A/N: wildly au, modern setting, generally silly, smut included. my first time publishing smut, i feel really accomplished. beta'd by saintly PutItBriefly!
warning: explicit sexual situations
It is always like this.
London wears her out. So, as soon as classes are off and work allows her to, she returns to Meryton. Damn her, she has grown up in the country. Crowded tube stations and loud streets are something she has still not become used to.
But then, Meryton is boring. It lacks what every town in the country lacks: possibilities and choices. There is one restaurant in the whole town, two pubs, and a small, miserable shopping centre. The food choice is pitiable.
And also, since Jane has moved in with Charlie, Meryton lacks her. Netherfield remains empty until August, while they live in their dreamy, romantic bubble in London.
She sighs. Perhaps Charlotte got it right—she refuses to step foot in Meryton ever again, ranting about how life in town with Billy is the best thing happened to her. Whatever.
"Well," her father tells her, amused, when she admits her boredom. "It's almost December, my dear. It's dead around here. Isn't it lovely?"
For a man who hates big towns, it must be.
"You know, Lizzy, you're free to spend the weekend wherever you like. You stay in that god awful place and do whatever people your age do. Eat some ethnic food with Jane and Charlie and then drink irresponsibly."
"Jane and Charlie," she counters, woefully bitter, "are trapped in their bloody bubble of unicorns and rainbows. They just don't drink irresponsibly."
Mr. Bennet laughs. "Ah! Bless youthful love!"
"And Charlotte," she goes on, "is always busy. How can she be so busy? With what? Everyone is so goddamn busy."
"What about Charlie's sisters?"
"I refuse to eat—ever again—some kind of alternative food—vegan burgers. Can you believe it?" And, she also refuses to hang out with someone who thinks beanies are ugly and stupid.
Mr. Bennet must be out of options—or interest—because he gives her his newspaper, and says, "Well, welcome to old people's world. Enjoy it, dear."
Bless her mother who cheers her up with her nonsense and brings her cocoa. It's cold and rainy outside, and the big armchair in front of the window is really, really cosy. It's late afternoon, she is buried under a pile of flannel blankets and the warmth of the cup is nice under her palms.
Perhaps, she is old in the inside.
She must be, because she laughs at the page of the local newspaper. There is the photo of the Most Handsome Dog Competition winner, and it's a noble Golden Retriever dressed as a gentleman of the past—cilindric hat, monocle, cravat, a tight coat and all of that. In her defense, it is quality content.
She skims through the pages, and finds nothing remotely interesting. No names of people she knows pop up in the death announcements—good God, is she really that old in spirit?—and the ads are boring.
Adorable tabby kittens up for adoption.
Disgustingly stained couch for sale.
Teenage girl offering private tutoring with math.
Broken washing machine up for free.
Cunnilingus by an expert.
Holy shit.
She bursts into a loud laugh.
She puts the empty cup on the floor, and returns to the ad. It's printed at the bottom of the page, the font painfully tiny, as if someone was trying to hide it out of shame.
Cunnilingus by an expert: extremely attractive man in his late 20s, single, expert in the subject, offers his services FREELY to CLEAN ladies who value PERSONAL HYGIENE. Please call or text the following number and ask to talk to BIG D about his mouth, and we can make arrangements.
The most hilarious part to her is freely typed in uppercase. Clean and personal hygiene are reasonable requests, if not the most important ones, and they deserve all the capslock the world can give.
Who, in this godforsaken world, thinks that putting an ad in a local newspaper is a good idea when the internet exists, when Tinder exists?
A man—an extremely attractive man—in his late 20s who offers cunnilingus and calls himself BIG D? An extremely attractive man, expert in the subject, should not seek partners to submit to his talents in this disgraceful way. This extremely attractive man must be anything but.
First, Elizabeth imagines an old, desperate pervert behind that, hoping to catfish some poor girls. The second picture she conjures is much more likely to the reality: a lanky, slimy teenager, who amuses himself by scarring the community with weird troll ads.
When she and Charlotte pulled telephone pranks, they were much more naive and less elaborate than this. A random number and weird voices were enough to make two children laugh. This is annoying. What if in the world there is truly a poor, lonely, clueless lady who hopes to sit on an attractive man's face and have the time of her life?
Before she can actually think it out, her phone is in her hand, and her thumb is pressing down the numbers on the ad.
If her education pays off and she is to become a teacher, why should not she teach a lesson? And have some fun along the way?
Well, she thinks, the voice in her mind severe and scolding, why don't you stick to Minecraft servers or Tinder to troll people, like normal kids do? Do you have unresolved issues, dear?
After a some seconds, someone picks up the phone. Giggles tickle her throat.
"Hello?"
Then:
"Hello? Who is this?"
A sigh.
"Hello?"
After the fifth hello? the line is dead.
