You and he were stretched out on the couch in your hotel room, preparing for the next scene. And when you say preparing, you mean reading Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' out loud. It wasn't as strange as it sounded when you tried to think about it in any sort of coherent way.

It had all begun when you had booked this gig. You remember being utterly delighted when you got the call from your agent: it meant you got to go to London to shoot on location. All that rain and gray and European sophistication, with a rough edge—you loved it.

The only problem was, the producers had decided they wanted you to be British. A difficult leap for you, considering you had been born and bred in New York. This was going to be interesting. You had been nervous, especially on the flight over. You didn't know how this was going to work…would they give you a dialect coach? What kind of British accent were they looking for? Your stomach sank every time you thought about it. What if you were crap at it? What if you were so bad they decided they would have to go with somebody else?

You hardly have time to settle into your room before it was time for the first read through, at which they are going to determine how they're handling the accent issue. You, rather nervous, step into the conference room, a nondescript building on a nondescript street, and the first thing you see is….him.

He's a tall, lean man, wearing jeans that perfectly complement his leonine shape. He's uncommonly tall, but solidly built, long in every sense of the word: long legs, long neck, long…fingers. His hands are so lovely. His sharp eyes (nothing else could be used to describe those twin discs of blue, shifting between ice and sky and stormy sea) look out at the room from a chiseled face. Those features….such an improbable mixture of angles in luminescent, pale skin. His cheekbones, his nose, all the way down to his clavicle, peeking out of his button-down, all are sharp and angular and yet he carries them so well. They lend him an intense look, but when his face is animated, as it is now, there is such life and character expressed in every single one of those angles and corners. It makes it one of the most beautiful faces you have ever seen.

And God, the hair. You're such a sucker for gingers, and now here he is in all his copper-haired glory. You could swear those golden-red curls are glowing under the fluorescent lights, which are probably only succeeding in making your hair look flat and colourless. Dear lord he is gorgeous. Then those eyes flash toward you, and a look of recognition crosses that face.

And now he's moving….towards you. 'Shitshitshit' you think to yourself, 'for heaven's sake look normal'. But damn those jeans look good on him. Those legs look even longer as he casually saunters over, moving like some jungle cat who is completely unaware of his own grace. When he makes it to your side you are awkwardly rummaging around your bag pretending to look for something that doesn't exist so as to not look like a complete creep just staring at him walking toward you (though you very much would've liked to).

He proffers his hand (God, his fingers!) and says "Hi I'm Benedict, I think we're meant to play opposite each other". His voice. Your thoughts are completely lost. What had he just said? What were some the socially acceptable words you could say at this moment in time? You highly doubt the appropriate response is "Oh my God your voice is orgasmic like chocolate and velvet and all things dark and low and growly and I could probably listen to you talk to me for the rest of my life on this Earth". Because that is all that is running through your mind. Through the fog you realise you should probably be shaking that hand, and manage to gurgle out your name and some sort of introduction, hoping it doesn't sound like you are completely mental.

He smiles and it lights up his whole face, his features scrunching up a bit and crinkling those impossibly aquamarine eyes. You find yourself talking about things, coherent thoughts thankfully making their way from your brain to your mouth. He asks about your trip and your home, and you somehow end up confessing to him how awfully nervous you are about having to do the accent. You tell him that you've always been fairly good at imitations, but you really want it to be good for this film, to do the script justice.

He responds with a quirk of the head, the ginger curls falling every which-way, as if considering something. He then offers, "I could help you with that, if you like", a light smile playing on his lips and reflected in his eyes. With more confidence than you knew you possessed, you manage to remain calm enough to say something like "I would really appreciate that, thank you. That'd be lovely."

After the preliminary preparations with the director and the producers you're given a break for lunch. Much to your delight he walks over and asks in that delicious voice, accompanied by a quick grin, "Would you like to grab something together? We could start your…lessons".

"Yeah, let's, I'm starving"

'Hungry for you, mostly', you thought to yourself, and prayed he couldn't read your eagerness on your face.

