clarks wife ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Clark doesn’t make a show of being a gentleman—it isn’t performative, not something he switched on for appearances. It was simply who he was, in the quiet, steady way the sun rose every morning.

Doors, for example. He always got them. His hand would find the handle just before yours did, opening it with an easy motion. Sometimes his palm brushed lightly against your back as you walked through. And he always waited. Even if you were distracted, even if you took a second longer, he never let the door swing shut between you.

Chairs were the same. At dinner, whether it was at home or somewhere nicer in Metropolis, he was already stepping behind you, pulling your chair out smoothly. His hands would hover just slightly at your shoulder as you sit just making sure you’re settled before he’d gently slide the chair back in.

At home, it was even more noticeable. Clark was all quiet domestic habits and thoughtful touches. He’d fold laundry like it actually mattered, his large hands surprisingly precise as he smoothed out creases before stacking everything neatly. 

If you were cooking, he was there without needing to be asked. He’d reach past you to grab something from a cupboard, pausing just enough to say a soft ‘sorry’ even though you barely had to move. His hand might settle at your waist for a second as he passed behind you, warm and steady, gone before it lingered too long. 

And if you were tired? He noticed. Before you could even say anything, he was already pulling a blanket over the couch, fluffing a pillow with a gentleness that didn’t match his strength. He’d press a lingering kiss to your temple before saying something simple like, ‘c’mere,’ in that warm Kansas drawl.

Even things like carrying groceries turned into something quietly telling. You’d reach for a bag, and he’d give you one—just one—while he effortlessly gathered the rest. Not to prove anything, not to make you feel small, but because taking care of you felt as natural to him as breathing. If you insisted on carrying more, he’d just smile that shy, crooked smile and say, ‘Alright… but I’m still taking the heavy ones.’

It was in those quiet, ordinary moments that his gentleness settled you. So when he wasn’t there, you felt it. The door that you opened yourself, the chair that stayed tucked in, the space beside you in the kitchen that wasn't quietly filled by his presence. 

You didn’t think much of it, not really. You just moved through your evening the way you always did, letting routine take over where his quiet care usually lived. And outside, the world carried on.

Rain drummed against the window, streaking the glass in blurred lines that caught the glow of the city outside Metropolis. Thunder rolled somewhere far off as you moved around the kitchen in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Clark’s old tops. Something sizzled on the stove, garlic and onions filling the space with a comforting, familiar scent.

Music played low from the radio—background noise more than anything—while you focused on chopping, stirring, grounding yourself in the routine. You were just reaching for the salt when you heard the door open and you glanced up instinctively, turning halfway toward the sound.

Clark stood in the doorway, glasses wonky and shoulders slumped. His tie was loose, hanging crooked around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, his sleeves rolled up unevenly, and the fabric clung to his body outlining every inch of him. His hair, usually so carefully styled, was an absolute mess, dark curls stuck to his forehead, water dripping along the line of his jaw.

He looked exhausted and there was something almost endearing about it. For a second, he just stood there, watching you. 

“There you are,” he said, his voice low, almost relieved—like he’d been searching for you all day.

You shook your head fondly and turned back to the stove, smiling to yourself. “Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered, nudging the door shut behind him with his foot as he toed off his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, already loosening his tie further as he made his way toward you. “I spent the entire afternoon thinking about how unfair it is that I didn’t get to see you until now.”

You felt him before he touched you—his warmth, his presence filling the space behind you. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, snug and familiar, pulling you back against his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly, the word brushing against your ear.

“Clark—” you laughed under your breath, trying to keep stirring despite the way he’d completely anchored you in place.

“Nope,” he cut in immediately, resting his chin against your shoulder, the faint scratch of stubble warm against your skin. “I missed you all day. I deserve this.” He tightened his hold just to prove the point, swaying you slightly. “Do you have any idea how many times I thought about coming home to you cooking dinner like this?

“Oh, did you?” you teased, though your voice had softened too.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Especially this part. Where I get to steal hugs and pretend I help.”

You huffed a small laugh and placed your free hand over his where it rested against your stomach, your fingers threading between his without thinking. Clark let out a deep, slow exhale and you felt his body relax against yours.

“This smells amazing,” he added after a moment, his voice dipping lower as he nudged his face closer, brushing his nose lightly along the curve of your neck. “You’re really setting the bar high. If you keep this up, I’m never leaving.”

You smiled, leaning back into him just slightly, letting your weight rest against his chest. “Pretty sure that’s the plan.”

His lips curved against your skin at that, the ghost of a smile pressed just beneath your ear as his arms stayed wrapped around you. Clark stayed right there, loosely draped around you, his weight relaxed but constant. Every so often, he shifted just enough to press another kiss to your shoulder, or your neck, or wherever he could reach without moving too far. 

After a moment, you shifted, turning slightly in his arms. Clark hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle grin as you reached a hand up and straightened his glasses. Giving his cheek a gentle pat, you turned again, dipping the spoon into the pan and scooping up a small taste before lifting it toward him.

“Here,” you said. “Try this.”

His eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, I get privileges?”

“Don’t push it,” you warned, though there was no real bite behind it as you held the spoon just in front of his mouth.

He leaned in, lips parting slightly as he took the bite and a low, involuntary groan slipped out of him. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second as he actually processed the taste, his brows lifting just slightly in quiet disbelief.

“Oh—wow,” he breathed, voice softer now, roughened at the edges in a way that made heat immediately rush to your face.

“Is that a good ‘wow’ or…?” you started, but you could already feel yourself flushing, the warmth creeping up your neck to your cheeks.

“That’s—” he shook his head a little, letting out a quiet huff of a laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s really good.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered quickly, already turning back toward the stove to hide the way you were smiling, focusing a little too hard on stirring.

“I’m not,” he insisted softly, but there was a smile in his voice now, one you didn’t have to see to know was there. “I mean it.”

You shook your head again, though it was more to yourself this time, trying to regain some sense of focus as you adjusted the heat slightly. “You’ll eat anything I make.”

You were just about to turn the heat down when Clark shifted behind you, his arms loosening slightly—just enough to make you think, for one brief, foolish second, that he was about to behave.

Then you felt his lips at your neck. It was subtle at first. A warm brush just below your ear that sent a small, immediate shiver down your spine which was followed by a slow, lingering kiss that made your grip on the spoon falter.

“Clark,” you warned, though there was already a smile tugging at your lips.

He hummed against your skin, clearly unrepentant. “What?” Another kiss, this one lower, unhurried.

You tried to focus on the stove, but he was absolutely doing this on purpose now—soft kisses along your neck, one after another, a faint press of his smile there like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I’m cooking,” you managed, letting out a quiet laugh when he nosed gently at the sensitive spot beneath your jaw.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, voice low and warm. “And I’m distracting you. Multitasking.”

You leaned forward just enough to glance back at him, lifting the spoon in a weak attempt at a threat. “If I burn dinner, I’m blaming you.”

“I trust you,” he grinned, entirely unapologetic. “You’re good under pressure.”

You shook your head, gently bumping your shoulder into his chest. “Menace.”

His thumbs traced slow, absent circles across your stomach, drifting higher inch by inch beneath the hem of your top, his touch warm and unhurried. At the same time, his mouth continued to place open-mouthed kisses lazily along your skin, like he was simply passing the time.

“Watch those hands, farm boy,” you mumbled, trying to sound stern.

His mouth continued its trail along your neck, his tongue and teeth leaving little marks that would fade by morning. Before you could protest again, Clark hands shifted—one sliding to your waist, the other catching your wrist to still it.

​​“Okay,” he said, voice light but intent, “new plan.”