[20:46] You wrote: Charlotte look at your goddamn phone
[20:51] You wrote: I need you!
[20:51] You wrote: I need your help and your wisdom
[20:55] You wrote: I'm going to call you until you pick up shitty phone
[20:57] Charlotte Wrote: cant answer, music too loud.
[20:57] You wrote: Music too loud at 9? Where the fuck are you?
[20:59] Charlotte wrote: Having good time. It's saturday night, people want to have a good time. What's up?
[20:59] You wrote: It's a long story go to the bathroom or whatever and answer my fucking calls
Charlotte does not answer her call, but calls her one hour later. "I hope someone died," she says, "because I can excuse eight missed calls only if they concern death."
"Where are the fuck are you?"
"Some strange place Billy took me. There is a band, and the singer promised to strip, and—hey, why don't you join us?"
"I'm in Meryton."
"Well, is something wild up in Meryton?"
"It's fucking crazy."
"Tell me about it, so I don't miss the strip. He is cute, the singer, cuter than Billy for sure."
Elizabeth tells the story quickly, in a frenzied tone, stopping to take some breaths only when her tale starts to get strange.
Bizarre.
Grotesque.
She sucks in her bottom lip. "Well, the guy finally picked up the phone."
"I hope you're gonna get eaten out," Charlotte says, her voice turning mischievous. "Or have you already—?"
"No! Jesus Christ, Charlotte, no! It was—God, it was—it was Darcy!"
"Darcy?" she asks. Noises from the other end of the line blend with silence for some seconds. "Darcy? As in, Fitzwilliam Darcy?"
"Yes!" Elizabeth cries in her phone, hot in face. "It was him, it was his voice!"
"And what did you tell him?"
"Nothing, I hung up!"
Charlotte has a hearty laugh over that. "Pity. He is hot, you know."
Doesn't she know! Elizabeth groans, brow dropping helplessly into her palm. "You don't understand! Why the fuck did he put this ad on the Meryton newspaper? Why the fuck put it on anything? Why write it ever?"
"Yeah, it's strange," Charlotte owns. "Darcy can get to eat all the pussy he wants, I bet. Pussy must be flying at him from every corner. He must be bathing in pussy all the time, drinking prosecco, or whatever the fuck rich people drink."
It does not make her feel any better, but Charlotte speaks the truth. Elizabeth sighs.
"Come on," Charlotte tells her, sounding almost sweet, "I'm sure there's a good explanation. And if there's not, and he really wants to eat some random girl out, I'd say—go for it and call it a day."
"Don't—"
"Oh, you should do it. Totally."
"No, Charlotte."
"Text him if you don't want to talk on the phone," Charlotte suggests. "Tell him you wish for his services and then report back to me."
Charlotte promises she will call back the following day and hangs up, hurrying to enjoy the show in the weird place Billy took her, and Elizabeth is left with her phone and the that bloody ad.
And doubts.
And questions.
And—sadness.
Charlotte jokes about it. It is all all bizarre, strange, and it is a laughing matter.
For her, it is not that funny.
The weekend passes and a new week comes.
After work, Elizabeth returns to her flat. It is in Gracechurch Street—it belongs to her uncle, who now lives in a bigger place with his wife and the kids. Before moving out, Jane lived there with her. It is a small thing, not too grand, but one person is not enough to fill the space.
She tosses her beanie and scarf on a chair and hangs the parka, slipping free from her cold, wet boots. Then, she goes in kitchen for some coffee.
On the table, there is the Meryton newspaper.
It has been laying there, recipient of hard stares, for two days now.
Elizabeth sits around the table, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.
To dear Jane, she said nothing, because Charlie would know at once and it would be embarrassing, to say the least—Charlie, just last week, told her Darcy is apparently seeing some hot redhead. Or something like that.
Charlotte, on her part, insists she should contact him and have some fun—whatever the outcome is, it will be something to behold, she thinks. Eaten or uneaten pussy, it will be funny.
It's November, and Elizabeth has been thinking herself in love with Darcy for three months now—four, actually, since December is a couple of days away.
The last time she saw him was when Jane moved in with Charlie and they gave some celebration party—it was a dinner—for the event. So awkward. In his presence, she loses the ability to speak coherently, her mind blank. Funny, how she once thought him too silent. That night, she talked to him a bit, staring at her plate or at her feet, asking about his sister, his work, and other absolutely stupid things. Politely, he answered, he smiled to her.
It was nothing, of course. Because he is decent enough to be kind to her, even if she behaved awfully to him.
Once, he was in love with her. Too bad that at the time she was was too high on prejudice, dislike and blindness to care about him. Yes, Wickham's bullshit did not help, but she has come to think it was mainly her fault for being so fucking wilful and proud about her dislike for him. Hating him delighted her. She laughed at him first, insulted him second. Good job, she even complimented herself, until the following day, when he gave her a long, hand-written letter, explaining why she was some kind of silly, vain girl.
