like he was guiding you through your own pleasure. Every time he bucked his hips, you would change your pace, dragging your hand up his cock until you heard another quiet growl or ragged breath. Every time he lifted his head, you would look him in the eyes, your gaze staying there until he melted into you again. 

His pace stuttered, his palm returning to the wall beside your head, like he needed a way to anchor himself. His teeth grazed your jaw, nose brushing over your cheek as a low, rough sound escaped him.

“I’m going to come,” he said. 

You didn’t stop. In fact, the confession only made you bolder; your strokes slowing to indulgent, heavy drags along his length. You wanted to guide him over the edge, watch him as he fell into a state of bliss where nothing beyond the glass partition mattered, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. 

He let out a deep groan, his face buried in your neck to muffle the sound as his muscles flexed before slackening again. His fingers kept moving inside you as he came; rough, messy, distracted, like his mind and body were working separately, his hand moving instinctively as you drew the climax out of him. You eventually slowed down, then stilled completely, letting go of him once you felt his breath evening out against your skin.

He lifted his head, pressing kisses to your throat as he regained control of himself, shifting your legs further apart with his knee and sinking his fingers deeper into your pussy, curling them until he found it again, the place that made you choke on a moan, reaching down to grip his wrist as it moved in a quick, subtle motion between your legs. 

You tightened your hold on his wrist as he moved inside you, steadying yourself against the sudden intensity. It never ceased to amaze you how he always knew exactly where to linger, where to caress, where to wait. Each press sent the pleasure deeper, blooming into something denser and fuller than before, growing outward until you could feel it everywhere; your pelvis, your stomach, behind your ribs, at the base of your throat. He felt it too. You could tell by the way he applied more pressure, testing the weight of his touch until your back arched, hips jerking forward with another desperate moan. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as your orgasm began to swell; thick, rolling, almost unbearable. You grabbed him by his biceps, nails digging into his damp, hot skin with such force you were sure you could draw blood. But he kept going, stoking the flames in your belly with firm, dexterous fingers, winding the coil until your walls tightened around him. 

“Fuck, I can’t,” you whispered breathlessly. 

He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear, voice low and laced with his own fatigue. “You can.” 

The feeling surged, a hot, mind-blurring sensation washing over you in heavy waves. You couldn’t have stopped it even if you wanted to; the tension he’d been building inside you finally breaking, flooding you with heat, pressure, relief, somehow all at once. Your knees buckled, your entire body shuddering as a string of moans and incoherent swear words spilled from your open mouth. He kept you upright, letting you ride out your climax on his fingers until he was certain he’d coaxed out every last drop. His forehead rested against your shoulder again, breath warm and uneven against your skin as your legs slowly steadied beneath you. You stayed there for a moment longer, letting the water wash it all away, your grip loosening on him as your body still twitched with the occasional aftershock. 

Neither of you rushed to move, as if stepping apart might break whatever fragile pocket of paradise you’d found yourselves in. The water continued to pour over you, warm enough to ease the shivers still rippling across your body. Ben’s hand eventually eased. He drew it away with care, resting it on the wall on the other side of your head, caging you in the span of his arms. 

You looked at him, your chest still heaving slightly. “I thought you just wanted to shower.” 

He laughed in disbelief, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. “You started it.” 

“Mm, well for someone who claims he’s tired, you were very receptive.” 

He rolled his eyes and laughed again. “I am tired,” he said, stepping back under the stream and reaching for his shampoo. “That was me at fifty percent power.” 

You scoffed. “That was only fifty percent?” 

“It was,” he replied as he began washing his hair. 

“Sure.” 

“Remember the night of ten orgasms?” he asked casually. 

Your eyes widened, stomach fluttering at the memory.

“That was a hundred percent,” he finished. 

That night had become infamous. Not just a memory between the two of you, but like a fixed point in your relationship. The Night of Ten Orgasms. Capitalised, commemorated. He spoke about it with the same reverence as a historical event, like you could find it in a textbook somewhere between wars and coronations, like it deserved to sit on a shelf alongside his acting awards and CBE.

“Fair enough,” you said. 

You were on your hands and knees at the bottom of the bed, patting around the duvet and down the gaps where the mattress met the frame, undoing all the work you’d put in to making it look neat and inviting. Your hair was still damp, darkening the neckline of Ben’s old t-shirt and falling into your eyes with every slight turn of your head. You blew out a puff of air, trying to move it out of your face, but it didn’t budge, only adding to your growing irritation. 

You heard the flick of the bathroom lightswitch, followed by the sound of the door closing behind you, the bed dipping with Ben’s weight a few moments later. You yelped in surprise when you felt an unexpected spank on your behind, making you glare over your shoulder at him.

“It was right there,” he said with a teasing shrug, gesturing to the way you were positioned; backside in the air, all bare skin besides the thin cotton of your underwear. 

You rolled your eyes and turned to sit down with a huff. 

“What’ve you lost?” he asked. 

“My bookmark. It must’ve fallen out last night,” you replied, looking under the edge of the duvet again.

“Have you checked the laundry basket?” 

You paused, glancing over at the mound of old bedding you’d stuffed in there earlier, and sighed. “Fuck sake.” 

“Do you want me to go and look?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll do it in the morning.” 

He shuffled up the bed, slipping under the duvet as he sank down into the pillows. You crawled up to lie at his side, turning your body to face him and resting your elbow near his head, cheek propped on your fist. He turned to look at you, and you knew immediately it was still on his mind; the weight of scrutiny in his heavy lids, guilt holding down his attempted smile. 

“I read it, by the way,” you finally said. “After we got off the phone last night.” 

He sighed. “I’m sorry it wasn’t-”

“It was perfect,” you interrupted softly. “The nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” 

His smile grew slightly at that, as he reached up to brush his knuckles over your cheek. 

“And brave,” you added. “I know I act like I don’t care about the PR and optics and…” you drew in a breath. “But I know what that took.” 

“Brave would be telling the truth about Faye and I.” 

“No, that would just be stupid.” You exhaled a laugh. 

He remained quiet for a moment, staring past you in thought. . 

Your brows came together, eyes narrowing as you cocked your head to catch his gaze. “You’re not seriously considering that, are you?” 

He gave a despondent hum in the back of his throat. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Not unless I wanted to get sued out of my arsehole.” He paused again. “You could, though…” 

You curled your lip in confusion.  

“I’m bound by contracts and NDAs and injunctions, but you’re not.” He shrugged casually. 

You laughed in disbelief, placing the back of your hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” 

“I just don’t know what else to do at this point.” 

“Not that.”

“It would put an end to all of this.” 

“No it wouldn’t. The only thing it would put an end to is your career.” You shook your head. “You’re not nuking your entire life for a woman you’ve only known for nine months, Ben.” 

“Nine months, nine years, nine days, it doesn’t matter. This is my lie. And you’re the one being persecuted for it.”

“I’d be persecuted regardless, just for being with you,” you said. “Because you’re the big, fancy celebrity walking the red carpet, and I’m the person holding the umbrella. I told you that.” 

“And I told you you were the hurricane.” 

“Well this definitely feels like a fucking hurricane,” you laughed. “No need to make it any worse.” 

He studied you for a moment, eyes searching your face for a speck of doubt. “You’re really saying you wouldn’t do it? Even if it meant clearing your name?” 

“I won’t clear my name by destroying yours.”

He sighed. 

You reached over, thumb brushing the crease between his brows. “If you want me to write, then I will. I’ll write… About us, about Draft, about Dan. All of it.” You held his gaze. “But not that. And you’re an idiot for even suggesting it.” 

“I know. I just didn’t want you to think I hadn’t at least considered it.” 

“As much as I’d love to see the look on Faye’s face if people found out,” you said. “It’s not worth it.” 

He chuckled softly before opening his arms to you, inviting you to cuddle into him. You settled against his chest, his chin resting on your head as he ran his fingers gently up and down your back. 