Before you could question it, he turned you around smoothly, effortlessly, like it was muscle memory. Your back met the counter with a soft thud, and in one easy motion, he lifted you just enough to sit you up beside the stove, the spoon clinking faintly as it was set aside.

“There,” he said, satisfied, stepping in closer. “Much better.”

You blinked at him, a little startled, then laughed. Clark just grinned, hands bracing on either side of you as he leaned in again, his attention dropping back to your jaw, then back to your neck.

You placed a hand against his chest, giving a gentle push, though you were still smiling. “Dinner’s going to burn.”

Clark glanced briefly toward the stove, then back at you, completely unconcerned. “You’ve got it under control.” 

He pressed one more quick kiss beneath your ear before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. He studied your face, eyes flicking back and forth between yours. He leaned forward, but instead of kissing your lips immediately like you’d expected, he shifted to the side. 

He rested his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting across your cheek. His hands shifted, fingers grazing the curve of your back, your waist, until they slid up your arms to rest on either side of your neck, tilting your chin up. He kissed you gently, his movements unhurried—almost tender.

Clark’s kisses were slow, thorough, and impossibly sweet. His lips moved against yours leisurely, his hands still holding your neck so gently, like he was cradling something fragile. He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then a little lower, before returning to your lips. 

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, a mixture of adoration and desire clouding his own. But then his hands shifted, fingers sliding into your hair, and he tilted your head back ever so slightly. His mouth moved down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his tongue following the trail his lips left behind.

He lingered at your pulse point, sucking and nipping delicately at the skin. Every touch was slow and calculated—like he was trying to memorise every gasp and shiver his mouth drew from you. His hands slid down your sides until they gripped the backs of your thighs. He pulled you forward, until your legs were wrapped around his waist. 

Clark’s mouth continued its slow, deliberate path back up your neck, his hands running over your thighs. You could feel him everywhere, his body hot and solid between your legs. His mouth moved downward, to the junction of your shoulder and neck. He seemed determined to savour every inch of skin, his mouth tracing the curve of your collarbone before lingering at the hollow of your neck. 

He shifted his hips, grinding against you slowly, his need for more making itself known, though his pace remained unhurried. You moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs instinctively tightening around him.

One of Clark’s hands came up to pull at the neckline of your top, giving him more access to your skin. He shifted again, his body pressing shamelessly against yours, his mouth moved lower, down to your collarbone. His lips traced the curve of it, and then his tongue laved at your skin, hot and wet. 

“God, sweetheart,” his voice was raspier when he spoke, the vibrations sending goosebumps down your spine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips attached to your neck again and his hands dropped to your waist. His fingers toyed with the hem of your top for a moment before he finally slipped a hand underneath, palm flattening against your stomach. 

“Can I take this off?” he murmured against the hollow of your neck, his hands already starting to lift the material.

You gave a jerky nod and Clark’s hands immediately tugged at the hem of the your top, pulling it up and over your head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, his eyes already tracing the newly exposed skin of your chest. 

He paused, just looking at you, something almost reverent in his gaze. His hands rested at your waist, fingers splaying across your rib cage. He leaned in, pressing lingering kisses between your breasts, right above your heart. He nosed at the valley between your breasts, his tongue flattening against the sensitive skin. 

“Hmm, sweetheart,” he murmured, like it was a prayer.

You threw your head back against the cabinet as Clark wrapped his lips around your nipple. He circled the bud with his tongue, sucking at it with just enough pressure to make you gasp. One of his hands moved to your other breast, his thumb and forefinger finding your nipple and pinching it just right.

Your hands snaked up into his curls, tangling and tugging roughly. He groaned at the sensation, glancing up at you and meeting your gaze. He alternated between the two for a moment before switching sides, giving the other the same treatment. 

His mouth left a blazing path down your stomach, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he dropped to his knees in front of you. He kissed the patch of skin just above the waistband of your shorts, resting his chin against your hip as he rubbed soft circles into your thighs. 

“Clark,” you whispered, though it came out like a plea. 

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your shorts, then pulled both them and your underwear down to your ankles where you kicked them off. His hands gripped your knees, urging them apart until you were fully exposed to him. His mouth moved to the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking at the delicate skin, leaving little marks in his wake. 

He shifted, placing one of your legs over his shoulder, and leaned forward. Clark’s tongue dragged through every inch of your folds like a man memorising scripture before finding your clit. He started with slow, soft circles, the tip of his tongue swirling against the sensitive bud. His mouth was insistent, his grip on your thigh holding you in place as he continued. 

“Just like that,” you whispered, closing your eyes as waves of pleasure began to build within you.

He was holding back, taking his time, but his breaths were already starting to hitch in his chest. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. Clark swirled his tongue around your clit before pushing it inside you. 

His nose nudged your clit and you jerked your hips up at the sensation. The action caused Clark’s glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose, the lenses fogged and frame hopelessly crooked.

One hand came up to blindly adjust them and the second they were straight again, he ducked back down with renewed fervour. His lips moved back up to your clit as his fingers traced your entrance.

Clark moaned against you as he slid a finger inside you with ease, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine. His finger slid deeper, more firmly with every stroke, curling up like he was trying to reach as far as possible.

A second finger joined the first, stretching you just so as they curled and twisted and teased. He worked you like that for a moment, his mouth staying focused on your clit while his fingers moved in and out. His grip on your thigh was bruising now, his face buried between your legs. 

“Clark,” you moaned, your hand clenching in his hair. 

His name on your lips made him growl, his fingers speeding up their movements. His mouth switched from slow, teasing circles to a rougher, more direct pressure. He sucked your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking against it as his fingers curled against that spot. 

You could feel your release building, the muscles low in your stomach clenching in anticipation. Your hips rocked forward slightly, but Clark held you in place, his grip tight on your thigh. His mouth kept up its relentless pace, spurred on by the small moans and gasps from your lips. 

Clark was a man on a mission, determined to take you apart one piece at a time. He was trembling with the need to please, to give you what you wanted. He could tell you were getting close as your walls clamped down on his fingers tightly, squeezing him.

Your legs were shaking, your heels digging into his back. He curled his fingers inside you one last time, putting pressure on your clit with the flat of his tongue, and sent you over the edge. 

You moaned his name as you came, your thighs clamping around his head as your body convulsed. His hands moved to hold your hips in place, his mouth still working you through the aftershocks. 

Clark gave one last kiss against your clit before pulling back. He stayed on his knees for a moment, catching his breath and, as he pressed his cheek against the inside of your leg, you could feel his panting breaths against your skin. 

Eventually, he rose to his feet with a shaky inhale, body trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d just done. He looked wrecked—hair mussed, glasses crooked, lips red and swollen. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

You smiled softly, letting out a small, breathless chuckle. You raised a hand to his face, wiping your release from his chin with your thumb. Clark let out a huff of amusement, his eyes locked on yours as he leaned into your hand, his fingers tightening on your waist. 

“Messy, huh?” he asked, his tone teasing. 

Clark moved his hand up to catch your wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there. Humming, you bit back a smile and rested your forehead against his. His hand moved up from your wrist and cupped your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

Your fingers danced up his arm, slid across his chest and curled around his tie causing Clark’s breath to catch in his throat. His thumb continued to trace over your lip before dipping past the seam of your mouth; the pad running across your tongue. 

Clark couldn’t look away if he tried—completely ensnared by you. You gave his thumb a teasing suck before pulling back with a smile. You tugged on his tie, connecting your lips and being able to taste yourself on his tongue. 

Your hands worked at the knot of his tie as Clark undone the buttons of his shirt. You lifted the fabric over his head and dropped it beside you before helping Clark push his shirt off his shoulders. 