Well, fuck you Elizabeth, said then God, because in a matter of few months, in her mind, he became the perfect match for her—they met again, and he was so lovely, so friendly and cheerful, and then, what he did for Lydia, for her family, dammit. Now that he has fallen from her high throne of lies and blindness, all that remained was a thoughtful, silent guy who is essentially a great man, a man who feels deeply and has a compassionate heart and a sharp mind. Someone clever, proud and good.
She has not seen him for a while. It is for the best, perhaps, because he is apparently seeing some hot redhead and eating strangers' pussy on the side.
Fucking hell.
Trouble is, not only is he dear, but he is so handsome. Between her spread legs, his face would even be more handsome, if possible. A picture her brain has no trouble to produce.
Fucking hell.
The last orgasm she had was with her brightly fuchsia friend—eight inch of vibrating bliss—which needed a full recharge after that pitiable round on her sofa.
Fucking hell.
She takes her phone. Her thumbs move quickly on the screen. Clickclickclick.
[16:18] You wrote: I am a clean lady, owning a bidet, who would like to talk to Mr. Big D about his mouth. I found the ad on a local newspaper.
She almost throws her phone away, after hitting send.
Instead, since it is an expensive thing, a gift from Jane, she puts it on the table. The coffee is cold now. She is not even afforded the time to heat it up, because her phone buzzs. Ding ding.
[16:22] — wrote: Thank you for reaching out to Big D, clean lady! Big D is very happy to know you own a bidet. Please, save this number under the name 'Pussy Eater Express' so you shall never forget about Big D.
It is not Darcy. It simply cannot be. This irritating zeal does not belong to him at all. She taps on the profile picture, zooms it in, but it tells her nothing—it's the picture of a fucking lake.
[16:27] You wrote: is Big D still offering his services?
[16:29] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Indeed he is. If you wish to arrange a meeting so you can personally try the aforementioned services, please be aware it is possible to book an appointment this Friday, at 7 pm, in London.
[16:30] You wrote: how do I know I will not end up in pieces in a plastic bag?
[16:31] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D is deeply wounded by your question, but understands the delicacy of the circumstances. The meeting will be in a crowded place. Big D is of the mind to have a drink before fulfilling his obligations, and you are free to choose to leave if you wish to, or if you do not find 'Extremely Attractive' a fitting term for Big D. Being a practiced individual, Big D understands the possibility.
[16:32] You wrote: My question still stands tho
[16:34] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D likes to murder pussies, if you understand my meaning, but not the owners of the aforementioned pussies. He is a harmless Pussy Eater. He actually is very fond of pussy owners.
Are you Fitzwilliam Darcy? She wants to type, but reconsiders, because, it is him, it is his voice she heard. His deep, rich voice, faintly grumpy and irritated in tone. A grimace if grimaces were sounds. Never failing to make her heart rate speed up.
[16:38] You wrote: Then I'd like to fix an appointment.
[16:42] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D is very pleased of your positive answer. He asks for your name, so he can write it down in his Pussy Eating Agenda and move to the details of your appointment.
[16:44] You wrote: You can call me Libbie.
If this were an actual date, she could wear no panties whatsoever. Hell, for the promise of oral sex with Darcy, she could even deal with the frosty air of November without tights, going out with only a conveniently short skirt and with the hope that pleasantries would be quick.
Alas.
She is not even sure what the fuck this is.
So, she opts for a pair of black skinny jeans, a heavy red sweater, and simple ankle boots. Mr. Big D asked her for an identifying mark. Her precious yellow beanie is convenient—screw your stupid opinions on beanies, Caroline—so she pulls it on her head. Buried under that, a scarf and her parka, she is ready to go. A living magnet for hungry mouths, really.
She fumbles for her phone on the way out her apartment, and opens the conversation with Pussy Eater Express.
She is supposed to meet him in Piccadilly—my dear Libbie, you can even hide in the crowd before meeting if you see it fit, or in the case you see something most hideous—right in front of Boots, so then they can move to Soho for a drink to loosen up a bit and decide where to go for his services.
Perhaps, it was a big joke. Only that. Because it was ridiculous.
The screen of her phone lights up.
[18:13] Charlotte wrote: So, you going? Ready?
[18:16] You wrote: Just caught the bus. I am sooo nervous
[18:17] Charlotte wrote: Dont be, think that there is a good probability you get eaten out tonight.
[18:17] You wrote: And what are the other possibilities?
[18:19] Charlotte wrote: The hell I know.
[18:20] You wrote: Exactly. They worry me. Either I get some with Darcy, which tbh makes me nervous, or I get nothing, but we dont know what nothing is.
[18:22] Charlotte wrote: I am like 99% you gonna get your pussy eaten tonight, so I would be happy if I were you. Billy never does it because i refuse to suck his balls.