You walk over to a little sandwich shop around the corner, or rather, you walk and he strides gracefully, almost rhythmically. It's mesmerizing to watch. He opens the shop door for you, and you are both welcomed by the bright tinkle of a bell and a warm, delicious smelling respite from the chill of the streets. You sit in a little corner booth with your lunch and you find yourself asking him "Is it alright if you tell me about you? Partly because I'd love to know you better and partly because I'd like to listen to you talk."

And then after a pause in which he does that adorable head-to-the-side appraisal you quickly add, "Your accent, I mean".

Which wasn't really what you meant at all, but you tacked on that last bit so as not to sound mildly creeptastic.

He chuckles, a warm, deep, gruff sound from the back of his throat and replies "Absolutely. Anything to help". For the next hour or so you listen to him tell you his life story, lulled by the warmth of the shop, the food, and most of all, his voice. As you listen you are trying to mentally place what it reminds you of. A little bit like what crushed velvet feels like on the fingertips, a little bit like what being submerged in dark water looks like from behind the eyelids, a little bit like how cigarette smoke and coffee permeate the air so you can almost taste them just by smelling. His voice was all of these things and none of them and something you couldn't ever really place. It was just…him.

Unfortunately you both have to head back to the meeting, but by some stroke of providence the director says they would have to postpone it until next week as he sorted out some difficulties with the costume and tech departments. You have to hide your inner elation at this, since it provides you with an opportunity: You ask Benedict if he'd like to come to your room with you and carry on with the study of the English accent.

You mentally justify what would normally be considered the very brazen act of inviting a man back to your hotel room by reminding yourself that it's the only place you have to take him except all of the shop and cafes in London, of course.

He says yes, somewhat shyly, which surprises but pleases you greatly. You take his coat when you get to your room and he all but prowls around the room while you clear off the small sofa in the living room of the suite. He stops at one of the tables and picks up one of the books you've been reading, 'A Selection of Poems by T. S. Eliot'. It's a very old, very battered copy given to you by your father, which you tell him as he thumbs through it.

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is my favorite".

This sentence escapes both your lips at almost exactly the same time, and you look up at each other with delight, laughter bubbling between you. He crosses the distance from the table to the sofa in a short few of those miraculously long strides of his, book still in hand, and sits down next to you on the sofa. He murmurs softly, almost to himself, "I think I know how we can work on this…"

At your questioning sound he looks up and says "Eliot—he's perfect for practicing the accent. "

He is sitting on the edge of the sofa, thumbing through the well-worn pages, almost caressing them. He finds the one he is looking for and smiles at you almost mischievously, settling back into the couch. Your heart had already stopped but your breath catches as well when his legs press against yours. You're both curled up like cats: the way he's positioned himself your legs are intertwined with his—those long, long legs.

"Just…listen", he softly requests, and you are more than happy to comply.

He looks back down at the page and, with a smile still playing on those delicious lips, begins to read.

"Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky …."

His voice is soft, hushed, as if reading a prayer. It has an incredible effect on your body. The preliminary sound of it jolts through you, like an electric current making every cell feel like it's on fire. The aftershock is surprising in its own way: soothing. It feels like smoke swirling inside of you. It feels like you're drowning in it, drowning in him. He keeps reading, seemingly unaware of the fact that you have no control over your body and your emotions anymore.

He reaches the stanza that begins,

"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes"

He hesitates ever so slightly before the next line, glancing up at you through his eyelashes, and continues, sensually,

"Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains…"

He reads on and on, his voice creating a rhythm akin to waves, rocking your body with a myriad of emotions that you don't quite comprehend. You feel safe, you feel electrified, you are sated, you are starving, all of these things—he is making you feel them with his voice.

He has reached the middle of the poem and stops. It is not until the sound of his voice has subsided that you realize you have been listening with your eyes closed and your head tilted back. You open your eyes slowly to find him staring at your exposed neck with…can that be hunger? No. It is gone in an instant and must have simply been the light hitting those extraordinary eyes. He grins, back to friendly, and hands you the book.