As the kiss continued, you trailed your hand down his abdomen and cupped the very prominent bulge in his slacks. Clark’s hips bucked involuntarily, pushing against your hand. He broke the kiss, his head falling against your shoulder with a low curse as he tried to hold himself back.

His breathing came in uneven pants against your neck as your fingers unbuckled his belt with a soft clink before moving to undo the button of his slacks and peeling down the zipper. His trousers fell to the floor with a soft thud and your gaze settled on his crotch.

A gasp left your lips as you saw his cock pressing against the wet fabric of his boxers, straining and desperate to get out. Unable to help yourself, you reached out and traced the tip of your index finger over him.

Clark let out a choked-off moan, his hips twitching forward into your touch. Your fingers curled around the waistband of his boxers, gently tugging them down to free his cock from its confines.

You watched as his cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach, the tip flushed an angry red as precum dripped down the thick vein along the underside of his cock. You just couldn't seem to look away.

Your eyes followed the soft trail of hair leading down from his navel, and the darker patch at his base, thick and coarse. Your hand reached out and wrapped around him, feeling the way he throbbed from your touch. 

He was heavy in your hand as your thumb circled around his slit. Your name spilled from his lips in a strangled moan, his hips twitching forward. 

“Darling…” his voice sounded almost broken now. “Please, I need…”

He didn't even know what he needed, not anymore. The only thing he knew was you. He needed you—everywhere, all around him. He desperately needed to drown in you until he forgot about everything that wasn't you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer and dragging his tip through your folds. You were soaked, your release ran down your thighs to his base and coating the hair there as he pushed forward, his tip working you open inch by inch.

Finally he gave one slow push, until his hips were flushed against yours—you could feel every ridge, every bump of his thick veins. Clark stayed like that for a moment, his body trembling as he fought to keep himself in check. 

Then, very slowly, he started to pull back, his hands gripping your waist as he eased himself out of you. And just as slowly, he pushed back in, just as deeply as before. He repeated the motion, setting a slow, tortuous pace. 

You reached your hands up to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. A ragged groan escaped his lips and his hips jerked involuntarily. The feeling of your nails dragging across his skin was enough to drive him wild.

Clark set a slightly faster pace now, still holding back but not as much as before. Your ankles locked at the base of his spine, heels digging into his back and pulling him in deeper. Clark glanced down and watched the way you stretched around him, his hips stuttering at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you.

“Yes, s’good,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple.

His pace was picking up, becoming less controlled and more desperate. Clark’s lips found their way to your pulse point; sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping hard as he snapped his hips forward again and again; each thrust punching a gasp or a moan out of you.

The rhythmic sounds of skin against skin and heavy breathing filled the kitchen, accompanied by the occasional moan or whimper of pleasure. Each thrust from Clark brought a new wave of pleasure, leaving you wanting more.

You were unable to stop the gasps slipping from your lips as he filled you over and over and over again. You were close, so close and one more thrust was all you needed before your orgasm crashed over you. 

A broken moan fell from your lips as Clark fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He kept his face buried in your neck as he moaned and groaned—his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over again, prolonging your orgasm.

“Yea—oh fuck,” he cursed, his breath hot against your skin.

Clark’s thrusts soon became sloppy as he reached his impending orgasm. His cock slid out of you and as he thrust into the air, the first hot rope of thick, heavy cum hit your swollen folds. You gasped at the sudden heat of it and Clark groaned deep in his chest as he continued to paint your cunt.

He pressed a soft kiss to the pulse point beneath your jaw and pulled back as another warm pulse landed directly on your clit and dripped down to your entrance. With a shaky breath, Clark stroked himself once, twice, and then pressed the still leaking head of his cock against your folds. 

He smeared his release around in slow, deliberate circles—his fat tip dragging through the mess he made. Just when you thought he was going to slide back in you, Clark pulled you off the counter and spun you around to face it.

“Clark?” you gasped, confused. 

His chest was hard against your back; hips pressed flush up against your ass as he leaned over you, head dropping onto your shoulder. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured into your neck. “I just can’t help myself…”

He took a breath, pulling back and taking a hold of your wrists before pinning them behind your back. With his free hand, Clark lined himself up with your entrance again and slammed into you in one brutal thrust—the wet slap of skin echoing off the kitchen walls.

You were used to Clark being a gentleman but there was nothing gentle about the size of him. He had you face down, ass up, and back arched as his cock split you apart from behind.

Your skin was on fire beneath him—body arching up to meet his every move with a desperation that would’ve been embarrassing if he didn’t need it so damn badly. He was completely at your mercy, and he didn’t even care; driven wild at the feeling of you clenching around him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” his voice was a low, filthy whisper in your ear, “you just feel too good…”

Heavy slaps of skin on skin filled the room, spurring Clark on. His thrusts were deep enough to make your legs give out and Clark had to hold you up with his hands. Your cheek pressed against the counter, the cold marble a welcome contrast to the heat of your body. 

Clark shifted his grip, releasing your wrists and wrapping an arm around your neck—pulling you up and pressing you flush against his chest. You choked as his bicep tightened in reflex and the sound made his hips stutter.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry,” he repeated, his cheek resting against yours.

Clark couldn’t help it, he couldn't get enough of you. His hips snapped forward in brutal thrusts now—no rhythm, no control left at all as pleasure wracked through every muscle. His free hand ran down your body, over your hip; your waist; your thighs; your stomach—tracing rough patterns like an artist marking his canvas.

He was desperate to touch you everywhere—to mark every last goddamn inch of you until he was as much a part of you as you were him. The combination of his arm around your throat and his hips snapping into you caused your vision to white out for a second.

“You okay, baby?” he asked breathlessly, his thrusts not relenting. “I’m sorry…”

Sweat slicked your skin where you were pressed together, his chest hot and solid against your back. His lips grazed over the side of your neck, leaving hot, wet open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin.

Your voice cracked as you moaned his name, the pressure in your stomach building fast. Clark’s hand that was on your hip slid round and circled your clit causing you to clench tightly around him. 

His hips stuttered for a few seconds before finding that brutal rhythm again—chasing his own release with rough, uneven thrusts that had the counter creaking beneath your combined weight. 

The coil in your stomach tightened and finally snapped as your climax hit you tenfold; white-hot and blinding. Clark fucked you through it, muttering apologies agaisnt the skin of your neck.

“I’m sor–oh, fuck!” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut briefly.

Then, with one final thrust, Clark’s hips stuttered as his own orgasm hit. He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, pulsing hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside of you. He rocked his hips lazily, making sure you milked every last drop of him. 

Slowly, he lifted his head from your back, his arm releasing its grip on your throat. He pulled out of you carefully, holding your waist as your legs wobbled and threatened to give way. You let out a small whimper as his release dripped down your thighs, your cunt missing his cock already. Clark frowned softly, turning you around and lifting you back up onto the counter. With a weak, breathless moan, you tilted your head back against the cabinet. 

Clark’s thumb traced idle patterns on your waist, seemingly unaware of the action. His other hand slid up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his expression softening. Clark watched you for a moment longer, his expression almost searching.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you hummed, resting your hand over his.

“I’m sorry,” he panted, running his fingers through the mess between your thighs. 

You laughed breathlessly, shaking your head and slapping him lightly on the chest. He leaned down and pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, breathing in before pulling back. He moved his hands back to your waist, dropping his forehead against yours.

The two of you were in your own little world, everything around you fading away until you were brought back to reality by a loud, repetitive beep. The fire alarm blared to life, loud and jarring, slicing straight through the moment.