[18:22] You wrote: You dont understand. it's Darcy. DARCY!
[18:26] Charlotte wrote: So? You gonna get some with the hot guy you used to hate. Big deal. It's not like you're in love with him or something.
Elizabeth quickly types sorry, gotta go now, and ends it.
Her hands cannot stay still. They are cold, and they nervous. She wrings them together, then they set out to adjust the beanie on her head, then reach out to hammer anxious fingers against the glass of the large window of the bus.
It is not long before the monotonous voice from the speakers announces her stop.
In the end, she hops down the bus with her hands shoved deep in her pockets, fingers painfully closed around the crumpled ad, cut angrily from the page of the newspaper.
She walks in the god awfully crowded square, lights flashing from every corner making her faintly dizzy.
Boots is only a crosswalk away. She freezes.
Instead, she spies. What appearance does a Pussy Eater Express have? Tall and handsome, of course, she thinks, with a noble face and a pretty mouth. Look out for a red scarf, Pussy Eater Express told her. There are many people walking, going and coming, but no one is waiting in front of the shop. Some even wear a red scarves.
When she decides it is time to cross the street, nothing big happens.
She stands there for some minutes, looking at her black boots, while some irritated walkers dodge her, and others crash right into her.
What the fuck is she doing?
It's all Charlotte's fault. She is the one who suggested this—for a giggles and shit—and it is insane. A good laugh is not worth all this anxiety.
At least, Elizabeth tells herself, she is not in the Old People World yet, if she has decided to hop on the madness train.
Because she must be mad, obviously.
Even if Darcy shows up, ready to perform his services on a random Libbie, what would he think of her? The girl who proudly sent him to hell after he opened his heart to her? I changed my mind, now I love you, I love you so much baby, I would like you to eat me out like you were starving man in front of a hot hamburger?
Usually, this is not how it works.
Jane and Charlie are the only people who got a second chance. Rare things, second chances. It will not happen to her. Not during this crazy evening, not ever—
"Er—Elizabeth?"
Her head jerks up to find Darcy looking down at her.
Holy shit.
"Hello," he says, walking a couple of steps towards her. "Good evening."
"Darcy," she manages, chapped lips parted in shock. "Hello."
"Elizabeth," he repeats, inclining his head. From his neck, hangs a dark red scarf, falling neatly on his broad shoulders. "It's nice to see you—it's been a while."
"It's you," she mutters, amazed eyes on that stupid red scarf. Shock still lingers and prevents her to decide whether she is more relieved or worried, excited or nervous. One thing is sure: embarrassment is trumping on them all.
"I am sorry," he says quickly, breath puffing out his mouth, then fading in the frosty air. "I am sorry, the Colonel brought me here telling me we had to meet his brother, but then he told me it was you, actually, I was meeting, and ran away, leaving me here like some idiot."
The Colonel is Darcy's cousin. A pleasant, cheerful lad whose career in the military was so short, it won him a nickname. She blinks at his flushed face. "I am sorry, what?"
"Whatever thing it's happening," he says, mouth twisting in distaste, "it's all his fault. I am so sorry."
"So," she mumbles, "it's all his doing?"
"Yes." He pauses, shaking his head. "I would never impose on you so. I do not know whatever he contrived, but,"—here, he sneezes—"I know he's done something."
Well, he is not wrong. She sighs.
He sneezes again—and again.
The tip of his nose is red, the skin on his cheeks deeply flushed. Her lips twitch. Adorable. "I think I can explain," she says at last, "but—you're dying on me."
He turns even redder, if possible. "Forgive me." With an odd gleam in gaze, he looks at her, half-lidded eyes and and full lips curved. "It's quite cold and it looks like I am free for the evening. Would you like something to drink? It's on me, of course."
"Oh—yes, that would be nice, thank you."
It is a cosy and warm place he chooses.
She is grateful it's not a full glamourous lounge bar or something like that, because, while he is dressed nicely—all suited-up, necktie and all of that—her yellow beanie would be inappropriate for the occasion.
She snatches it off her head anyway.
"Well," he says, studying the menu, "It would be the time for an aperitivo, but I can't find in me the health to drink something that is not hot. I think I'll go with tea. Feel free to drink whatever you like. Don't mind my old man's habits."
In the end, she too chooses tea.
"So," he begins, a long sigh on his lip. "Has the Colonel annoyed you? Nagged you to meet here without telling you I would be here?"
"No," she replies. It is even worse than that. "It's a long story. And, honestly, I have no clue if the Colonel has something to do with it."
"Of course he has."
They are sitting on a small table in a warm corner, away from the window. The puffed cushions of the benches are so nice. It's all so nice.
She can chew off the skin from her lips all she likes, but it does not change the fact she has some explaining to do. It's a shame to ruin the niceness. She will be remembered by him as The Thirsty Girl Who Answers Weird Ads About Cunnilingus (On Local Newspaper).