“That’s very mature of you,” he said. 

“Thanks.”

You lay together quietly for a while; calm, clean, letting exhaustion slowly take over. The rain continued to patter lightly against the windows, but the warmth of summer still hung in the air. The bookmark, the headlines, the promise you’d made to write, it could all wait until morning. For now, you were just happy to have him back, to fall asleep in the safety of his embrace and the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat.

You heard a door slam shut, their voices fading to a distant drone as you zipped up your jeans and pulled on a t-shirt Gina was always trying to steal. You never understood why she wanted it so much; it was plain, boring, the neckline beginning to fray on one side. But maybe it wasn't about the t-shirt at all. Maybe the only reason she wanted it was because it belonged to you.

You brushed the wet hair out of your face with your hands, the act instantly transporting you back to last night; how it felt to rake your fingers through Father Benedict's rain-sodden curls. You shivered, shaking it away quickly before moving around the room, scooping up whatever you could and dumping it into a large gym bag on the bed. 

The process felt mechanical, void of any grief or attachment to the possessions that anchored you to this place. You zipped up the bag and looked around at the rest of your things; mementos from times you no longer cared to remember, photographs of people you never truly knew, wallpaper you'd been so excited to put up and a bed you'd shared with someone who wasted three years of your life. 

You stepped into a pair of old, worn-in trainers, the leather so soft and slackened that you didn't even have to untie the laces anymore. Slinging the bag over your shoulder, you made your way to the door, turning the handle and pushing it slowly in an attempt to stop it from creaking. 

You successfully made it to the top of the stairs before the door behind you swung open, making you huff in defeat. 

"So that's it?" asked Alfie with a slight lisp, his mouth swollen from Father Benedict's punch. "You're just off, then?" 

You turned to look up at him. "What else were you expecting? Even if Gina hadn't kicked me out, do you really think I'd want to stay here?"

he shook his head. "It's like you don't care." 

"Oh, well I'm sorry for not reacting to you cheating on me in a way you find acceptable." 

"I don't mean- I just- You haven't even given me a chance to explain-"

"I have no interest in hearing you try to justify this, Alfie. If you and Gina wanted to be together, you could've just said so instead of doing this to me." 

"But it's not like that between me and G." 

"Not like that? I walked in on it!" 

"I mean I don't want to be with her! You were pulling away and she was... there. It was a moment of weakness that just spiralled-"

Gina emerged from the room, elbowing Alfie as she stormed past him, mascara like ink blots across her cheeks. 

He looked over at her as she marched into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her, then back down to you. 

"How many times?" you asked. 

He rolled his eyes. 

"Go on, how many moments of weakness are we talking?" 

He dropped his head, refusing to answer. 

You nodded, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. "Can you at least tell me... Were you safe?" 

"Yes," he replied weakly. 

"Condoms?" 

"Yes." 

"Every single time?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Well thanks for that, at least." 

You turned, hoisting the bag back up your shoulder and continuing down the stairs. 

"So you can go and let Father Bellend know he's not going to catch anything from you," he muttered. 

You stopped, shuddering at the realisation that you'd told him; the words you'd spat at him like venom now trickling down your spine. 

"I just said that to piss you off," you said. 

"Wait, so you didn't sleep with him?" 

"No!" You hoped you were convincing, unable to tell beneath the bruises and swelling if he was buying it. "How insecure do you have to be to feel threatened by a priest?" 

"The same priest who did this?" He pointed to his face. 

"You deserved it." 

You finally made it down to the bottom of the staircase, glancing over your shoulder to see him still standing at the top. 

"D'you know, Mara never liked you," you began. "I always thought she was just being a bitch, judgemental, too stuck up to give you a chance. But it turns out she was the only one who could see right through you."

Daylight clung to the horizon, casting a golden hue across a blushing sky. The days since you'd left Gina's house had grown warmer, brighter, with mild breezes and longer evenings, as though the earth itself was rejoicing in your newfound freedom. 

You stepped off the bus with a sigh, thankful to escape the humid air of squashed passengers and closed windows. The walk to your mother's house was short, so you made the effort to slow your pace, making it last that little bit longer to steal solace wherever you could get it, even in the five minutes between bus stop and front door. 

She'd been surprisingly tactful about the whole thing, welcoming you back when you turned up on her doorstep two nights earlier, making up the bed in your old room and leaving you to settle in without prying; no questions, no judgement, no classic mum-isms you'd come to expect from her. Maybe she was secretly happy to have a fledgling back in her empty nest, careful not to do anything that may make you fly away. 

You reached the house as a car pulled up outside, its large tyres mounting the kerb with a gentle bounce. You raised your hand in a subtle wave as you made your way to the front door, rummaging for your keys inside your large, overfilled tote. 

"Did you just get off work?" Mara called out as she climbed out of the passenger side. 

You nodded, watching as she made her way around the back of the car. She didn't seem surprised to see you there, which meant your mother had told her. The thought made you groan internally.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. 

"Nice to see you too," said Nathan with a slight laugh as he emerged from the car. 

"Dinner," said Mara, as though it should have been obvious. 

She unclipped Soleil from her abundance of safety straps and seat belts, before hoisting her onto her hip and making her way up the path to meet you.

"How was work?" she asked.

"Eh." You shrugged, finally pulling out your keys. "Spent the day staring at pictures of babies in silly outfits."

"Sounds cute." 

"That's one word for it." 

The front door opened straight into a spacious living room. Perfectly tidy as always; cushions plumped, surfaces dusted, vacuum lines still visible in the rug. Since the divorce, your mother had taken to redecorating every few years. You always assumed it was a way of erasing any evidence that your father once lived there, but you were starting to think she just got bored easily. Right now, she was fond of the colour silver; opting for glittery wallpaper, velvet curtains and a large mirrored coffee table in the centre of the room. It was headache-inducing, yet there was something oddly comforting about it at the same time. 

"Oh, she mustn't be back yet," said Mara. 

"Back from where?" you replied as you hung your bag over the banister. 

"She said she was going to the church to pick up all the stuff." 

"The church?" 

"Well, the pub next door to it." 

"Oh." You swallowed, your mouth turning weirdly dry. "What stuff?" 

"Banners, bunting, that big balloon arch. We didn't have time to take it all down after the christening on Sunday so they stuck it in the back for us." 

"Ah." You gave a distracted nod and made your way across the room. 

"Where are you going?" 

"I just need a drink." 

You walked into the kitchen, pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. The door opened behind you as you gulped it down. You wiped your mouth and glanced over your shoulder, forcing a bright smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. 

"So," said Mara, lifting the lid off the slow cooker and glancing inside. "Mum said you're staying here for a little while...?" 

"Mhm." 

She paused, leaning back against the counter with folded arms as she waited for you to elaborate. Instead you stood there quietly, rolling the cold glass over your warm cheek. 

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" she pressed.

"I moved out," you replied simply. 

She lowered her head slightly, staring at you beneath a heavy brow.

"What?"

She parted her lips to speak, but a noise from the living room caught her attention; the front door opening and closing, your mother's voice singing a cheerful greeting.

She gave you another dubious look. "You're going to tell me what happened."

You rolled your eyes and put the glass in the sink before reluctantly following behind her.

"So this... dinner thing, do you do this regularly then?" you asked.

"Maybe a couple of times a month." 

"Why have you never invited me?" 

"Would you come if we did?" 

"Probably not." 

"Well there you go."

Mara stopped suddenly in the doorway, making you bump clumsily into her back. You were ready for her to berate you for it, tell you to watch where you were going. But instead she gave a high-pitched 'oh', reaching back to grip your arm.

You furrowed your brow and peered over her shoulder into the living room, the air immediately evaporating from your chest as your gaze locked on a set of glacial eyes. 