Clark’s eyes widened as he glanced toward the stove, then back at you. “Oh—uh. That’s probably not good.”

You rolled your eyes teasingly, not having the energy to do anything else. “This is your fault.”

“Wha—? Hey,” he said defensively, grabbing a dish towel too and wildly waving it at the ceiling, “Okay… hear me out… we order in.”

“I—” you went to protest but eventually gave in. “yeah, okay…”

It had been literal days since he’d been inside you, a burning need that was growing by the second. A desire that even your wet fingers, soaked in your throat and pushed into your wet heat with Benedict’s name on your lips could not satisfy the deep desire you were feeling for your husband. 

You huffed, wiping your fingers against your nightgown as you finally threw the covers off of you and practically jumped off of the mattress- at last reaching your breaking point in being alone in your marital bed. 

Without bothering to throw on a robe in your own home, you grabbed the candle next to the bed before opening the door and gliding down the long hallway to Benedict’s office. He surely would welcome you, would he not? His desperate wife, in need of her husband to help satisfy her.

You shuddered at the thought of him denying you on purpose. He had done that before, had you sitting next to his easel as he worked, occasionally reaching down to pull at your hair and make you moan just to make sure you remembered who you belonged to. The idea excited and terrified you at the same time.

It was no secret that your husband was dominant with you. He often enjoyed pushing around his darling wife in the bedroom, bringing her to completion multiple times over and over, whispering in her ear that she could surely take another one. You enjoyed being degraded, and he knew that. Of course he knew it.

You reached his office door and hesitated for a single moment before rapping your knuckles against the wood. 

You waited.

“Enter.” Came the cool voice of Benedict, his voice slightly muffled as you took a deep breath before pushing the door open. 

The room was illuminated by 2 single candles on the table next to his desk, his frame highlighted by the flickering light as he sat, hunched over the desk with his hand over his mouth and leaning on his elbows.

His shirt was untucked, sleeves pushed (not rolled) up to his elbows in a most undignified manner. Not, however, for his wife. His hair was tossled, and you instantly thought back to his mouth on you, between your legs, whilst you gripped his hair so hard he groaned loudly against you until you came on his face.

He didn’t look up as you creaked the door open, and you almost turned around to leave back to bed, try another go at fucking yourself on your fingers, when his cold voice spoke again.

“What is it?” 

You decided now is when you should speak.

“Husband, I-” You start but you are cut off as his eyes snap up to you, and you realise then that he did not know it was you who had knocked on his office door.

“Darling,” He did not drop his pen, but he did stop writing, and look up at you with much kinder eyes than you thought he would. “My darling wife, why are you up this late? It is well past midnight.”

You could not speak, only look at his shirt hanging off of him, untied and untucked, his forearms on complete display as you placed your candle on the shelf next to the door and closed it behind you. 

Benedict said nothing as you walked closer, stopping on the opposite side of his desk as you leaned gently over it.

“What may I do for you?” Benedict almost looks amused, and you can see he’s trying not to smile. He knows why you are here, and yet he dares not give you what you need immediately.

“Benedict-” You are cut off by the sharp raise of his eyebrow as he cocks his head at you, gesturing for you to come around the desk. Oh.

You go to speak again, but as you approach him, he grabs your arm, placing a gentle kiss in the crook of your elbow, silencing you. He slowly kisses down your arm, all the way to your fingers…where he stops, looks up at you with those beautiful dark eyes, and sucks your two middle fingers into his mouth. 

You gasp, and he continues, letting his tongue slide between them, sucking them clean from earlier, and you realise that he now knows what you have been up to while he has been hard at work in his office.

You pull away in embarrassment, and while he lets you pull your fingers out of his mouth, he does not let you retreat. He pulls you down onto his lap, having your back to his chest as he holds you close, his breath hot against your neck and his voice like a prayer in your ear.

“You’ve been busy.” Is all he says, one of his hands sliding up to your throat as you try to protest again. “You’ve been touching yourself without me.”

“Benedict, please let me just-” You try again. But he is determined to not let you complete a full sentence tonight it seems. 

“Excuse me?” The question is clear and sharp and you know exactly what it is he is asking from you.

You correct yourself, immediately. “Sir, I was lonely without you. It’s been several nights now that you’ve been stuck here in this office to the ungodly hours of the morning. What was I meant to do?” 

This was the wrong thing to say, you realise, just as his hand becomes tighter around your throat and pulls you back against him, hard. And that’s not the only thing that is hard, you realise as he grinds up against you, a cruel thing to do when you are trying to explain your actions.

“So you decided to just…do whatever you wished to do instead of coming to me first?”

“Husband-” You gasp at his hand around your throat.

“Wife.”

You are at a loss for words for what it is he wants you to say for your actions. Sorry doesn’t cut it with Benedict, and you know this. 

You wait for him to speak again, to make a move, to remove his hand. But when he finally does, your heart stops.

“Stand up, turn around.” Benedict’s voice is back to being cold, and you have goosebumps along your skin as you follow his instructions. 

He reaches forward, hoisting your skirts up, and letting a low growl out when he realises you are naked underneath your nightgown. You try to defend yourself, but words can’t leave you when his hands are already sliding up your thighs and cupping your already dripping heat.

You gasp, his middle two fingers dipping into your wetness and dragging up to circle your clit gently, looking up at you dangerously as he dares you to deny how much you are dripping down your leg.

“My dirty girl. You thought you could come in here without anything on under here and just hope for me to fuck you?” When you don’t answer, his fingers press rather harshly against your clit, and you cry out, clutching at his shoulder to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Bened-Sir, please-god,” You are gasping, his fingers against you feeling like heaven after days of nothing but yourself to keep you company.

He lets you stay that way, standing in front of him, one hand on his shoulder to keep yourself steady as he rubs your clit until you are crying out, before abruptly pulling away, sucking his fingers clean and looking up at you as if he just asked you what you wanted for tea.

“I-”, you try, but he interrupts you with a rather sinful smile on his face.

“I have a rather splendid idea.” He says, and you freeze as his hands go to his breeches, pulling them down in one go and letting his cock spring free right in front of you. You want to grasp it, to put it in your mouth, but you dare not make such a move.

“You,” Benedict begins, knowing you are hanging on his every word. “Are you going to sit on me like a good little wife, while I keep writing my letters. You can keep me warm. You wanted me so bad, you can have me.”

You are in shock at what he is asking of you. Sit on his cock, and what? Not move? Not finish?

He had to be mad.

“I’m not mad,” Benedict says, somehow reading your mind. “I’m disciplining and giving my little wife exactly what she wants.” As he speaks, Benedict hoists your skirts again, pulling you forward and lining his cock up with your entrance. You push your hands against his chest, wanting to protest but finding no reason to. You want this. You just love to pretend like you don’t. 

“Deep breathe now, my love.” Is all he says before he is using his knees to spread your legs and make you sink down onto him all in one go, and you are completely sat on him within a matter of mere seconds.

“Oh- oh god, Sir.” You cry out, but he shushes you, holding your head in the crook of his neck, keeping you still, not thrusting or moving or grinding or touching you elsewhere. Just holding you there, full and wanting with tears in your eyes.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well. Now you just sit there while I work, yes?”

You want to speak, to protest, to beg him to move, to fuck you. But all that comes out of your mouth are little whimpers and squeals as you try not to clench down on him.

When you don’t answer (something he is strict on), he loses his patience very quickly.

“I said,” His hand snags into your hair, forcing you away from the comfort of his shoulder and neck and to look him in the face. “You will sit there while I work, yes?” 

“Yes, yes, husband I will- sit here.” Your voice is so weak you barely hear it, but Benedict clearly does.