"God," she cries, grinding her palms against her eyes. "It's a mess!"
He hums, eyebrows pulled tightly into a severe expression.
"Here," she mutters, shoving her hand in the pocket of her parka discarded on the bench. Her fingers rub against the rough paper, then work carefully to smooth it out. When she hands it to him, her eyes refuse to look at him. "Here it is."
Confusion wrinkles his brow, and he sets to read the tiny piece of paper.
Tea arrives, and he is still reading.
She pours hot water into her cup, and he is still reading.
Awkwardly, she does the same for him, and he is still reading.
"This thing," he says quietly, finally raising his gaze to her, "is not mine. I don't think I would ever write something like this and put it on a newspaper."
Elizabeth dumbly drops the sugar into her tea. "Yes, I imagine so."
"That dumbass," he groans, gripping the ad so tightly, his knuckles turn white, "it was that dumbass, the Colonel, I know it, I am certain. I never—Good Lord, I never wrote this stupid thing, even if it's my telephone number on it."
"I know."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I know it was your number," she admits, cheeks on fire. "Because I called, and you answered."
"You called me?"
"We didn't talk," she is quick to point out. "I called for—God, don't think I had in mind to answer that ad—I called because I found it on the local newspaper, and I thought to give some naughty kid a lesson, because really, what person sane in the head would write it, and then, it was your voice—"
He squints at her, mouth parting. "Oh! This is why I received so many strange calls. People kept calling and hanging up on me. Some even giggled, then hung up. I shrugged them off as rude people with too much time on their hands."
Elizabeth is tempted to laugh. "How many did you receive?"
"Not many," he murmurs, looking down at his tea. "Six or seven, I think. No one truly spoke."
"So are you sure your cousin is behind this?"
"Well, yes indeed. For the last few weeks, he has been using my telephone because he could not play some stupid game on his. I always found fiddling around him with my phone, doing this or that." His mouth sets into a tight, deadly line. "My trust is obviously misplaced."
The line of the conversation is not that bad. He may even walk back home with a decent opinion of her. She sips her tea, the warmth in her throat relaxing and soothing her nerves.
He, too, is finally drinking. "Where have you found the ad?"
"On the local newspaper of Meryton."
"Ah."
"You know," she says, cheerful and light in tone, "the Colonel is not a great prankster mastermind. The Meryton local is really a small, and the only ones who bother to read are the folks living in the area. If he published it on a bigger one—or, God forbid, some obscure place on the internet—he might have more success."
Clink. The cup of tea tinkled against the saucer when her put it down. His fingers, wrapped around the handle, were stiff. His expression, a grimace. "You are mistaken, I believe. His choice was actually deliberate, and definitely harming."
"Oh?"
He goes from icily grave to flushedly grave in less than a blink a an eye. "He delights in taunting me, that idiot. Do you remember—?" He clears his throat, eyes moving away, to some point over her shoulder. "My crush on you, do you remember? I told him about that, and it was a great, great mistake, because I will never hear the end of it. Not until my last breath."
The tea is burning in her throat. But, her whole body is burning. His past feelings for her have been demoted from ardent love to crush. How fucking flattering. There it is, the last bit hope completely crushed. She can only say, "I am sorry."
"I'll talk to him," he says firmly, more than himself than to her. "It's unacceptable."
She mutters something, and that's it. She just wants to flee, but there is so much tea left, and she already counts herself as a mad woman, what good a crazy dash could do? Instead, she sips her tea again, slowly. Crack. Her heart is a bit broken.
"I don't understand," he rumbles, some minutes later. "I don't understand how this came to be."
"The Colonel."
"No, no, that." He gestures at the empty space between them with a jerking hand. "What I mean, is that I don't understand how you came to be here to meet the guy who wrote about—who offered his services. You didn't talk on the phone, you said."
Oh, what a big mess. She has no wishes to go over her silliness again. "Look at the texts in your phone—you got it?"
After some minutes of frowning at the giant screen of his phone, he says, "There's nothing."
"Try WhatsApp."
"I never use it." He taps quickly on the screen, and his eyes widen. "Oh. Libbie? With a cat wearing sunglasses as profile picture?"
"Yeah."
"You own a bidet?"
Perhaps a crazy dash in the night is not that bad. "Yeah."
"Ending up in a plastic bag?" Then, he laughs. Granted, it is a quiet, low laugh, but it is one. "Murdering pussy?"
It's just so odd so hear him say murdering pussy. Such terms don't belong to him. Cunnilingus would be better for him, because it's such a serious word. It does not help his lips glimmer with the tea he drank, and his mouth is still curved. What is so funny? Damn him! She looks down at her lap, her fingers pink with cold, her face red with embarrassment.
"Elizabeth?"
Damn the Colonel, damn Charlotte. Damn him.