He was carrying a large plastic storage bin, the weight of it evident in the whitening of his knuckles as he hauled it through the door. The lid lifted slightly, a single yellow balloon escaping and rising to the ceiling. 

"Father," said Mara, confusion laced in her cheery tone. "Well this is a surprise." 

"Hello," he said. "Nice to see you all again." 

You remained in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes wide, watching as your mother directed him to put the box on the floor. He was stiff in his movements, his gaze darting to you every few moments, the discomfort clear on his face. 

"You're a godsend," said your mother. "Do you mind helping me with the last few bits?" 

"Of course not." He smiled, making his way back outside.

"I'll do it, mum," you said quickly, hurrying across the room. "You sit down." 

"Oh, okay, thanks love." 

You wiped your palms on your trousers as you rushed down the path, catching up with him as he opened the boot of his car. Another balloon escaped, he caught it before it floated away, stuffing it back inside a bin bag and twisting it closed. 

"What are you doing here?" you hissed, leaning in and grabbing a box filled with table centrepieces. 

"I ran into her outside the church," he replied. "She needed help with all this stuff, I couldn't just leave her to struggle." 

"Yes you could." 

He rolled his eyes. "Relax, you haven't told them anything, have you?" 

"Of course not." 

"Then it's fine. Help me get this inside and then I'll leave." 

You gathered the rest of the decorations. He reached up to close the boot, stopping to look down at you. 

"Are you okay?" he asked. "You haven't text, so I assume everything was alright after I left the other day?" 

"I haven't paid my phone bill, remember?" 

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head softly. 

"But no, it was fine," you sighed. "I said a few things, packed and came here. Uneventful, all things considered." 

He nodded and closed the boot with a heavy slam, hoisting an obnoxiously large display of balloons and flowers over his shoulder. 

"How's your hand?" you asked. 

He laughed again, looking down at the faint bruising on his knuckles. "It's fine. Was worth it." 

You glanced up at him, eyes falling immediately to the slight smirk across his lips; a smirk that held entirely new meaning now. You'd kissed those lips, felt them on your skin. Those lips had tasted you, parted to let out the most divine moans. 

He arched an eyebrow. "Ellis," he whispered sternly. "Stop looking at me like that." 

It sounded like a reprimand, but you knew it was more of a warning; a reminder that nothing innocent ever came from those looks.

You conceded, clearing your throat and making your way back into the house.

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" 

This was it. Your punishment from the heavens.

Father Benedict let out an appreciative sigh. "Oh, no, I-"

"Come on, I insist," said your mother. "You came all this way to help me, it's only fair." 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Consider it a thank you, especially after everything you did getting the christening sorted so quickly." 

"I er..." he blew out a long breath. "I really don't want to impose-"

"Nonsense! Go on, sit down."

She gestured towards the dining room before disappearing into the kitchen. Mara waited until she was gone before letting out a laugh, turning to Father Benedict with an apologetic smile. 

The silver theme had bled into the dining room; sparkles and mirrors and crushed velvet cushions on each chair. You wandered around the table, stopping at Cain's chair and making an elaborate sidestep to avoid it. Mara rolled her eyes at you, sitting down with Soleil in her arms as Nathan pulled up a chair beside her. You slumped into your seat, pressing your lips together firmly as Father Benedict sat down directly opposite you. 

"She's hungry," Mara muttered, reaching to open her blouse. "You don't mind do you, Father? It's not offensive or anything?" 

You rubbed your eyes. Ah yes, just what this nightmare of a situation was missing, you thought, my sister's left tit. 

"No, not at all," he said politely. "I think it's beautiful. The breastfeeding, I mean, not your... erm..." 

"Jesus Christ," you mumbled under your breath. 

Your mother pushed the door open with her hip, walking in and placing a large pot in the centre of the table. "Beef stew, help yourselves. Father, can I get you anything?" 

He shook his head. "No, I'm good, thank you." 

"Are you sure? Anything? Condiments? Extra bread? Something different to drink?" 

"Just sit down, mum," said Mara. "Leave the poor man alone." 

She raised her hands in surrender and sat down at the head of the table.

"Sorry about her," Mara added, turning to Father Benedict. "I think she's got a bit of a crush on you." 

He chuckled, and you shuddered at the thought. 

"He's a handsome man, Mara." She turned to Nathan. "Isn't he." 

"I couldn't possibly comment," he replied. 

Everyone laughed, even your own face broke with a smile. 

It was astonishing, how one person could be so charming, so charismatic and endearing that everyone he came into contact with was left in awe of him. And it was you he'd chosen. This man, who was so delicious that the flavour of him lingered in the mouths of people who'd barely had a taste, had wanted you, worshipped you, fantasised about you. 

You. 

Everyone made smalltalk as they ate, the sound of cutlery clinking against dishes filling the brief silences between conversation. You'd never been good at smalltalk. But then again, you'd never been particularly good at 'big talk' either; preferring to melt into the background, nibbling on a piece of bread as you took in the mundanity of everyday chatter around you.

"So go on then, why've you moved back home?" said Mara, bringing you back into focus. 

You glared at her, pausing for a moment before shrugging. "I broke up with Alfie."

 "After the christening?" 

"Mhm." 

"What happened?" 

You picked up your spoon and swirled it in your stew, pushing a chunk of potato around the bowl as you spoke. "Caught him cheating on me... With Gina." 

Your mother gasped, Nathan's eyes widened in shock. 

"That fucker," Mara spat.

"Mara," said your mother, nodding towards Father Benedict.

"Sorry," she said. 

"It's alright," he replied. "He does sound like a fucker." 

Everyone laughed quietly, easing the tension around the table. 

You exchanged brief but intense eye contact with him. He turned his head quickly, exposing the edge of a love bite from beneath the collar of his jumper. You bit your lip, holding back a smile before spooning stew into your mouth.

"So yeah," you mumbled as you chewed. "It is what it is." 

Mara's eyes narrowed. You could tell she was sceptical, trying to work out why you weren't more upset. Her gaze darted between you and Father Benedict before she relaxed back into her chair. 

"Gina text me that night asking if you were at mine," she said. 

"Yeah, I walked out after I caught them." 

"Where did you go?" 

"A friend's. So mum, I was wondering if I'd be okay to stay until I sort out a place to live." 

"Of course," she said. 

"What friend?" Mara pressed. 

"Does it matter?" you replied. "Why did Gina say I'd left?" 

"She didn't. Conveniently left that part out. Why did you go to a friend's house and not come to mine?"

You shrugged. "Because we don't do that." 

"What?"

"Come to each other for things."

"You can come to me for things."

You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Wh-"

"How are you going to move everything out of the house?" asked your mother.

"I've asked Dad if he can drive me over in his van at the weekend."

"God this is just awful." She placed her head in her hands. "What are you going to do, Ellis? You've got no money."

"Cheers, mum."

"And I've not got the funds to help you get a place of your own. Do you think your dad and Nicola could help?"

"I don't- no, I'm- I'll work something out."

"Mum," said Mara. "You're embarrassing her in front of the clergyman."

Father Benedict dropped his head with an awkward laugh. "It's fine. This is nothing compared to some of the things I've heard in this job." 

"Ooh like what?" your mother leaned closer. 

"If you can think of it, someone's probably confessed it to me." 

"Wow." She rested her cheek on her fist, studying his face. "Is that why you wanted to be a priest? All the gossip?"

He cleared his throat and set his spoon on the edge of his bowl. "Well, actually, I er... I had a brother who passed away-"

She gasped. "Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. You know, the girls lost a brother as well. Cain, my eldest. He was only twenty-four."

Mara shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. 

"How did he go?" your mother continued. "If you don't mind me asking?" 

"Oh, he... He had substance abuse issues," he replied. "Sorted himself out towards the end though, got clean. But by that point he'd already done so much damage, his body just... gave out." 

