Fic - words get in the way (Lizzie/Darcy) nc-17, 1/1
Title: words get in the way
Summary: They’re both pragmatic at heart. They both knew, she thinks, what they were getting into when they started this thing. Wherein Darcy gets ahead of himself, Lizzie reigns him in, and sexy times ensue.
Rating: hard r/nc-17
Author's Notes: 2,551 words. Set in the not too distant future. Written for Porn Battle XIV. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Written with Mizzy2k in mind.
The dinner party is Darcy’s idea - which is something Lizzie will never, ever quite be able to wrap her head around. He had to know after all, had to hear her when she explained to him that entertaining their families and friends at his house, all at once, for hours, would be nothing short of awful. Still, when she all but kicks the door shut after her mother and father finally say goodnight, Lizzie sighs, and sends a triumphant smile towards Darcy.
“Finally,” she breathes, resting her weight against the hard mahogany behind her, reaching to click the lock into place. Lizzie is teetering the edge of drunk, the wine humming pleasantly under her skin. Darcy’s mouth turns. “I never thought she was going to leave.”
Darcy’s loitering in the foyer a few feet away from her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his tie is perfectly knotted and straight and Lizzie’s fingers itch at her sides to reach for him, to mess it all up. His house is a disaster - still neat by her standards, but a wreck by his - and they should probably start cleaning up, but Lizzie really doesn’t want to move. She wants to stand here, with back against the door to carry her weight as she watches him watch her, and appreciate the way his mouth twists, but doesn’t quite manage to smile.
“I don’t understand why you continuously allow her to get under your skin,” he says, and Lizzie rolls her eyes at how ridiculously dense he can be sometimes.
“Because she’s my mother?” Darcy starts making his way towards her, and Lizzie doesn’t know why, but she finds herself straightening her spine in reflex. All these months now and he still unnerves her completely, she sets her on edge with just his mere presence. Only now, with him so close to touch, with him hers and hers alone to touch, the mess inside of her stomach sparking to life is anticipation, not anger. “Besides,” she says when he’s all but filling the entirety of the space around her, “don’t you dare try to lie to me and say she wasn’t annoying you with all her obvious allusions to marriage and grandchildren and the white picket fence will never, ever have just to spite her.”
“Quite the opposite, actually.” The left corner of his mouth curls and Lizzie knows him well enough by now, knows the way his mind works. She can see the way he was watching her during every inquisition her mother threw his way. “I thought they were very valid questions.”
Lizzie knows Darcy, mostly, and she knows the way he stands before her actively not touching her is deliberate. Darcy likes barriers when they talk about the serious things, needs the space to deflect and defend without her there to cloud his judgment. Lizzie mostly respects it, can even understand it most days because he has the unique ability to destroy up any coherent train of thought she has while he is around, but it also leads him to making unfound conclusions at times. Darcy’s mind, his default to analyze anything and everything, is both his greatest asset and flaw.
So she reaches for him, her hands and fingers tangling with his at their sides as she raises her jaw to meet his gaze.
“I’m going to need further explanation on that,” she tells him quietly. Darcy starts to move away, but the grip she has on his hands doesn’t let him.
Pushing up on her tip toes to reach him, Lizzie brushes her lips to the corner of his mouth, and lingers after, waiting for him to lean in and kiss her the way she knows he’s wanted to all night but refused on account of her parent’s presence. Which, well, she can appreciate in some far away type of way, but also finds borderline infuriating because she really wanted to kiss him too.
When he does, when his mouth slides against hers a little more roughly than normal she is reminded of two things: Darcy can be the most impatient persons she has ever met and he is, possibly, just as drunk as she is. The wine from dinner tastes very nice against the roof of his mouth.
When he pulls away, they both sigh at the loss of contact, the loss of warmth, and Lizzie smiles lazily up at him as her eyes slide open. “Nice diversion,” she smirks, and Darcy frowns.
“You started it,” he says.
One of her hands leave his to reach up and mess with the silk of his tie, fingers twisting and pulling until the perfect knot comes undone. She leaves the suspenders alone. They’ve actually grown on her quite a bit.
Darcy watches her for a long moment, trying to contain his smile as she messes up his well-kept appearance. When he speaks, his tone is low, just for her. “I want to get married,” he says so simply, so conversationally that it almost makes her laugh. He’s not like her - he doesn’t use twenty works when just four will suffice. He doesn’t hide behind pleasantries.
His statement isn’t anything Lizzie hasn’t already deduced. It definitely isn’t anything Darcy has been very good at hiding, so she merely asks, “Are you asking me or telling me?” with her palm resting flat against his chest.
He considers her for a long moment. “More a statement of fact,” he informs her and then, “I need to know if that is something you want. With me. And if it’s not… well, then - I would just like to know.”