"Elizabeth."
"Sorry," she murmurs, daring steal a quick glance at him. "I am sorry. Woolgathering. Something like that."
There is the soft click sound of the phone screen lock. "Why on earth texting the number, after finding out it was me?"
"Because it was absurd," she rushes to say. "I couldn't believe it was you, of all people, offering to eat random people's pussies."
"Understandable."
"Not that I don't think you don't eat pussy in your spare time, because, well, if you do, then, it's a great thing, but the issue to me was the ad, and the wording and capslock, and—well shit, there's nothing evil even that, I guess, as long as no one gets hurt or scarred for life."
"So you come here," he interjects, amused in such an irritating way, "with the idea I might show up and offer such services to you?"
"No," she breathes out, "not you to me, not services, but not you—or maybe yes, you, but I didn't know what to think, I was only bloody curious."
His eyebrow arches. "Indeed. So," casually, he asks, "you had no hopes to be supplied with Big D's services?"
Fantasies, yes. Hopes, no. "No," she groans, not caring anymore which colour she is now. She could be bright green, for all she cares. "No, not really."
"Ah." He sips his tea, shrugging at her. "All the better. No disappointment. However, I am free for the evening. If you were suffering from disappointment, I could be of help."
Was he laughing at her? Is it laughing matter to everyone? She turns away from him, her cold, shaky fingers slipping from her cup. What a joke, Lydia would gleefully say, in her shrill voice. Y'all assholes.
"Elizabeth," he bids, voice now somber. "I would never impose on you. Forgive me, I was joking. It's not my forte, you know."
She wants her share of fun too. It is unfair only others can have a good time. Chin up in the air, she looks back at him. "Oh, too bad you were joking."
"Sorry?"
She shrugs her shoulders, lips moving to form a pout. "Well, it's true I had no hopes to be supplied by certain services, but I am not one to refuse orgasms when offered. Orgasms are delightful, don't you think?"
Surprised eyes squint at her. Good, she thinks. His dumb face is funny.
He is stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Well."
When Jane moved out, Elizabeth got some of those LED lights on a thread—those like the ones people used for Christmas on their house, to blind the neighbours, minus the christmas-y colours—and hung them everywhere.
Around thresholds, on some windows, and even on the ceiling. Jane has never liked them, but Elizabeth thinks they are so whimsical and funny.
She looks at the ceiling. The tiny lights shake and quiver, fading into the dimness. She squints and the glimmering dots. There are tears in her eyes.
It's because Darcy's tongue is inside of her.
She doesn't know if it's because she thinks of him as her True Love or shit like that, or because he is actually really good at this, but there is something in the way his lips and tongue move that reduce her hips to a quivering mess underneath his forceful fingertips.
Her own fingers are not any gentler. She curls them in his hair, small fists tugging and pulling, poor man, to demand more and more. Because he is so good. And she is so close.
His tongue slips from her and instead he lays it flat against her flesh, dragging it all the way up. His lips, then, close around that maddening spot, and the lights flash behind her closed eyelids, not in her flat.
She whimpers against the warmth of his parted mouth, her back lifting from her sofa and spine arching under the intense release that thunders through her body.
It is a couple of minutes before the glorious dizziness disappears. Elizabeth opens her eyes again, but it's not the lights hanging from her ceiling she wishes to see. Darcy, kneeling at the foot of her sofa, still between her legs, his cheek laying on her thighs—that's a piece of work.
"How good you look."
He stirs, shifting away only a bit. With a bewildered face, he laughs softly. "You look good."
She hums, slumping further in the sofa, and stretches her legs on the coffee table, her panties hanging from her ankle. She does not trouble herself to close them. Darcy seems hardly bothered by the fact she is comfortably resting with her private parts on his nose. "Well," she says, on a sigh. "I also feel quite good."
"I am glad."
Would an encounter designed for this end quickly? Should she return to some decency and let awkwardness run free? Would Mr. Big D politely bow and leave her?
Except, in her defense, it's not one of these encounters. On their way to her flat, they talked. A bit, but still. She, all embarrassment and incoherence, thanked him for the kindness he showed towards Lydia. He, all grimaces and red cheeks, said he didn't want her gratitude, and it was the right to do to atone for his past.
It was awkward, but at least, they reached a common ground. She nagged him and he accepted her gratitude grumply. But when she mentioned her god awful behaviour towards him, he shrugged.
A thought drills into her brain, disturbing the post-orgasm bliss in a most rude manner. "Wait, what about the hot redhead?"
"I beg your pardon?"
She cannot find the strength to sit up, even if her heart is now racing. "The hot redhead you're going out with. Charlie told me."
He grimaces. "It's Charlie."
"What?"