You felt a pang in your chest, his voice so soft and sincere you could almost hear the heartbreak. 

"I'm sorry." She reached over and placed a hand on his for a moment, her fingers resting over the bruises on his knuckles.

He smiled, seemingly grateful for the comfort. "He was religious towards the end. It made me start looking at my own faith after he passed." 

She nodded. "Y'know when we first lost Cain, I contemplated going to church a few times. But the way he died, it was so... brutal. I couldn't fathom a god would let that happen-"

"Mum," Mara groaned, almost pleading for her to stop. 

"Ellis was thirteen," she continued obliviously. "Decided she wanted to do gymnastics, but the place was so far away she wouldn't be able to make it there after school unless someone drove her."

Mara let out a huff before handing the baby to Nathan. "She's full, I'll be back in a minute." 

You watched as she rose from the table, walking out as your mother continued to speak. 

"Mara was the one who usually took her, but she was busy on this particular day so Cain did it instead. Anyway, on their way home he lost control of the car. The pair of them were in terrible shape. They had to cut you out from the roof, didn't they Ellis." 

You exhaled a long, slow breath. 

"Obviously she survived, thank god. But Cain wasn't wearing his seatbelt." 

"Gosh, I'm so sorry," said Father Benedict. 

You stood up suddenly, brushing your hair out of your face. "I'm going to get another drink." 

Mara was stood in the kitchen, staring out of the window at the darkening sky, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek. You closed the door behind you and let out a sigh.

"Is she still going on about it?" she asked, eyes fixed on the window.

"Mhm." 

"Fuck sake," she whispered. "She just talks about it fucking constantly. Anyone who'll listen. The poor guy only came to help with decorations and now she's dumping all the family trauma on him." 

"He doesn't mind. He's good with this kind of stuff, always knows what to say." 

She finally looked at you. "What did you mean when you said we don't come to each other for things?"

You crossed your arms over your chest and shrugged. "I don't know. We just... don't. Not like proper sisters."

"Proper sisters?"

"You know what I mean. Sisters who aren't nine years apart. Who don't have a huge elephant following them into every room."

She returned to looking out of the window. 

You licked your lips awkwardly before making your way towards the fridge. "After Cain died-"

"Ellis," she groaned. 

"Just let me... After Cain died, I snuck into your room a few times when you were out and read your diary." 

She spun around. "You did what? Why?"

"Honestly? I always felt like you wished it would've been me instead of him. But I knew you'd never actually say that out loud. So I'd skim through looking for my name to see if you wrote it there instead."

She stood there, speechless, lips parted in stunned silence. "You actually thought I wished you'd died in that car?" 

"If it meant he got to walk away from it instead-"

"Well that's not true. Of course it's not fucking true. I- well, let's get one thing straight, if we're wishing for stuff I'd have just wished for no one to die."

"Fair."

"But no. Ellis, Jesus Christ, no. I know I've not been the best sister in the world, but bad enough for you to think I wished you weren't here? Really?"

"Well I don't think that anymore. But it's hard, I mean, why would I go to you for things when I spent the majority of my life feeling like you resented me?" 

Her shoulders slumped, a defeated breath leaving her. 

"Do you know, I think it actually bothered me more that you just never wrote about me at all," you said. "Ever."

"There isn't enough paper and ink in the world, that's why." 

You laughed softly, turning to pour yourself a drink.

"Can we just get rid of the elephant?" she asked.

"Hm?" 

"Tell it to fuck off. Leave us alone." 

You turned back to face her, thinking for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I'm not sure how you tell an elephant to fuck off, but we can give it a go."

"Okay. Good." She paused. "Do we hug now or something?" 

"I'm not really a hugger." 

"Thank god, neither am I." 

You took a large gulp of your drink. She watched you quietly, eyes burning into you. 

"Are you really alright? About Alfie and Gina?" 

"Yeah. I actually am. I think I finally understand what people mean when they say it feels like a weight's been lifted off them. I feel lighter." 

She smiled. 

"We should probably go back in," you said. 

"Yeah. Get back to Mr tall dark and handsome." 

"Mara." 

"What?" she laughed. "Do you know he hasn't stopped looking at you all night?" 

"I think he just feels awkward." 

"Hm." 

"He's a priest. Even if... I don't know, there's just- It's not..."  "Who knows, maybe he's secretly well up for it."

You laughed. "Yeah, maybe." 

She walked towards the door. You followed behind, stopping when she turned to whisper. 

"Just do me a favour, whatever you do, don't get pregnant. Your hair falls out, you can't cough without pissing yourself and your sex life goes down the drain."

"Well if you're pissing yourself all the time, it's no wonder."

She glared at you, but it only lasted a moment before a smile began to emerge.

Mara warned you not to get pregnant. And if that wasn't caution enough, watching forty nine-year-olds running wild around a church would definitely do it. They were loud, boisterous, ignoring their exhausted parents as they bounced from pew to pew. 

A headache was taking root behind your eyes, every screeching voice and thud of little feet making it worse. You were beginning to think June lied when she said she was visiting her niece in Wales, maybe she just wanted to avoid doing this. 

You stood near the doors of the chapel, handing out pens and taking attendance as each family arrived. Father Benedict walked up and down the aisle, welcoming them with smiles and high-fives, asking parents to spread out, though not many seemed to listen. 

You kept glancing over your shoulder at him, as though you couldn't help but steal a quick peek whenever his back was turned. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a snug-fitting fleece jacket, his white collar peeking out of the top. It had been four days since the night you spent together, yet the look on his face when you took that collar off was as fresh as the moment it happened, even down to the popping sound it made as you tugged it away from his neck. 

He checked his watch before turning on his heels, strolling leisurely towards you. 

"How are you getting on?" he asked, glancing down at the attendance sheet in your hands.

"Just making a mental note to take my contraception later," you replied, looking around as a group of kids chased each other from one side of the chapel to the other. 

He laughed. "They're fine when you know how to handle them. Watch." 

He turned around and cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice loud and commanding, echoing in the steepled roof. "Okay everyone! I'm going to begin, so I want children sat with their parents please!" 

The children immediately fell into order, their ruckus fading to a quiet hum as they rushed to sit down.

You bit your lip; the way he could control a room with nothing but his voice stirring something deep inside you. He walked down the aisle to the altar and turned to face them all, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Welcome, everyone. Thank you very much, as always, for coming. I know these preparation sessions can be a bit of a pain when we're all so busy, but it is so important for the children to be attending, especially as their first holy communion is just around the corner." 

'What's that?" a young boy with a freckled nose asked, pointing to a small brass font on the wall.

"Holy water," you replied, chin resting on your fist as you sat at the back of the chapel. 

"What's that?" 

"A sanctuary lamp." 

"What about that over there?" 

"A hymn book." 

"And what's that?" 

"That's just a radiator." 

"Oh." 

"Bradley," his mother shouted. "Come on, leave the lady alone." 

It was the longest hour of your life. Father Benedict had sent the children on a scavenger hunt around the church, challenging them to tick off as many items as they could find. But for some reason, most of them were more fascinated with you. They came over in waves, small groups of curious eyes asking you random questions, touching your things or trying to trick you into identifying everything for them. 

You checked your phone. Ten minutes. Just ten more minutes. 

"What's your name?" a soft, delicate voice asked. 

You looked up to see a small waif of a girl standing next to you, the biggest brown eyes you'd ever seen gazing at you in wonder. 

"Ellis," you replied. 

"I'm Dot." 

"Dot?" 

"Mhm." She nodded, hugging her work book close to her chest. "Are you Father Benedict's wife?"

You gave a soft laugh. "No, just a helper." 

"Oh okay." She paused, looking down at her feet. "I think you're really pretty," she finally said. 

Your mouth fell open slightly; the compliment somehow meaning more coming from a child. 

"Thank you. I think you're really pretty too." 