"Your turn". His smile holds the hint of a challenge. "Just try to imitate anything you picked up during my half".

You take a deep breath, a little nervous but willing to try. Anyway, your desire for him is smothering most inhibitions of any kind, so you're feeling more confident than you would under normal circumstances. Though, come to think of it, this would probably never be found in any file labeled "normal circumstances". You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the swirling deep blue of his voice that is still echoing in your mind. You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and start the next stanza.

"And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers

Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me."

You cannot help but think of his fingers, splayed on his thigh, long and latently strong-looking. You read on, looking back down at the page, colouring slightly. You try to replicate the cadence of his voice, the emphasis on certain vowels, shaping your mouth the way he shapes his. You reach the end of the poem, your favorite part, and read it from memory looking him square in the eye.

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown,

Till human voices wake us,

and we drown."

He is staring at you intently, his gaze roving all over your face. You feel as if he is far away from you, lost in thought. Then, suddenly, he snaps back into place, into this place. You become conscious of just how close your bodies are at this moment…was he that close to you when he started reading? You realize his eyes are watching your mouth now, wandering over your lips, which are moist from reading out loud.

The next words out of his mouth come from a place deep inside his chest, emerging almost like a purr: "Very good".

You barely have time to register the compliment before his lips are on yours, hard and desperate, and you realize kissing him might be even better than listening to him read poetry.

Almost.

His long pale hands are clutching either side of your face, and what began as a kiss evolves into something deeper. Your tongues are exploring each others' mouths and every part of him feels smooth and beautiful, a reflection of the soft danger hinted at by his voice. Oh so silky, but could do oh so many wonderful, dirty things to you.

You pull his soft knit shirt over his head and it feels good in your hands. Not as good as the exposed flesh of his bare chest, stretched over a taught stomach with hints of muscle. A strong body, lean and well taken care of, natural. You run your hands over the planes of his torso and he whimpers as you graze his nipples with your thumbs. You can't help but dip your head in and nip at his collarbone, the one that's been teasing you all day through that blasted shirt. He groans and leans his head back and you work your way up his neck, leaving kisses and small, teasing bites all the way up to his earlobe. His breath leaves him in a gasp as you whisper into that perfect shell of his ear, "You can have me whatever way you want".

He snaps forward, managing to muster his focus a little, working at the buttons on your blouse, and you are surprised to see that his hands are shaking. When he has disposed of the stubborn article of clothing you take both his hands and kiss his palms as if to say "It's alright, I want you to. Please". Then you take those gorgeous hands and place them on either side of your own neck, reaching up to his face and pulling him down for another kiss. This one is deeper, slower, and his hands move down of their own accord, steady now. He pulls off your bra, unhooking it in one smooth movement and flinging it elsewhere in the room.

Neither of you can be bothered to care where.

You both realize you're still completely tangled in each other and laugh, unabashedly, looking at each other without fear or hesitation, pupils blown wide with lust.

You both stand and drink each other in for a moment and then you step back and look down, biting your lip. You let you skirt and underwear fall to the ground and get on your knees in front of him. The ghost of his laugh is still playing on his face and in his eyes as he looks down at you in awe. You undo his jeans and get him to step out of them and his boxers, pushing him gently back down so he's sitting on the sofa. You tilt your head toward him again, reaching up for another kiss from in between those magnificent legs of his. As your lips crash together you can feel his cock, hard and hot against your stomach. You slide back down, slowly breaking the kiss, and press your arms together on either side of your chest so his cock slides in the slit between your tits. His eyelids flutter and he tilts his head back, letting out a sound that goes straight to your cunt, making you almost unbearably wet. You wrap your hand around his length and put your lips around his head in a delicate 'O', licking the precum off the tip. You move down further, both hands around him now, working up and down. He fills your mouth and you can only close your eyes and lose yourself to the rhythmic moans coming out of this man's mouth. God it's fucking gorgeous, it's like….well, you have nothing to compare this to because nobody has a voice like this man and it's making your cunt clench in time to his whimpers.