"Well, the Colonel—always him, unfortunately—ran into me and Charlie when we were out for a beer and made comments about me always hanging out with a hot redhead. Charlie is too pure to understand he was teasing him. Hot Redhead is how Charlie is saved in my phone"
"Oh." Elizabeth wants to laugh in delight, but chooses to feel silly instead. "Make yourself comfortable, then."
"Hmm. I am quite comfortable here."
She laughs, spying him from half-lidded eyes. She has a hard time believing him. He is sandwiched in the tiny space between her sofa and coffee table, trapped between a pair of legs. What a sight it must be. She, disgracefully naked from waist down—but with socks—and he, suited up and kneeling with little dignity on the floor. "Are you, now?"
His cheek rubs on the skin of her leg. "Yes, you are soft." Then, on the inner part of her thigh, he presses soft kisses that stray dangerously upwards. He licks some wet spot there. "And sweet."
She flushes.
Darcy seems willing to go for a second round. His palm presses flat against her thigh, spreading her legs wider, while he buries his face there again, mouth open and wet and ready again.
She has no complaints. Not one to turn down orgasms, is she?
This time, he is less gentle and more frenzied. His tongue is quick and unmerciful. Gone are the long, sweet strokes she so appreciated. But this, this was no less pleasing. Actually, his mouth, mad and ravenous, is like storm, a warm whirlwind crashing onto her, shaking her to absurd heights. He sucks and laps and sucks again, fast and hard and steady, unmoved by the helpless bucking of her hips, by her foot pressing into his bent back. Unmoved by whimpers and cries.
His name, rippled from her as if it were a oath to the heavens, however, stills him.
"Elizabeth."
Agonised, she looks down over her crumpled sweater, to find the intense grey of his eyes staring at her. She would be crossed, incensed even, to be so rudely interrupted, but, really, how can she?
"Elizabeth," he rasps, with that pretty, full mouth of his, "May I kiss you?"
She would like to point out he has been kissing her for a good time by now. But no, it's the lips on her face he is desiring.
They have not kissed. To set the mood, when they came to her apartment, he planted some delicate kisses on her neck, but she was so—enthusiastic, they were not necessary. He's been eating her out like crazy for one hour, and they have not even even kissed!
A laugh bubbles in her throat. She opens her arms and nods.
He climbs her in a heartbeat and crushes his mouth against hers, open and wet and hungry.
She hums at his tongue stroking hers, so lovely, as her hand curls on his hot cheek. Why have they not kissed before? It has been the main subject of her most innocent fantasies, and was still an important element of those fancies born on that sofa, as her fuchsia friend worked its magic on her.
Her arms fling about his neck, fingers ending up gripping the fancy material of his jacket. Even her legs are of the mind to hug him tightly, and wind up around his middle. She kisses him with abandonment, pressing her nose in his cheek and pulling him closer to her.
Whimpering, she rocks against his hips.
Darcy is so kind in noticing this and wastes no time, slipping his hand between her legs, making her very happy.
It gets late quickly.
After the third orgasm, Elizabeth kind of doesn't care.
She notices only because her stomach makes an unholy noise.
She is curled up into a ball, buried under a heavy flannel blanket, snug and cosy against Darcy's side. Dazed, mind blank, pleasure still tingling under her skin—all of that. After he went down on her a third time, she felt it was time to rest a bit. Her eyelids are heavy and her belly aches. Too much for someone who has not got laid in a while.
"You're hungry," he says surprised, as if it were some amazing fact.
She presses her nose in his shoulder. He smells so good. "Yes. There's nothing in the fridge, though. Still have some growing up t'do."
He shifts away and sighs, long and deep. "Perhaps, I should go."
"What? Where?"
He squints at her. "Home?"
"Oh, right, yes." There is a joke on the tip of her tongue, about how he ate enough to be full, but she keeps it to herself. She scrunches up her face. "Well, yes. Are you hungry?"
"A bit," he admits, awkwardly. With no jacket and tie, he looks oddly vulnerable. "It's late."
"Lemme just put on my jeans," she says in haste, bones cracking in protests when she sits up. "There's a Turkish restaurant around here, we can grab some kebab and eat it here." Also, there is a pharmacy with a vending machine, and she could grab some condoms. Just in case.
"Kebab?"
She jumps to her feet, the blanket wrapped around her hips to cover her bare legs. "It's good, they fill up the box up with chips and sauce, it's otherworldly, trust me," she rants, voice strained. "I mean, it's on me. For your kind—services."
His head drops on the back of the sofa. "Elizabeth, it's unnecessary."
Out of nowhere, she nervous. She laughs. "Nonsense! I insist! You've been very kind."
"No," he replies, weary in tone, "I have not been."
With a sense of dread creeping up her ribs, she sits back down, looking at him. Her bubble of orgasms and kisses is bursting. Has she forgot it is very strange, absurd, they did this in the first place? That he was not supposed to spend more time with her? Some good oral doesn't mean they are a couple. She should know this, she is not daft.