He releases your hair and kisses your forehead before pulling you back into your position against his chest. “That’s a good girl. Shh, I’ve got you.”

You nearly cry out as he pulls his chair forward until you are trapped with your front straddling him and your back pushed against the desk. This is final. This is where you will stay for the rest of the evening.

And that is where you stay- for hours? Minutes? You have no idea how long it has been. Your sweet little moans occasionally slipping out whenever he leans forward to grab something across his desk (probably on purpose) and letting his cock hit a different spot inside of you.

Every so often, despite your protesting noises, his hand would slide through the top of your nightgown, not even looking at you as he let his fingers drift across your front to find your nipple, pulling on it as you try not cry out and clench around him. Eventually, it would become too much, and you would squeeze around his cock involuntarily, resulting in a harsh slap against your thigh that made you jump. 

A silent command. Behave. 

You have no idea how long it has been, with you sitting on top of him, his fingers playing with your body wherever he wishes to in order to keep himself entertained while he writes whatever letters he is occupied with. To his brothers, perhaps? You knew Anthony was in India with his new wife- 

You hear Benedict drop his quill, papers rustling as he leans forward again, making you squeal as his cock rubs deliciously against your inner walls. Benedict moves quickly, pushing his chair back ever so slightly so your back is no longer harshly pressed against the wood of his desk and making room for him to gently push you back so his hand can finally sandwich between you. Right to your aching clit.

You go to speak, but you realise you can’t. Drunk on the feeling of being full for so long has your brain as empty as it can be. You try to remember what you were just thinking about, something about letters, about his cock pistoning into you at a great speed until you-

“Darling, how are you doing?” Benedict’s voice is velvet. It is a beautiful sound you didn’t realise you missed for however long you’ve been sitting here. And so casual as his fingers ever so gently ghost over your clit. Not quite enough yet.

“Mmm,” Your voice comes out as a moan, and you realise you didn’t even try to form proper words. 

Benedict’s chest rumbles in a brief laugh as he pulls you gently by the hair to see your face and you realise then that you have been struggling to keep your eyes open. Sleepy, cockdrunk and overwhelmed with pleasure, despserate to finish.

“Oh honey, you look so delicious right now. You are just putty right now, aren’t you?” His words hit you as his fingers speed up and you push your hips forward, relieved when he does not slap your thigh for moving around his cock.

“I am so tired.” You finally manage to get out, and you realise you don’t even know if you can handle an orgasm right now. But Benedict knows you can.

Benedict nods, his hand in your hair turning to gentle scratches as he realises you are spent, needing one thing that only he can give you now.

“Shall I let my darling wife finally come?” He says, finally, and you drop your head against him, finally letting your body loosen as he hums, knowing exactly what you need.

His fingers speed up, one hand on your clit and the other burning on your hip as he moves you gently back and forth, letting you cry out as you finally feel him rub against you after being still for so long. Swollen and wanting.

“I- I don’t know if I-,” But as you say it, you realise there is no choice in the matter. Benedict’s fingers are not stopping and there is a feeling in your stomach that is coiling so deliciously that you can’t even begin to pretend like you wouldn’t do anything to let it snap.

But you need more from him.

“Can you- I need you to speak to me.” You manage to say, and he knows exactly what you want. His voice. To praise and degrade you at the same time.

“My little wife, so desperate and needy for me.” His fingers are relentless, and you find yourself moving on your own now. “Can’t even finish with me telling you how pathetic you are, can you? I know you can’t. You crave being of use to me.”

You cry out, so close to finishing but needing that extra little bit.

“You want to come for me, darling?” His voice is hot against your ear, and you nod frantically, fingers digging into his shoulders as you hold on, afraid you will float away if you do not.

“Yes, yes, yes, please.” Your voice is so foreign to you, only wanting his sounds.

Benedict does not hold back, finally thrusting up into you as his fingers rub over your wet clit, encouraging you as you finally near that breaking point.

You cry out again, nearly screaming as one of Benedict’s hands claps over your mouth. “Shh, wife, we don’t need all of the servants to know you are coming pathetically around my cock at such an ungodly hour.” 

And that is the final straw, your body tightening in such a way it hasn’t in literal days, tears in your ears as you frantically grind against him and chase your orgasm. You take everything he has to give you, praises for him on your lips as you push your hips against him while he rubs you through your entire release.

And when it is over, his hand leaves your clit, cradling your face between his hands, giving you gentle kisses all over your face as you breathe heavily, eyes closed and unable to come back just yet.

“You did so well.” Benedict says, and you can only hum in response, collapsing against him as you finally got everything you have been wanting for days, to be taken care of by your darling husband.

“Bed.” Is all you can say and Benedict laughs, nodding. 

After a brief spell leaning upon the door through which you retired, your energy is restored. An elated sense of freedom bubbles within; you find yourself bounding up the staircase, decorous propriety abandoned. Revelling in the joy of moving your body freely, away from the judging gaze of the Ton and its expectations of a lady's comportment.

In fact, you are so relishing the novelty, you do not even clock another figure racing down the very same stairwell in perhaps an equal state of vigour.

Until, that is, you collide bodily with a tall, solid mass on a short landing between flights.

You both reel back, your senses invaded by a woodsy, citrus scent that causes a hot spike to run through your entire body. 

You would know that mouth-watering scent anywhere.

Benedict Bridgerton.

The most handsome man you know. And so deliciously wrapped as he often is: a riot of bohemian ruffles and colourful jewel tones straining under a sharply tailored jacket.

His reaction is a mirror of your own. Taken aback at first, then rapidly morphing into something else, both of you realising the tantalising opportunity this unintended, chance encounter presents.

A heated, laden staring match for a few seconds before you crash into each other. 

Lips meeting in a frenzied kiss. One of his large hands wraps behind your head, the other banding your torso, hauling you into him. He does his level best to scatter all your thoughts to the wind as his kisses like a wildstorm, practically ripping the singular button of your pelisse and tossing the offending garment down the stairs behind you as if it causes him some personal offence. 

Left only in your gauzy gown, it is mere seconds until, with a light growl, he is dipping down, grabbing your legs and hoisting you far above him, spinning until your back hits the wall with a soft whump. His searching, searing lips find yours again. Bearing your weight on his forearms, pressing bodily into you, so much strength lurking beneath the layers of fabric.

“What are you doing here?” You pant out as his lips trail a line over your cheek.

You can tell from the glint in his eye how this exchange will go. 

“That is a more pertinent question for you, is it not?” he rebutts, a gust of air over your ear as he sucks your lobe into his mouth, a teasing lilt to that deep voice, so devastating this close up. 

You would quibble that, but then his tongue runs a hot stripe down the column of your neck, and you quite forget to articulate it. Instead, sinking a hand into his luscious head of chestnut hair, directing his lips back to yours, sliding down the wall a fraction as his hold slackens, your tongues parrying heatedly.

“We may be discovered….” you breathe the warning into his mouth.

“Do not act as if such is not a considerable allure for you,” he smirks, reading you like a book, that crooked grin engulging his face before his lips journey southwards, mapping your clavicle.

You inhale sharply as one arm unfurls from your thigh and roughly tugs down the neckline of your dress, the heat and suction of his mouth on the upper swell of your breast making you moan softly.

“Then make such a risk worth my while, Mr Bridgerton,” you contend cheekily, raising a challenging brow. 

“With pleasure…” he returns, as he looks up at you through his lashes, swapping to your other breast with a mischievous mien you know will be your downfall. 

The sound of silk and cotton being torn asunder echoes up the stairwell, which you could not give a hoot about once his warm lips envelop your areola, suckling your nipple into his mouth, teasing it into a stiff peak with a hint of teeth.