(There is a conversation running through her mind now. One that involves Lizzie and her sisters huddled together on Lizzie’s tiny childhood bed, Jane’s tears soaking the cotton at Lizzie’s shoulder and Lydia’s arms wrapped around them both. It is before Darcy, but after Bing, after what Darcy - the Darcy Lizzie was convinced she knew and understood and hated - did to Bing and Jane. Most of the day was spent exactly like that: the three of them curled around each other, watching awful movies and trying to make Jane laugh through her tears, but there was a point, sometime after Harry met Sally, when Jane told them, I hope you feel it. I hope you feel what I felt with Bing the first time we met. I may not have him, but at least I have that. At least I know what it’s like to know.
The truth is, well - Lizzie had felt it.
She does feel it. She feels it everyday. And maybe it hasn’t always been there or maybe she just couldn’t see it through the anger and prejudice to recognize it, but it is there now. So much so that sometimes it rears through her like a storm when Darcy looks at her, when he murmurs I love you, when he does something so infuriating, but so perfectly Darcy that all she can do is laugh. She feels it every morning when she wakes and he’s there.
All of this, however, doesn’t erase the fact that these feelings, the utter certainty with which Darcy regards everything about their life together has the tendency to absolutely terrify her at times.
Lizzie has never dealt well with change.)
She kisses him then in distraction, to give herself time to think of the proper thing to say, what she wants to say. The hand that isn’t tangled with his reaches up to wrap around his neck, pulling her down to him so she doesn’t have to do all the work. Darcy makes a quiet, messy sound in the back of his throat and she smiles against his mouth, pushes her body closer to his. She remembers the first time they ever did this, back at Pemberley, and how her hands had shook, but his were still, certain as they rested against her face, tangled in her hair. His fingers tighten around hers near their sides. The palm of his other curves around her hip, and he uses it as leverage to push her back until she’s flush up against his front door again. Lizzie moans, feels him pressed against every inch of her, and her claves are already starting to ache from having to press up on her toes to reach his mouth, but she doesn’t care.
When Darcy pulls away it is with a ragged breath, and Lizzie has to close her eyes and remember to breathe to keep herself from going dizzy. When she opens her eyes, Darcy is looking at her, expectant.
“I do,” she mumbles quietly, and his hand tightens around hers at their sides again. It should surprise her, she will think later, that those are the first words to fall out of her mouth.“I do want that,” she tells him. “I’m just not ready for it right now.”
They’re both pragmatic at heart. They both knew, she thinks, what they were getting into when they started this thing. Still, discussing marriage at just six months in isn’t enough to start her running in the opposite direction, but it is enough to give her pause. Lizzie is almost relieved when Darcy just nods, mouth turning before he leans in to skim it against hers again.
Lizzie can feel his smile in her teeth, and it almost makes it hard for her kiss him back properly, but eventually he takes over, kisses her harder, his hand finally leaving hers to pull at her hips, trying to get her as close to him as possible. It’s not going to work - the whole sex against the door thing - they’ve tried it before and he’s too tall and she’s not nearly coordinated enough, but the whole making out against the door thing is nice, and Lizzie will enjoy it while it lasts. His steady fingers start to skim the hem of her skirt, then slip underneath the soft cotton, tracing the line of her inner thighs.
It’s how she knows he’s drunk - the way he doesn’t take his time, the way his fingers press against the damp cotton between her legs. Darcy is methodical, precise, he likes to open her up real slow, take his time, and watch her come apart. Now, his fingers are pressing against her without remorse, hard and fast, and it’s barely a minute in and she’s already gasping. His mouth pulls away from hers, and she’s thankful as she gulps in air, but then she catches sight of that smug turn of his mouth and she starts to say something smart, but then his teeth are grazing her jaw, her neck, the spot halfway to her collarbone that makes her knees go weak. His fingers slip underneath her underwear, press against her more firmly, and she loses the ability to form all coherent thought.
Darcy is very good with his hands, and she’s already almost there, just about to beg, when his mouth brushes against hers once, fast and short like a goodbye. It the kiss that snaps her eyes open, the abruptness of it, but it’s the loss of warmth as his hands leave her, as he steps away that have her looking at him, watching as he drops to his knees before her. Lizzie is about to say something, the alcohol and him messing with her head, confusing her, but he just laughs, the sound pressing into her skin as he murmurs relax.
It surprises them both that she listens, that she is mostly quiet as he first lifts her right foot and slowly removes the heeled boot she wears, then the left, tossing them to the side after. It’s an exhilarating change, being the one to tower above him for once, and her breath catches when his palms slowly smooth up the line of her calves, the pads of his thumbs tracing the bone of her shin as his hands move. He stops just below the hem of her skirt, fingers fisting in the cotton and pulling until the fabric is sliding down her legs. Her underwear is next, and she watches him, watches him watch her, her breath catching at the way he smirks, at the look in his eyes as he helps her step out of the pool of fabric that has collected at her feet.