His gaze moves from the lights on the ceiling to her. "I'm sorry. Thank you for your kind offer, but I should go. I've been imposing on you too much, I fear, and I am hardly presentable now."
"No!" she cries. It is positively cringy and desperate, but her dignity has been lost when her foolishness forced a joke to become reality. "Not imposing, that's not true! And, you're so handsome, you're perfectly presentable—"
He faintly colours at the compliment, but shakes his head. "No," he begrudgingly gestures at his lap. "I am not."
Oh. "Well then," she says, matter-of-factly, "that's an issue that can be solved without much trouble."
Horrified, he jumps away from her hand, already aiming at his thigh. "For God's sake!" He must be aware of rude he is, because a sigh ripples from him when he glances at her. With agonising lines on his face, turning his perfect grey eyes into a clouded gaze, he says, "I am only human, Elizabeth."
She bites her lip. How could he be so unguarded when he devoted himself to her and so goddamn shy when it was his turn?
"It's difficult," he mumbles. He rubs his palms on his face. "I don't understand what's going on, what's got into me that led me here."
She swallows down the swelling anxiety, and tries again. "You took pity on me," she says, softly. "You may not like gratitude, but I'm going to offer it anyway, because you're such a good, kind guy." Her hand touches his chest. When he doesn't shy away, she dares to lean closer, lips venturing to press a kiss against his jaw. "Let me…"
Wordlessly, he lets her.
Soon, his pants hang open and her hand wraps around his erection. Elizabeth tries to match her kisses with her touch—soft, delicate, sweet. She does not wish him to skitter away.
Darcy sighs.
She flings the blanket away, caring little for modesty. Like this, something far grander can be achieved, but better not to think about it now. Instead, her mouth moves to his ear. "Tell me what you like."
With a groan, he turns to her, a face so foreign to what she is used, it is enchanting. His head falls on her shoulder. "You're perfect," he mutters. "You're perfect, Elizabeth."
Before she can reply with something, crack out a flattered laugh, or tear up in a fit of sentimentality, he reaches for her. Warm fingers slide onto her neck, curling around the nape. He kisses her deeply, with no reserve, forcing her eyes shut and her hand still.
In no time, he is laying on the couch and pulling her down with him. He is still determined to devour her mouth, which makes her tumble on his body with little grace. He cradles her face in his palms, and so close, she feels every breath shaking in his chest. "It's no gratitude I want," he admits, voice rough and eyes pained, "Everything I did—it was for you, only for you. I can't bear to see you unhappy."
His name rises on her tongue, but he will just not let her go, returning to her mouth again and again. He is lost, she thinks with a thrill of excitement, lost and wild and tender. She braces on her knees, open an cradling his sides, and lifts from his body, one hand open and splayed next to his head. Finally, the other hand is free to reach down and wrap around him. He deserves all the orgasms in this world, really.
In his lust, he still gnaws at her, hands forcing her to bend on him, his greedy mouth always seeking hers. She swallows his whimpers and moans, tasting him thoroughly, until the moment his hips grind violently into her hand. He shudders with the force of his release, holding her tightly, face buried deep into her neck.
Since compassion is one her virtues, Elizabeth allows him to recover from the glory. "Well, look at you." She grins down at his red face, combing some slightly sweated hair away from his brow in a wave of affection. "Now, it wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, definitely was not," he owns, the grey in his eyes glimmering and intense. But, his smile grows shadowed, melancholy lingering, threatening take over the bliss. "The bad thing, Elizabeth, is that I still love you. I am only human, I can only bear so much. It was wonderful, but so very bad for me."
She blinks. Some stupid tears are stinging her eyes.
[09:04] Charlotte wrote: Spill the tea.
[10:31] You wrote: What do you want to know
[10:32] Charlotte wrote: Did your pussy get eaten?
[10:34] You wrote: Yep eaten for good
[10:36] Charlotte wrote: Spill the goddamn tea Lizzy
[10:38] You wrote: It was Darcy
[10:38] Charlotte wrote: Well damn congrats
[10:39] You wrote: Thanks
[10:40] Charlotte wrote: Was it good?
[10:42] You wrote: Sooo good. Had to request the Dick Express too, so good it was
[10:42] Charlotte wrote: You sluuuut
[10:42] Charlotte wrote: Told ya you wouldn't end up in pieces in a plastic bag
[10:43] You wrote: I also decided to present mutual exclusivity application. He is bound to eat my pussy for the rest of his days now. No more ads on the Meryton local. I am contractually bound to his dick too, but tbh I dont mind
[10:45] Charlotte wrote: What
[10:48] You wrote: Long story but in short we're in love and we both like oral very much. Gotta go now. Have to call Darcy's cousin now. Good news: the bastard can consider himself free of any trouble. All is forgiven&forgot.
[10:49] Charlotte wrote: Wait what
next, darcy's pov!