Your hands card through his hair, pulling and twisting his careful style into a wild thatch as tingles zip right from where his lips tease to the juncture of your thighs. That ticklish sensation grows to a shudder down your spine at the light scratch of his stubble when he drags his face up over your chest, your neck until his lips find yours again. Another feverish kiss, almost bruising in intensity.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both heaving breaths, and you are momentarily perplexed when he slides two of his own long, elegant fingers into his own mouth, staring you down, all blown pupils and flushed high cheekbones. He releases them with a wet pop, the tips glistening in the sconce’s candlelight as he trails them down over the thin silk of your dress, gathering your hem over his forearm.

You cry out, and he snarls as he finds your slit bare and already soaked under your chemise. His fingers delve into your pussy expertly, driving deep, your channel stretched wide by the swell of his knuckles, a stutter escaping your lips at that wonderdous stretch. 

His devastating lopsided grin is the last thing you see as your eyes slip closed and your head thunks lightly back into the wall. It appears this will be a quick encounter, perhaps wise, given the location lends an air of borrowed time. He immediately sets a determined tempo, designed to drive you right to the edge in rapid time, his thumb hooking over your swollen clit with a practised ease.

You sag into his hold, one of your shoes slipping from your foot and bouncing down the staris but neither of you pays it any heed. You wrap your arms tight around his shoulders, lips pressed to his dewy temple. His mouth is in your hair now, humid, brandy-sweeten breath across your scalp; he moves with you, you riding his fingers as he murmurs encouragement. You can feel the curve of his cheekbone against your jaw, that victorious grin that he knows how fast he can spiral you towards ecstasy.

Your moans are muffled into him, body dewy even under your thin gown, feeling the swell of his cock on your thigh as he rhythmically seeks a friction of his own. His long fingers are just perfect to reach places you could never hope to. Even you can hear the sound from between your legs, your body greedily suctioning to his questing digits, that tangy scent in the air you know makes him even more feral.

“More…” you stutter, ribs squeezed in your stays, wanting to strip bare but also loving the illicit nature of this rushed encounter—something so irresistible about still being fully clothed as you race towards ecstasy.

Benedict's chuckle in your ear tells you he knows what you are asking for. “I rather think you should reach your pinnacle upon my hand…” he counters, tone bordering on smug, knowing that with a trace more persistence, you will do precisely that.

Indeed, at this point, he adds a third finger, you shuddering and moaning at the filling sensation, his resolve evident as he strums a new tattoo on the pearl of your clit. He does not let up, bearing you into the wall so you are pinned open, leaking down his palm, blood boiling in your veins.

He nuzzles your face until your lips meet, his tongue plundering your mouth, and that is how you break, Him swallowing your cries of rapture, flung starwards as you scale those heights where your body is weightless and your mind adrift. Distantly, you hear him snarling at the tight vice your pussy becomes, squeezing his knuckles, his forearm tensing to stay inside as your body attempts to drive him out in clenching waves.

Woozily, you slump forward into him, his fingers withdrawing from your pussy so he can bare you weight, dimly aware he is leaving darkening streaks of your own juices across the delicate silk of your dress as he does so. But all you can do is whimper, feeling the loss, yearning for him to be inside you again.

“Perhaps a second pinnacle is required…” he assesses, amused, as you raise your head to plead silently with him. 

A zing of victory racing inside as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, reading your expression that indeed you are ravenous for more.

Almost as if you are a rag doll, his arms band under your thighs again, holding you aloft, and you have to bite down on his jacket shoulder as his sizeable cock spears into you, the wool scratchy under your tongue, quelling your lusty cry. He drives deep in one determined thrust, your pussy still quivering from your orgasm, swollen, slick, sensitive, cleaved open around him.

His baritone groan rumbles into your chest, the ivory of his teeth clinking your earring, his hands a firm grip, a telltale stretch in your inner thighs, pushed obscenely wide over the loop of his arms, the wool of his jacket abrading the back of your splayed legs.

“I will not last long…” He warns, stilling when fully sheathed within you, a subtle pulse up his sturdy length, no doubt already aroused from frottaging himself while you came upon his hand.

“I do not need you to…” You confess over a gasp of air, the slippery swollen nub of your clit mashed against his root, only a little more stimulation necessary for you to break again. 

With that, there are no more words exchanged for a while, just moans you both try to subdue but cannot, hoping the sounds of the celebrations elsewhere will not alert anyone to your vigorous coupling. 

Benedict snaps his hips, plundering deep, in a persistent rhythm, over and over his steely, searing tip cleaving you open, the air swirling with the tangy scent of your heated bodies and desires, which just spurs him on, breathing deep, an irresistible olfactory symphony for him.

His trousers slip down to his knees as he releases one of your legs and brings a hand between your faces, fingers still damp with your cum. He smears those tart remnants onto your lips before kissing you fiercely, his tongue lapping up each drop, even as his athletic pace never wavers. Fucking you so hard it's like he is attempting to leave his imprint inside you, forever altered in some way.

Your engorged clit is tugged harshly with each thrust he takes, wrecked pleading noises escaping your lungs as you are nudged towards that oblivion again, fluttering around him in a way that has him panting, groaning, grasping at your flesh, begging for your release, even as you sense he wants to prolong this moment for as long as possible. You can read in the depths of his inky black, enlarged pupils as you stare into each other's eyes how he wants to freeze this ephemeral snapshot in time, like a fly trapped in amber, memorialise the frantic few beats when you are both teetering on the boundary of rapture; a wildness that is so very primal, addictive and all-encompassing.

The edges of your consciousness blur as you begin to tumble, your whole body bucking into him, him fighting to pin you to the wall, to feel his weight as you shatter. Your senses dimming to a tiny pin of white light before exploding into technicolour. Your pussy convulsing and fracturing on his cock, the sensation fanning out across your body, to the tips of your toes and the top of your scalp. 

You dig your heels into the globes of his bottom, silently telegraphing your wish for him to stay sheathed within you, needing to feel his release just as much as your own. When he realises what you are asking for, the sound he emits is near feral, the catalyst that makes him break. A few frenetic thrusts, deeper than ever, then he stills. You feel a heavy pulse travelling up his length, his mouth hung open, teeth hooked over your chin as he comes too, warmth blooming deep inside, against your hilt, his body wracked with little aftershocks as you both recover, mutely clinging to each other with soft caresses, not wanting to be parted.

—

“So…. could you really not wait a mere handful of hours for satisfaction?” His query is teasing with an unrepentant, prideful smile tugging at his lips as he rebuttons his trousers a few minutes later.

“This is all your fault,” you huff, ruefully surveying the damage wrought to your gown.

His face creases in that charming way it does when he knows he has done wrong, but is also not a jot contrite.

“If I could resist you, I would still have my favourite dress,” you scowl as he chuckles, crowding into you and bussing a kiss to your temple as you raise a more pertinent question: “What were you doing charging down the servants' stairs in such a hurry?!”

“I may have been beating a rather hasty, concealed retreat from the men’s gathering upstairs,” he confesses a touch sheepishly. “Gregory had just discovered it was I, not Colin, who put glue in his shoes last week…” he grins, eyes sparkling.

Yours merely roll affectionately. “I see turning one and thirty has not brought with it a modicum of maturity,” you offer drily, ceasing efforts to fix your dress, scooping up your discarded pelisse to conceal the worst of the damage instead.

“Heaven forfend!” He exclaims, a hand placed over his heart in theatrical affront, before he winks at you. “But shall I take you home? I am certain we can slip out of the staff entrance unseen.”

“Now that may be the most wise thing you have said all evening, dear husband…” You volley, your smile a match of that on his face.