She smiled, a set of deep dimples forming in her cheeks before skipping away. 

Maybe a kid or two wouldn't be so bad, you thought. No, god no, Ellis. Remember what Mara said about peeing yourself all the time. 

The session ended ten minutes late. You sighed as the final few families left, your headache already beginning to ease in the newfound silence. You closed the doors, leaning back against them dramatically for a moment.

"You survived!" Father Benedict's voice echoed across the vast, empty space. 

"Next time I volunteer myself for something, remind me of tonight," you called back.

He chuckled, taking a set of keys from his pocket. "Can you lock those doors for me?" 

You nodded before letting out a pathetic shriek as the keys came soaring through the air towards you. When they landed at your feet, you looked up to see him laughing, covering his mouth with his hand.

"What about me makes you think I'd be good at catching?" you shouted. 

He continued to laugh, picking up a box and disappearing into the back. 

It was eerie being the only person in a church; the slightest movements seeming to echo, every piece of art staring directly at you. You locked the doors and began cleaning up, weaving through the pews collecting pens and forgotten booklets, the occasional sweet wrapper. 

You wandered down towards Father Benedict's office, tapping your knuckles against the open door and stepping inside. 

"Some left over booklets," you said. 

He was crouched at a small filing cabinet, fanning his fingers through a drawer of papers. "Oh, thanks," he said, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Just throw them on the desk." 

You walked over and threw them down as instructed, hovering for a moment, like something inside you didn't want to leave. 

"A little girl thought I was your wife," you said with a slight smirk. 

He stood up, brushing the stray curls out of his eyes. "Really? That's quite cute actually." 

"Mm. She called me pretty and I nearly cried." 

He smiled, walking over to the desk. "She's not wrong." 

You kept your eyes on him, watching his hands as they fanned out the booklets, his jaw clenching as he peered down at them. 

"Anything else you want me to do?" you asked. 

He presses his lips together in thought. "No, I think that's everything. You're relieved from duty."

"Thank god." 

"I appreciate you helping out tonight. I know it's a bit... awkward." 

"Is it?" 

"Well it's the first time we've been alone together since..." 

You looked around the office, setting your sights on the couch for a moment before returning to him. 

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Don't even think about it." 

"I didn't say anything." 

He moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Ellis, it is taking everything in me to behave myself." 

You gazed up at him, a thousand comebacks flitting through your mind. But in the end, you chose to yield, nodding gently and stepping away. "I'll get going then."

You left the office, pulling the door closed behind you with a disappointed huff. It was harder, somehow, to leave empty handed after knowing what it felt like to get every last piece of him. But you hadn't come here for that; you came to help, and now it was time to go. 

"Fuck sake," you whispered, halting halfway down the hall when you realised the keys were still in your pocket.

You turned around to begin walking back, but the sound of the office door made you slow to a stop. 

Father Benedict stepped out, his eyes falling on you. "You have-"

"The keys, I know," you laughed, taking them out and hurrying over to him. 

He took them from you and slipped them into his back pocket, looking down at you with a heavy, pensive brow. You swallowed hard, eyes flitting to the love bite peeking over his collar. You wanted to reach out and touch it, run your fingers over the place your mouth had been, the flesh you'd marked as yours. But you resisted, breathing steadily, waiting for him to speak. 

"Fuck it," he finally said, and in one swift movement, his hands were on your face.

He pulled you into a hard, aggressive kiss, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wall. You gasped into his mouth, fingers immediately finding his hair and grasping it tight. 

His breath was hot, hungry, overflowing with need and frustration. You felt his hands move from your face to your neck, fingertips pushing into the soft skin of your throat as his body pressed firmly into you. 

When he finally broke away, he kept his face close; forehead resting against yours, panting heavily into your open mouth. You moaned softly, chest heaving in an attempt to catch your breath as you stared up at him in awe.

He always said you had a way of looking at him. But the way he was looking at you right now; nothing but fire. 

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836

Sherlock promised himself he would not cry today. Not one tear, he swore. He was better than that. Still, as Y/N drew closer, step by step, he wasn't certain he could keep a dry eye.

He considered turning away or focusing on the flower arrangements set behind her shoulder. Anything to keep the strain in his chest at bay.

It was in that moment of deliberation that Y/N chose to wink at him. A small gesture, hardly visible behind her veil but even so, he caught it.

Propping his shoulders back, he chose to keep looking. Better to face the music than miss a flutter of her lashes or the quiver of her lip when she smiled.

Though his throat felt constricted and his chest heaved for breath, Sherlock Holmes could not turn away from the bride.

He registered John shoot him a grin from the left. He wasn't sure that he returned it.

"She's beautiful," John said in a hushed tone.

"She's beautiful," Sherlock repeated.

Three years earlier, Sherlock had met Y/N for the first time. Since then, she had stumbled through the flat each day, always with a shy smile and a soft spoken, "hello".

He loved her from the start.

Their highs and lows, they would experience together. When she threw her head back in laugher, teeth gleaming at something her lover said, Sherlock would see it. He often revealed his experiments to her, if only to see the wonder shine in her eyes.

Even after every lover's spat, Sherlock would wrap his arms around her and swear that things would look brighter in time.

He was right. By God, he was right. He had to be, for now, she stood just steps away from him, at the alter, incandescently happy in her wedding gown.

A slow tear trailed down Sherlock's cheek.

Y/N finally reached him and there was silence in the cathedral when the music at last, had died. 

"You're crying," she said.

Sherlock choked out a laugh that hurt his head. "I'm not," he replied. He tightened his lips together to ease the line of worry that had suddenly appeared on Y/N's brow.

"You're beautiful," he whispered. Closing his eyes, Sherlock shifted her veil aside. His hand trembled as he pushed it just far enough to kiss her cheek.

Though he gave her the softest of kisses, he felt a sharp stab in his heart, as arduous as the touch of his lips on her skin was brief.

He dropped her veil again and opened his eyes. "Every happiness," he said to her. His gaze steeled into her own. He hoped she wouldn't understand but she did.

Y/N nodded and her veil rustled. "Every happiness," she said back to him.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and feigned a smile for the wedding guests that stared from the pews. Then, he took Y/N's hand in his own and walked with her for three final steps.

John waited beside the priest.

Sherlock presented the groom with his bride and took his position as best man.

He was good at that, after all; standing on the outside, looking in. It's how he captured so many of his friends' most private moments in the small space of 221B.

Throughout the ceremony, the words, "every happiness" rang in Sherlock's mind.

When John and Y/N shared their first kiss as man and wife, Sherlock clapped along with the others but still, "every happiness" lingered at the tip of his tongue.

He simply couldn't manage to add the words, "I wish you..." at the start.

Things would be brighter in time, he told himself.

He knew it was a lie but for now, he clapped.

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

I'm crying. I have reposted this thing like, 10 times. Last time, I swear. omg. please work. If you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

"Does anyone know you're here?" he asked quietly. 

You shook your head. "Don't worry, your secret's safe."

He exhaled a slight laugh through his nose, the air tickling the top of your head. "That's not what I meant." 

You raised your chin to look up at him. 

"I just wanted to know how long we have," he said, his voice pensive, almost mournful in its low, dulcet tone. 

You returned your gaze to the window, snuggling your head back into his chest. "As long as you want."

The room fell back into a comfortable silence, tempered by the sound of the rain lashing against the building, another clatter of thunder. 

"You're cold," he said, before pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over your naked body. 

You relaxed beneath the warmth of the soft wool, hands slipping into his open shirt to hug him closer.

"Are you tired?" he asked. 

"No. Just comfy." 

"Oh.” He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. “Good.” 

"Are you tired?" you asked. 

"No." 

He was soft beneath you, content and satiated, the feeling of skin on skin no longer a blaze but a comfortable warmth. You raised your head slightly and placed a kiss on his neck, listening as the salty skin vibrated with a gentle sigh, the afterglow of your connection threatening to catch light again. 