He's moving his hips now, fucking into your mouth. You look up at him and almost can't handle how he's looking down at you, flushed with admiration and pure, unadulterated desire. He caresses your face with those long fingers, feeling himself inside your mouth. He takes a handful of your hair and tugs. Jesus Christ, how did he know you love that? You show your appreciation by squeezing your eyes and hum deep in your throat, vibrating around his cock. He hisses and pulls you off of him, bringing you up to straddle his lap. You're both breathing hard and with his forehead pressed to yours he growls, "We can't have me cumming first, now can we?"

You cannot believe how much you want him when he picks you up effortlessly, your legs wrapped around his waist, and carries you to the bed, laying you down gently on your back while hovering over you. He kisses you long and hard and when he pulls away he has that Cheshire cat smirk all over his face: you realize with a jolt of lust that he is completely in control now and you will let him do whatever the fuck he wants. He leans down to take one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard, his hand gliding over your belly and down to one of your hip bones, trailing a finger back and forth over the hollow there. Each swipe gets closer and closer to where you want him and you squirm with anticipation, whimpering "Please, oh god, please" in a way that you will probably be embarrassed about later. But not right now.

He looks up at you, his mouth coming off your nipple and in that deep rich voice he commands "Patience, my dear, patience".

You obey.

Your eyes roll back in your head when the tip of his finger finally brushes your clit, and soon his whole finger is rolling against you, which is then joined by another.

"God you're so wet, so wet for me", he whispers.

You manage to pant out in bursts, "You read *gasp* poetry *gasp*exceptionally well"

He snickers and then kisses his way down your stomach, licking at some of your ribs and biting at the place where your thigh meets your groin. His fingers are still working at your clit when he slides his mouth over and, looking up at you in a way that would make Lucifer blush, flicks his tongue over your clit while his fingers slide into you. You cry out and he presses his whole mouth against you, his fingers undulating inside of you, stroking your walls until you're blacking out, squeezing his head between your thighs as you call out his name. It feels so good on your tongue, his name.

You pull him by a handful of bronze curls back up to your mouth, tasting yourself on his beautiful lips, his hot hands all over your body, your breasts, hips, neck, ass, back, everywhere. Holding on to this train of thought you gasp, "I want you everywhere".

He grins and presses his body flush against yours, grinding you against him and as he bites your neck he all but snarls, "Where do you want me? Tell me where". He is demanding now and you answer, without reservation, "Inside of me, I want you inside of me".

He needs no second request and thrusts his cock inside of you. You didn't think you could cum so soon after that incredible orgasm he had just given you but you almost do right then, as he pulls out almost all the way and then drives back into you. He runs his hands along the length of your arms, gently but firmly bringing them up over your head. One of his long fingered hands encircles both of your wrists while the other is feather light on your nipples, your clit, your mouth. You lose track of the surroundings, you don't know where you are, all you know is the steady drum if him, him, him inside of you. It reminds you of the rhythm of his voice: he makes love to you as if he were reading you out loud, your stanzas spilling from his lips in his gorgeous voice.

He picks up speed and lets go of your wrists. You move against him and "AH" he reaches that places deep inside you that makes you clench around him. He yells your name as he buries himself inside of you, both of you gone rigid in each other's arms for a few seconds. Then you are both shaking, holding each other together as you come down from that high. You don't want him to move yet and as he makes to pull out of you, you still him with your hands against his back. He sighs into your neck and you lie there for a while, intertwined, breathing in each others' scents. He smells clean, even while he's sweaty, sweet with a dark musk underneath. You eventually move apart and he molds his body to yours, cupping your form with his from behind.

As you are both dozing off you hear his voice, in your ear, making you shiver all over again. He is reciting a line from the poem:

"There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea."

And then, right before you drop off to sleep, he whispers something else, and you can hear the curve of his smile in his voice:

"Your accent—it was perfect".