“Your wish is my command, Mrs Bridgerton,” Benedict rumbles, dropping a brief, chaste kiss onto your knuckles before guiding you chivalrously downstairs, picking up your one wayward shoe along the way.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower @loveeverythingalsohateeverything

B = Body part (your favorite body part of his and his favorite of yours)

Everything and anything to do with his eyes is just perfect to you. The way he keeps eye contact during sex is so intense. It's amazing how those greenish-blue eyes can be so sweet and playful then turn dark with lust and intensity in the next.

You love his hands, they can be so rough then gentle in the next. The way he rubs your clit in slow circles while he pounds into you or the way he reaches down and pulls at your hair back when you're giving him head.

He's a boob guy. He'll bury his face into your boobs as he pounds into you. He loves it when you start moaning and tugging at his hair as he bites and sucks on your skin. He honestly can’t get enough.

He also loves your thighs. Just the feeling of his hands moving up to grasp your thighs and pulling them around his hip, letting your body know he wanted you closer.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically…I’m a disgusting person)

He always puts your pleasure above his, he loves Nothing more than to make you cum on his tongue.

He'll lap at your clit with so much hunger, circling his tounge over your swollen bud until you're a moaning mess. When he thinks he's teased you enough he'll take it into his mouth, eating you out like a starving man until you're cumming hard on his tongue.

“I want to see you fall apart for me”

Sometimes he needs to feel you cum around him first. The feeling of your body convulse around him will trigger his release. He'll bury his face in the crook of your neck and keep bucking his hips into yours until he feels himself become spent. “Christ you're beautiful...”

he'll groan as you suck him hard, his hips moving erratically as he gets close to cumming hard down your throat. He'll tangle his fingers in your hair as he shoots a load down your throat.

“Benedict... Ben I'm close” you moaned desperately.

Your desperate voice would urge him to buck his hips faster against yours. He'd nipped your skin, whispering: “Come for me, darling” His hands moved to your hips, holding you steady as he felt your walls tighten around him.

D = Dominant? (Pretty self-explanatory, how dominant is he)

He's very much the dominant person in the bedroom, but he wants to know you're both in control. He'll order you around and be rough, but the moment you say stop or slowly down he will immediately.

He'd probably realize how dominant he was when he was guiding you through your first time, being able to teach you and guide you through it. You trusted him enough to give him control. Of course he wasn't rough with you and continued to guide you in a gentle way the first time.

He'll move fast and softly, but he's also paying close attention to you and your body language. Like he'll pause, giving you time to adjust to the sensation of his cock inside you if you're taking him for the first time, but he'll remain in control. “Breathe, love... Let your body get used to it”

He'll be in control, but he also gives you a sense of safety and surrender.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's very experienced and knows how to pleasure a woman, he's modest and cocky at the sametime about it.

He won't care if you're not experienced, he'll guide you through the whole damn process and still make you see stars by the end of it.

With him being experienced he'd love to teach you and help you explore what you like or want during sex, he's so patient and he gets smug when he finds the small and big things that make you tick.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

He loves missionary, keeping eye contact while he fucks you. He loves how you dig your nails into his back and wrap your legs around his waist to bring him impossibly closer.

Is this even a position? Who cares, but Benedict loves to setting ontop of a desk with him standing between your legs while he fucks you.

Just the sight of having you purchded on the desk with your thighs spread apart drives him nuts. “Look at you, so pretty and open for me”

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

He can be so goofy, it's natural given he has such a carefree, loving personality. Sex is an important thing he wants between you and him, but it's a way for you to be close and show the comfort you take in one another. You're comfortable with each other so of course he'll crack a few jokes.

He's mostly a jokester in the end depending on the situation. Like one time you broke a desk in the library of the house. “I think we broke it” he laughed at the desk that obviously crumbled to the floor. “I think so too”

H = Hair(Hair pulling?)

He didn't realize how much he actually liked it until you started pulling on his hair while he was eating you out. “damn... Do that again... Please”

He just loves it when you tug at his hair, especially when he's eating you out.

Benedict loves feeling your fingers in his hair just in general.

He also loves to tangle his fingers in your hair and tug on it when he's getting head or about ready to cum.

He also just loves playing with your hair, especially aftr sex and you're resting in bed with your head on his chest. It gives him perfect acses to run his fingers through it.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He's such a romantic and puts thought into every moment even if it's a heat of the moment situation. He made sure your first time was special and he intends to make every other time that way, he knows you deserve it.

He's also so intimant and sweet with words. “why are you looking at me like that?” you asked softly. To which he replies: “Like what, my love? Like I want to devour you whole? Like I can't believe how beautiful you are? Like I'm the luckiest man alive to have you in my arms?”

J = Jealous? (Is he the jealous type? Are you?)

Benedict is very easy to read, so if he's jealous you'll find out quickly. If someone is shamelessly flirting with you or being out of line regardless if you are together or not he will make his presence known and make sure the person knows you are his.

He'll make sure people know you're in subtle ways. He'll keep his hand on your hip and keep you pressed against him or he'll dance with you all night so no one else can touch you.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Paint kink: this just comes with being married to an artist and he's no stranger to trying new things with you. There's just somthing about you being covered in paint while he fucks you. He has covered you both in paint and made love on top of a canvas to make an abstract art piece.“There's my little work of art, all messy and perfect”

Maybe a cum kink would be linked to this. He has a thing about cumming on your breasts too. He'll watche in awe as his cum drips down your chest, marking you as his. He'll look at you with so much satisfaction and desire, like he's painting you with his cum.

Sometimes he'll pull out last minute and cum all over your brests and stomach, just somthing about watching it trickel down your body.

Praise kink: He definitely has a Praise kink, he loves making you feel loved and appreciated. He love how he can easily make you blush. “God, your so beautiful”

He loves praising you with his actions, he truly believes that actions speak louder than words. He'll always puts your pleasure and well-being above his own. “You feel so good, my love, so perfect”

Light bondage: he loves tying you up, but always light and gentl. He always makes it to where you can escape if it becomes too much. If he's tying you up he prefers to use the silk belts from your dresses or his cravats. He's either just trying your writs infront of you or the bedpost.

He's not aposed to being tied up himself, in fact he'll encourage it. Especially if he's trying to break you out of your shell, he wants to see you take charge for once and see you tie him up with your stockings or hair ribbons.

Being tied up as you ride him will have him in pure ecstasy and he'll be a moaning mess for you. His praise won't end, he'll be encouraging you and telling you how good you are at taking control “You're doing so fucking well, Darling. Fucking me so well”

Sir kink: he's never been one for dominant names in the bedroom, but something about the way you say 'sir' gets him hard and thinking nasty thoughts. This all started when you were still all young and innocent, when you were well mannered and expected to call any male in your presence sir or lord. “damn, I love the way you call me that”

Exhibitionist kink: this side of him mostly comes out when he's jealous. If he sees someone getting a little too close he loves to slip his hand under your dress and fuck you with his fingers. He's subtle about and makes sure no one sees where his hands wandered off too, but he loves to watch you try to conceal your reactions both faceal and vocal

Something about seeing you struggle to cum quietly gets him going and he won't shy away from licking his fingers clean after he had his fun.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

His favorite place is definitely his art studio. He'll have you bent over his sketching table or have you pinned to a large canvas covered in paint as he fucks you. It's the one place other than the bedroom you both are free to experiment and most importantly be as loud as you want.

Bedroom, this is a given. He can guarantee your comfort and it's just convenient for both parties. Most importantly he can tie your wrists to the bed post.