You squirmed slightly, the evidence of him between your legs growing harder to ignore. He'd came inside you - recklessly, eagerly - as though he hadn't wanted to part from you until he'd given every last piece of himself completely. You usually hated the feeling that followed; the slick coating your centre and running down your inner thighs, the overwhelming need to wash it all away the second it was over. It still bothered you, but the idea of leaving his embrace a moment too soon had bothered you even more. 

"Do you mind if I run to the bathroom?" you finally asked.

He shifted his arms without a word, allowing you to rise to your feet. 

The blanket fell as you stood up, revealing your body to him as you bent down to the clothes on the floor. He watched you intensely from his seat on the couch, eyes trailing hungrily over the curve of your breasts, the dips in your waist. You pulled the jumper back on and looked down at him with a slight smirk, unable to disguise the pride that came with feeling so wanted, so irresistible. 

You sat on the toilet long after you'd finished peeing, elbows resting on your thighs as you listened to the storm whirring beyond the small window. The aftermath of your coition had left you in a stupor, unable to think clearly but too content to care; every movement slow and sedated, eyelids heavy as you picked out patterns in the marbled tiles on the wall.

When you finally stood up, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. Your appearance perfectly portrayed how you felt; spent, satisfied, mussed hair and swollen, kissed lips. You ran the tap and cleaned yourself up, washing away the last traces of him before swilling your mouth with water and digging out the mascara gathered in the corners of your eyes. 

Your legs felt weak and unsteady as you moved; thigh muscles aching, orgasm still echoing in your bones as you turned off the bathroom light and made your way onto the landing. You stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, bare feet sinking into the carpet, your weight making the floorboards creak beneath the underlay. 

You could hear Father Benedict downstairs, footsteps shuffling and doors closing, a gentle cough to clear his throat. You thought about calling down to him, but the silence felt too sacred to break. So instead you wandered into his bedroom, turning on a small lamp in the corner that barely illuminated the space.

The bedroom was starker than the rest of the house; no garish wallpapers or dated furnishings, no clutter or overflowing shelves. Just a bed, side table and wardrobe, a set of dark green chequered curtains framing another flash of lightning through the window. 

Before long, you found yourself standing at the foot of the bed, staring up at a crucifix hanging on the wall above the headboard. A small figure of Christ hung from the wooden cross, its arms splayed, head stooped solemnly as it gazed down at the sheets below. You glared up at it with your arms folded in defiance, like an imp trespassing on holy ground; half-dressed, indecent, and entirely unwelcome. 

The door opened behind you soon after. You turned your head slightly, listening as Father Benedict approached. You felt him before you saw him, a finger trailing delicately from the bottom of your back to the space between your shoulder blades, a breath on your neck followed by a soft kiss. A shiver rolled through you, reigniting the tired fervour deep in your stomach.

"I wasn't snooping," you said quietly. 

"I know," he replied, bringing his lips to the side of your jaw. 

You closed your eyes as his kisses moved to your ear. "What were you doing downstairs?" you asked.

"Locking up."

"Oh. I thought you'd be praying or something." 

A soft laugh warmed your skin, his hands sliding up your arms. "I'm afraid I'm past that now," he said. 

You inhaled a deep, slow breath, a blend of guilt and relief swelling in your chest.

He reached for the hem of your jumper and began lifting it up your torso. You raised your arms, allowing him to strip it from you completely, his mouth returning to the curve between your neck and shoulder as it fell to the ground. You tipped your head back against his chest, letting his hands roam slowly over your body. His fingers pinched at your nipples, palms kneading the rounds of your breasts. 

You turned your head as he trailed kisses to your cheek. "Again?" you whispered teasingly, leaning back against his returning erection. 

"Well if I'm going to hell I might as well make it worth it." He placed a finger under your chin, raising your lips to his. 

You kissed him deeply, trembling as his nails grazed softly over your stomach. "You don't really think you're going to hell, do you?" you asked. 

"Honestly? I’m not sure I believe in hell." 

You breathed out a laugh. "What about heaven?"

"I believe in heaven." 

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back again, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on you. "I wish I believed there was something more than all of this." 

He slipped a hand between your legs, sliding a finger through your folds and making contact with your clit. "This is pretty heavenly as it is, don't you think?" 

A heavy breath fell from your parted lips. You rolled your hips instinctively, welcoming the warm ripple of pleasure spilling through your core. You raised an arm and cupped the back of his head, the other hand gripping his wrist as he moved his finger back and forth along the seam of your pussy, each firm stroke over the sensitive bud putting the lightning outside to shame. 

"Divine," you sighed. 

He dipped the finger inside you, just once, coating himself in your returning arousal and spreading it over your centre in an agonisingly slow glide. The penetration was shallow, so brief it left you aching for more, knees buckling as you leaned back against him. 

A hum rattled in his throat, the sound resonating in your bones, making them buzz with pleasure. He continued to caress the heat between your legs, taking his time to learn the spots that made your muscles tense, the right pressure to draw sounds from the depths of your soul. 

You'd always wondered what lay beneath the chaste exterior. For months you sat at the back of the chapel during his services, musing over a moment just like this one; would he be hesitant, gentle, tender? Or was there an animal caged within him, just waiting for a prey to let it free?

"I want to taste you," he whispered, his deep, rich voice pouring directly into your ear. 

God, you can devour me,  you thought. Pick me clean, swallow me whole. 

"You can do whatever you want with me," you replied.

And it was true. Tonight, you belonged to him - every inch of flesh, every corner of your mind - all his. There was no world beyond the walls of this room, no sensation that wasn't fostered by his touch. 

The cool air of the bedroom brushed over your bare skin as he released you from his hold. You climbed onto the bed and turned around, hugging your knees tight to your chest as you watched him begin to undress. 

You'd seen him in parts; the sliver of porcelain beneath his open shirt, the long fingers and prominent veins of his hands. You'd felt the size of him as he slid inside you, kissed the exposed skin near his unbuttoned collar. But you'd never seen all of him at once. Until now.

He stripped away the shirt and bent down to take off his shoes and socks. You tipped your head slightly, eyeing the slender muscles in his shoulders, how they rippled and stretched as he moved his arms, the lightly freckled skin taut over every tendon and sinew. 

He stood up straight and brushed the hair out of his face, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths; hard then soft, broad then lean. His stomach tensed and released as he moved, shadows forming in the ridges of his ribs, soft rolls and pockets of muscle taking shape in the thick trunk of his torso. You'd never met anyone so manly yet delicate before; a body capable of ruining you and indulging you, somehow all at once. 

Your gaze followed his hands to the waistband of his trousers. He worked slowly, unhurriedly, watching you watch him as he unbuttoned his fly, as though the mere sight of you was enough to satisfy him. When you absentmindedly licked your lips, a subtle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Your cheeks warmed when you realised what you'd done, chin dropping to rest on your knees as your eyes fell to the bed. 

But the sound of his trousers hitting the floor made you look back up at him, taking him in for the first time in his raw, unclad state. His cock stood proud and firm, rising above the pillars of his thighs with an impressive vigour - you'd gathered from the feel of him that he was blessed, but actually seeing it unrestrained in all its glory made your mouth turn embarrassingly dry. 

He kicked away the heap of clothes at his feet and stepped towards you. The bed frame creaked as he pressed his knee to the mattress, making your heart thud in anticipation. Your skin pricked as his hands made contact with you, fingers sliding between your thighs to gently prise them open. You parted them willingly, letting yourself fall back as he crawled up your body, nestling himself between your legs. 

His face hovered above yours for a moment, gaze darting between eyes and lips. You tilted your chin, catching his mouth in a kiss - something that already felt so familiar, like the taste of him belonged on your tongue, the pressure of his lips a comforting and harmonious sensation.

The heat of his breath spread through you like a deluge, flooding you from the inside out with molten lust. He pressed himself against you, returning the kiss with equal fervour, his rigid length pinned between you. When he tore himself away, it felt too soon, leaving you needy and aching beneath him, arching your head forward to watch as he journeyed leisurely down your body. 

You shivered as he pecked and nipped a trail from chest to inner thigh, his gaze meeting yours as he positioned himself near the bottom of the bed, searing blue eyes staring up at you hungrily. He ran his hands over the peaks and valleys of your body, worshipping it, savouring you like a bounty sent to him by God himself. 

"You are... so beautiful," he whispered. 

You inhaled a quiet gasp as he took hold of your thighs, parting them wider with an eager yet gentle shove. His touch was warm, the span of his fingers so large it was as if they were everywhere at once. 

"You think so?" you replied, your voice barely making a sound.

He shook his head and breathed out a slight laugh, like he couldn't believe you even had to ask. 

Your stomach tensed in anticipation as he lowered his head, closing the distance between his face and the most intimate part of you. The sight of him there was so incongruous to the man you'd come to know; the soft spoken, virtuous man, the man who would apologise for letting a swear word slip, who would trip over his sermons if you held his gaze for too long. But there was no uncertainty here, no nervousness or saintly restraint.

He didn't hesitate, dragging his tongue over you and pressing his mouth to your pussy. He sucked gently on your clit, kissing and licking with a pressure that ignited all ten thousand nerves in perfect unison, making them dance inside their delicate bundle. 

You'd never been so grateful for a storm; the thrashing of rain and rumbles of thunder disguising the moan that escaped you. You let your head fall back against the mattress, eyelids so heavy you couldn’t keep them open, as if every speck of energy was being drawn to the sensation between your legs. 

He groaned as he worked his mouth over you, the vibration of his voice making you squirm. There was something so glorious in the sound, like he was revelling in it, enjoying it even more than you. But with that, your mind began to wander; questioning how many times he'd done this, how many women's pleasure he'd feasted on before yours. You hated imagining someone else in your place, another temptation too delicious to resist. But the ease with which he found the spots that made you arch and shiver, the ministrations that pulled the loudest moans to the surface, made it clear this wasn't his first time. 

You ran a hand through his hair, the other reaching up to grip the railing of the headboard. "God," you whispered.

He responded with a gentle groan, fingers wrapping around your thighs to hold you in place. 

You'd always wondered why people called out to deities in the height of passion, why the lord's name would come as easy as a sigh, even to the most ardent nonbelievers. Maybe it was gratitude. Or perhaps spite.

You opened your eyes to find the cross above the bed looming over you like an admonition, watching in silent judgement as you squirmed and groaned beneath it, pushing yourself harder against Father Benedict's mouth with complete abandon. You'd never thought yourself a spiteful person before, but there was something undeniably wicked in all of this, something so wrong, so devilishly sinful that made it all the more delicious. 

He moved his tongue with serpentine precision; dipping and dragging, flicking and swirling, every lap working to unravel another piece of you until you were ready to fall apart. You tightened your fist in his hair, hips rising off the bed to keep his mouth exactly where you needed it, like you wouldn't be satisfied until he'd consumed you completely.

Your mouth fell open as you came, partly in bliss; the orgasm flooding your core and washing over you with a glorious warmth until your limbs turned flimsy and weak. But mostly, it was shock; shock that you’d actually reached climax like this, with nothing but a mouth and a tongue and barely five minutes. You thought you couldn’t, that you were just one of those women. But here you were, and it turned out that all you’d ever needed was one of those men. This man. 

"Where did you learn to do that?" you asked breathlessly, stroking his hair away from his eyes. 

He glanced up at you beneath a heavy brow, a hint of amusement in the shadows of his face. "Somewhere between uni and seminary school." 

You giggled at the nonchalance of his reply as he placed a kiss on your inner thigh, crawling up to meet you and bringing you face to face once more. You hummed contently as he let his full weight rest on top of you; elbows unlocking, chest pressing flush against yours. You brought your hands up to weave into his hair, holding it in fistfuls, scared he'd somehow vanish if you loosened your grip. 

His kiss tasted of you; lips slick with the proof of your rapture, tongue sweeping and swirling with the same skill and attention he'd given your pussy. You wondered how you were ever supposed to watch him talk or preach or guide his congregation in prayer ever again without picturing his face buried between your thighs. 

But then again, you weren't sure you’d be invited back after this. 

“I wish I’d known you then,” you whispered.

“When?”

“Back then, before you were… this.”

He smiled, speaking softly against your lips. “Are you saying I seem out of practice?”

You exhaled a laugh, the sound more akin to a sigh as it left you. “No. I just… I wonder what this would be like if it didn’t all feel so… sinful.”

He paused for a moment, looking into your eyes as another stroke of lightning illuminated the room. 

“Trust me, Ellis,” he said, raising an arm to grip the headboard above you. “The things I want to do to you… They’d have been just as sinful back then as they are now.” 

You suddenly felt so small beneath him, so wide-eyed and virginal within the confines of his strong, dominant frame; the span of his arms, the weight of his body on yours, the intensity of his stare. And now those words, the testimonies of lust pouring out of him in a voice as rich as molten chocolate.

You let your hands slowly glide down the sides of his torso, fingers tickling, nails grazing ever so slightly. His skin pricked with goosebumps, the tension in his body tangible beneath your touch. You wanted to make him feel good, watch him melt with pleasure and revel in the fact that it came from you. You wanted to make him thankful for storms, to let out moans that rivalled thunder, to burn hotter than lightning.

“And here’s me thinking it was me who led you astray,” you whispered, your breath turning heavy as it melded with his. “Turns out you were already there.”

A quiet growl rumbled in the base of his throat, his eyes darkening as his knuckles blanched around the headboard. He slid his other hand down between you, gripping his cock and aligning it with your entrance, his impatience bubbling in the air between you. You shivered as the tip of his length brushed over your clit; the slightest touch like an echo of the pleasure he’d already given you. 

He pushed into you with a groan, and your body welcomed him with ease; moulding to his shape, his size, hugging every ridge and curve until there was nothing left of him to give. You exhaled a heavy breath, as though emptying your lungs would somehow give him more space to fill, more parts of you to pervade. 

But no amount of him would ever be enough. You were certain of that now; with every hot breath, every growl, every press of his fingertips and ram of his hips, it became clearer that your need for him would never be satiated. You were ruined.

You quite liked it.

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“Tell me to stop,” Bucky whispered to your ear, his teeth brushing against it before lowering to your neck, pressing kisses and bites that had you gasping under his touch. You were pinned against the door of the bathroom. Bucky’s body pressed firmly against yours as his metal hand held your waist while his flesh hand brushed against the back of your knee, pulling higher until it reached the hem of your dress. “Please tell me to stop,” he begged to you but didn’t loosen his grip, his voice laced with lust and despair. 

You didn’t tell him to stop; all the contrary, a choking moan left your lips as he kissed that spot that drove you crazy. Bucky noticed, inhaling and closing his eyes as his hand moved up your thigh slowly, reaching the thin, lacy material of your thong sitting on your hip. 

“Was this for him?” He asked, brushing his index against the material over your hipbone. 

You nodded softly, frowning. You didn’t want to talk about this right now. There was no time. Everybody was probably looking for you downstairs. 

“Too bad,” he spoke bitterly, pulling the material until it broke off. You gasped but didn’t allow yourself to say anything else, praying for his hand to move to your ass or anywhere else on your skin. Bucky’s hand instead moved down your thigh, making you sigh in despair, “I dreamt of seeing you in white for so long. You have no idea. It was stupid of me not to have asked,” your stomach turned at his words but you couldn’t help but whine as his hand moved in between your thighs, making its way up again and bringing your dress up with it. “I thought I had time, all the time in the world. I wanted to be okay before I bound you to me, but now I realize I should have done it anyway. I should have been more selfish when it came to you…” Bucky spoke every word as he moved higher, so slowly that you were sure you were gonna go insane before he reached your centre. You didn’t mean to but felt your legs spread for him, giving him more space; he smirked as he realised. 