Your first time with him was in a gazebo in the back yard and it's become a regular place to sneak away to if you need to let off some steam together.

The library is definitely one of his favorites. Fucking you against one of the shelves as the books fall to the ground masking the noises you both make.

Fun fact: you both have broken a desk in the library and a couch in the living room. Both you had to replace before Violet noticed.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, what turns you on)

Eye contact really turns him on, the way your pupils dilate when you look up at him or when your body brushes up against his when your dancing together really has him aroused. Sometimes when you're dancing he has to press himself against you so no one sees the bulge in his pants

He loves a woman who knows what she wants. He has a thing when you voice your desires, if you just walk up behind him while he's painting and whisper all the dirty things you want him to do to you will instantly turn him on and he'll drop everything for you immediately. The more details you are, the more turned on he gets. He loves it when you get all confident and tell him what you want with no shame.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

You both are no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom, if you both agree and you trust him you'll try it. If there's a possibility in you getting hurt there's no way in hell he'll agree. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

I also think once he's with you, he'll only think about you and want to touch your body only. 3 ways won't apeal to him anymore and especially doesn't want anyone touching you or any other woman touching him.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He always puts your pleasure above his, so he always makes sure you come first. When you're on the brink of cumming, he'll increase the pressure and speed of his tongue, alternating between gentle laps and firmer strokes. He loves it when your hips buck against his face in a desperate bid for release “That's it, Darling, let go”

Benedict will grip your hips while he uses his tongue to bring you closer to the edge of pleasure. When he knows you're getting closer, he'll double down with his efforts, letting his tongue do the work while his hands girp your thighs or hips.

He is so vocal when he's getting head, he'll let out deep groans and moans when you deep throat him.

He'll groan as you suck him harder, his hips moving erratically as he gets close to cumming hard down your throat. He'll hold your head in place, thrusting deep into your throat as he shoots a load down your throat.

He'll make sure you swallow every last drop. “Shit, I'm gonna cum... swallow every drop...”

He loves how good you are at making him feel. He loves being at your mercury as he thrusts down your throat. “Darling, you're going to make me cum so hard. You're incredible”

P = Pace(Are they fast and rough or they slow and sensual?)

If it's your first time, it's all about you. All he's paying attention to is your body language and your voice. He'll take it slow and make sure you're enjoying it. He'll be so soft, his love for you shining through his eyes. “Shh,” He'll soothe you, his touch gentle as he supports your body against his. “We'll take it slow, breathe with me, sweetheart”

But when you're comfortable with each other and you learn what you love and don't love, the pace just depends on the mood. Sometimes he just needs a rough fuck after a rough day and sometimes he just wants to hold you and take things slow.

Most of the time he just wants to be gentle and take it slow, hold you and kiss you. Make you feel loved in a softer way. “just let me take care of you Darling”

But if you want to be fucked hard he'll deliver. “You want it harder, Love?” He'll comply with your request, thrusting deeper and faster, causing the bed to shake with your movements. He let out a low groan as he felt your nails dig into his back.

Q = Quickie (Their opinion on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

It's neither one of your favorites, but sometimes it's what you need and have time for. Sometimes if the desire becomes too much he'll wisk you away to the library and have you cumming in minutes. Sometimes he'll be very quick and make you cum on his fingers while you're riding in the carriage to a ball.

But in the end he thinks believes you deserve more than just a quick fuck during free time, but he'll never not deprive you of pleasure.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

You both take risks all the time, mostly with the location you choose to fuck. It drives Anthony crazy that neither one of you are careful because he's walk in on the two of you multiple times.

He'll never risk harming your body, he's very rational and even though both love to explore new things, he genuinely thinks things through before doing it. If he feels you'll get hurt he won't do it.

S = Sex position (Pretty self explanatory)

Missionary

Ridding

Doggy style

T = Top or bottom ( do they prefer top or bottom)

Both honesty. He loves taking control over you by being on top and he loves seeing you on top, controlling him.

He loved it when you asked him to teach you how to ride him. Even though he had to focus on making sure you didn't hurt yourself he was in pure ecstasy the whole time.

He just has this thing about laying back and just watching you ride him, he loves the feeling of your thighs and ass in his hands as you bounce up and down on his dick as you chace your high.

But most of the time he needs to be on top. He loves grabbing you by the hips, literally squeezing his fingertips against your soft skin, holding you in the place or using them to help guide the pace.

he loves seeing you spread out and ready for him. He'll hover over you and stroke his cock as he watches your body trembling with pleasure and anticipation. “Damn, you look so beautiful like that. So wet and ready for me.”

U = Ummm

You all know by now I fucking hate this letter.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He wants to see if he can make you scream louder than he did the last time. He loves the noises you make. He makes you a moaning mess so easily. Crying out his name as he pounds into you. “Benedict! Benny, d-dont stop... P-please!”

He can't explain why he loves it so much, but the way you cry out 'Benny' in the bedroom makes him so much hard and loved at the same time.

He's very vocal, especially when he's getting head. He'll thrusted his hands into your hair as he fucks your mouth with an urgency. “Darling, you're doing so good”

He is so vocal, he'll let out deep groans and moans as he feels your tight pussy wrap around his cock when you ride him. “Oh fuck, love. Your doing so fucking good”

If he's not moaning or groaning, he's praising the hell out of you. “No need to be shy, love you're absolutely beautiful”

“Look at you, so pretty and open for me”

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He's covered you both in paint and you made love on a canvas. The abstract art now hangs in his art studio.

When he brought up the idea there was this sparkle in his eyes as he explains how he wants to cover your nude bodies in paint and roll around making an abstract design. You were so comfortable with him and the appeal was so great to deny him.

Now it's become a reoccurring thing. If he's now painting your body with the colors in his studio, he's painting your body with his cum.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

I'm a ferm believer that size doesn't matter. knows how to please you and he can definitely fuck your brains out. But if you want to get technical he's not so big it's nerve-wracking, but there's enough in length and girth to make your eyes roll with pleasure as every inch of him pushes into you.

He makes you feel so full when he’s buried in you, never failing to make you scream his name and dig your nails into his back at the pleasure.

most of the time his dick is hard, red at the tip, leaking just for you.

If it's your first time taking him he'll talk you through the whole thing, propping himself up on his elbows so you can take comfort in being close. He'll keep his eyes locked to yours, his expression gentle. “There might be a little discomfort at first,” He whispered softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “But I promise, I'll go slow”

His thighs are muscular and thick, easy to hold on to if you're ridding him or if you're giving him head.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

As soon as you're married you're barely leaving the bed during your honeymoon and then on. He can't get enough of you. Your smell, the noises you make, the way your skin feels against his, everything.

He was suprised, but far from dispointed when you became a sex crazy for him. After you had your first time with him it was like a switch and you were craving his touch everyday. And he'd definitely could have sex with you everyday if you could. Neither one of you can go a few days without sex.

Your relationship is strong, so sex never gets boring and he always wants you to know how beautiful you are. He'll kiss every scar, curve, stretch mark, he loves your body.

He does not have a problem with having sex when you're on your period, he read it helps with cramps and all he wants is to take your pain away. During those times it's about you not him.

Sex definitely won't stop when you're pregnant. There's nothing more sexy and beautiful than you round and pregnant with his child. He has no problem having sex until the day you give birth. Then after you give birth he'll wait the right amount of months and then sum until he can fuck you again.

In conclusion you both are the horny couple of the family.

Z = ZZZ (…how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

he can't sleep without making sure you are sound asleep first. He wants to make sure you're comfortable and asleep before he can sleep himself.

He'll clean you up and kiss you all over, making sure you're okay and praising. “you did so well for me, darling... I love you so much”