“Five years is a long time… I know, Doll…” he stopped moving his hand, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were so dark you wondered if the Winter Soldier had taken partial control over him again. You couldn’t help but swallow loudly, your eyes filling with tears, “don’t look at me like that. I am not the one that fucked your best friend…” his hand reached you all at once, his fingers immediately meeting your soaked core. You gasped the words and the touching creating a cacophonic melody that made your head spin, “look at you. He must have not done a great job after all, if I can still get you like this.” 

Bucky’s fingers started to move, teasing your entrance and rubbing your clit just so slightly. You bit the inside of your lip, refusing to gasp, to moan, to have a reaction. “You could have fucked him. I would have been fine with that… but you accepted to marry him?” Your eyes closed and you allowed a tiny exhale to leave your lips. 

“I am s-” You finally tried to speak but were stopped by him shoving two fingers inside of you. 

“The time for apologies has passed, doll.” You opened your eyes to find him looking at you, his gaze sad, the blue of his eyes dim. He sped up his tempo, and a moan escaped your lips, your hand reaching for his arm as a plead to stop, to continue, to move faster, to slow down, to keep up, to leave, to stay forever. “This used to be my favourite sound in the world, hearing you break down under my touch, watching you as I made you feel good. Tell me, does he make you feel this way?”

You parted your lips to reply but could barely muster a “n-”

“Do you love me the way you loved me?” 

You closed your eyes as a tear lined your cheek, ignoring the waves of pleasure taking over you, “no,” your tone came with more resolute this time as your grip lost all of its strength around his arm. 

“Then why am I at your engagement party when you are not engaged to me? Why are you asking me to watch you marry someone else? My best friend?” Bucky’s fingers left you as he tried to pull away from you, but you held him in place, your hands on his chest, grabbing onto that button-up that didn’t quite suit his style. 

You met his gaze again as your fingers moved slowly, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Bucky’s hands found your waist and knitted the skin under the beautiful white gown. The storm in his eyes seemed to calm down, and his breathing steadied. “I am sorry,” you whispered, lowering your hands more and more until you reached his belt, “I know it means nothing to you, but I am sorry.” 

You opened his belt slowly, the two of you moving cautiously, afraid that the other would pull away at any point. You should have known better. He should have known better. There was nowhere else you could go than right here. His right hand moved up, and his gaze followed it, reaching your shoulder, playing with the spaghetti strap of your dress, allowing it to drop onto your arm. You ignored it, working on the button of his trousers. He did the same on the other side and then reached back as the front of the dress loosened, undoing your strapless bra. The freeing feeling was immediate, followed by the coldness of the air hitting your nipples and sending a shiver down your spine. 

Bucky licked his lips at a sight he had missed more profoundly than most things in this world before reaching for your chest, letting his calloused thumb run on top of your nipple, sending a delicious wave of pleasure through your body. You froze at the contact, your breath hitching in your throat as you looked up to meet his gaze; his trousers opened and ready to be removed. 

His hands secured around your waist, lifting you until your legs wrapped around his hips. Familiar, far too familiar. Everything with him was. You had had sex in this bathroom before, even though that felt like a lifetime ago. Steve’s place, your place now. Bucky held onto you with one arm, wrapping it around you as the other worked on his boxers and pants, freeing himself. 

His hard cock immediately came into contact with your folds, and you gasped, closing your eyes. He seemed to pay little attention to it, rubbing himself against them and causing your eyes to water again, just for a different reason. It felt so right. It felt necessary. You tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of your stomach. This was wrong. You were engaged, and yet, yet it had never felt this right with Steve, and it probably never would. 

“Please,” you whispered in a cry, knowing well how much he enjoyed having you so needy for him. 

“Do you ever beg for him, Doll?” He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You closed yours, unwilling to watch his sadness. 

“No,” you sighed aloud, holding tightly onto one of his shoulders as the other reached for his hair, pulling it. Your hips tried to move as much as you could, hoping he would slide in, take you already. 

Bucky smiled at your despair and pulled you a little higher, not allowing you to even grind on him. His face lowered to your chest, his tongue immediately finding your breast and nibbling on your skin in between open-mouthed kisses. You moaned and threw your head back, hitting it against the door, immediately regretting making so much noise. His beard created just the right amount of friction to have you losing control over your sounds, tightening your grip around his hair but begging for more. 

“He apologised to me. Can you believe it?” He spoke again, nonchalantly this time. His thoughts were too deep into the taste of your skin. His free hand moved down, pumping his cock and taking his pre-cum and sliding it into your cunt, “He really thought he had a chance now that I was back. He really thought I would allow him to keep my girl.”

“Bucky…” you whined as he teased you with his touch, “they will come looking for us soon.” Your hand pulled at his hair, trying to get his eyes back to you. 

He looked up, meeting your gaze again. Blue. “Let them come. Let them find us like this. Would you mind?”

“Bucky…” you whispered in a gasp as his hand left you, grabbing his cock instead and lowering you slowly until just the tip was touching your folds. You tried to keep your eyes open, overwhelmed by the feeling of need. Your entire body burned, suffocating whatever thought of guilt that had tried to form, “he will be hurt.”

Bucky’s face turned dark once again, and then in one swift move, he sank you down into his cock, splitting you. You gasped and groaned, screwing your eyes shut. “I don’t care. He took the love of my life.” He started fucking your relentlessly, bouncing you over his cock as if you weighed no more than a doll. “He took the only thing that has ever mattered to me, and you let him do it.”

It felt incredible. You didn’t want to admit it, but it felt right. Almost as if you had finally gone back to your universe and not whatever parallel you had been sent after the snap. Steve was good. He was so good, but he wasn’t Bucky. Bucky knew he had you. Bucky was yours, and you were his. 

Bucky pulled you even closer, his face falling to your shoulder, kissing it as he continued to fuck you mercilessly. “Let them hear you,” he whispered as he heard you hold back. 

He pushed even deeper, and you gasped out a moan, your lips remaining parted as your vision blurred, the so-familiar coil building in your stomach. Bucky seemed to be enjoying himself just as much, the anger and frustration of the moment turning into passion as he melted under you. His cock addicted to the feeling of your cunt squeezing it. 

“Bucky--” you tried to warn him as you felt your orgasm approach, but the sound of steps quieted you down. Bucky realised right away, thrusting into you as deep as he could, sending you over the edge and taking him with you. He tried to say something to groan out a sound, but you pulled his hair to you, pushing his lips against yours, quieting the two of you as he emptied himself inside of you. You could barely contain yourself, the feeling of his cum filling your cunt sending another wave of pleasure through your body. 

“All good in there?” Nat spoke from the other side of the door as Bucky finally pulled you down. 

“Y-yes, give me a minute. I’ll be back down in a second.” You turned to the door and ignored the way Bucky’s hands stayed on your waist pulling you to him. 

“Sure…” she replied and you heard her walk away. 

You pulled away from Bucky, cleaned yourself quickly and fixed your hair and dress. Right before leaving the bathroom you turned to him, “we should not do this again.” You didn’t look at him as you spoke, knowing well he would be able to read exactly how you truly felt. 

You reached for the handle of the door to leave but he replied, “marry me instead.”

“What?” You turned to him furrowed brow and a shocked look on your face. 

“You heard me. Don’t marry him. Marry me instead.”

-----

Liv's Note

Finally, some smut back!! Hope you all enjoyed it! Please, please reblog and comment to support my writing, it means the absolute world to me! If you have any Bucky requests send me an ask :)

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