And then Darcy’s back is straightening, his hands carefully placing one of her legs over his shoulder and Lizzie isn’t stupid, she isn’t an idiot, she knew where he was going with this, but it still feels awkward with her mostly naked and him painfully not. It still feels too vulnerable, it still sets her on edge, so her hands are digging at his shoulders, trying to pull him up, but Darcy isn’t having any of it.
He just smiles - an honest, full, teeth and all smile - and presses a kiss to her inner thigh.
“Will -” Lizzie starts, then stops short, eyes closing as she whimpers when his knuckles brush over her softly, then his mouth.
It’s one of the many things Lizzie loves the most about Darcy - his mouth. His sometimes condescending, arrogant, but ridiculously talented mouth.
He knows her better than anyone - like this and otherwise. Darcy knows what she wants, what she needs, what strings to pull and how to push her to the point of unraveling. He opens her up wholly to him with his mouth and tongue, teases her with his fingers and her knees buckle, nearly giving out from under her. One of his hands actually has to reach up to steady her, to keep her from falling, and he’s going so slow, building her up piece by piece that she starts to go crazy, starts to actually beg for it, her please strangled, caught in her throat as she chokes for air. Which, well, Lizzie isn’t exactly proud of the begging. She will deny it later, but Darcy is even better with his mouth than he is with his hands, and he responds in earnest, gives her exactly what she wants - more pressure, his thumb bumping against her clit every so often sending her into a frenzy, her hips jerking against his mouth.
The fullness builds in her spine, starts to spread everywhere, and she flicks her eyes towards him, watches him, and feels a strangled moan catch in her throat when she realizes he’s been watching her the entire time. She can see his face and it tells her everything - every thought, emotion, every promise he wants to make to her but knows she isn’t ready to hear. Lizzie reaches for him, needs to anchor herself, needs to hold on to something, and her fingers tangle in his hair, pull and tighten as she starts to fall apart.
It is the most intimate, vulnerable moment of her life, and she comes easily with his mouth between her thighs and her heart in her throat.
After, when he pulls her down to the floor with him and they lay a tangled mess on the hardwood of his foyer, Darcy presses a kiss to her temple, says something she doesn’t quite catch.
Lizzie laughs anyway, soft and low, her body pressing against his to form a messy line of limbs.
Yeah, she thinks to herself lazily, I’m going to marry him.
Summary: They’re both pragmatic at heart. They both knew, she thinks, what they were getting into when they started this thing. Wherein Darcy gets ahead of himself, Lizzie reigns him in, and sexy times ensue.
Rating: hard r/nc-17
Author's Notes: 2,551 words. Set in the not too distant future. Written for Porn Battle XIV. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Written with Mizzy2k in mind.
The dinner party is Darcy’s idea - which is something Lizzie will never, ever quite be able to wrap her head around. He had to know after all, had to hear her when she explained to him that entertaining their families and friends at his house, all at once, for hours, would be nothing short of awful. Still, when she all but kicks the door shut after her mother and father finally say goodnight, Lizzie sighs, and sends a triumphant smile towards Darcy.
“Finally,” she breathes, resting her weight against the hard mahogany behind her, reaching to click the lock into place. Lizzie is teetering the edge of drunk, the wine humming pleasantly under her skin. Darcy’s mouth turns. “I never thought she was going to leave.”
Darcy’s loitering in the foyer a few feet away from her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his tie is perfectly knotted and straight and Lizzie’s fingers itch at her sides to reach for him, to mess it all up. His house is a disaster - still neat by her standards, but a wreck by his - and they should probably start cleaning up, but Lizzie really doesn’t want to move. She wants to stand here, with back against the door to carry her weight as she watches him watch her, and appreciate the way his mouth twists, but doesn’t quite manage to smile.
“I don’t understand why you continuously allow her to get under your skin,” he says, and Lizzie rolls her eyes at how ridiculously dense he can be sometimes.
“Because she’s my mother?” Darcy starts making his way towards her, and Lizzie doesn’t know why, but she finds herself straightening her spine in reflex. All these months now and he still unnerves her completely, she sets her on edge with just his mere presence. Only now, with him so close to touch, with him hers and hers alone to touch, the mess inside of her stomach sparking to life is anticipation, not anger. “Besides,” she says when he’s all but filling the entirety of the space around her, “don’t you dare try to lie to me and say she wasn’t annoying you with all her obvious allusions to marriage and grandchildren and the white picket fence will never, ever have just to spite her.”
“Quite the opposite, actually.” The left corner of his mouth curls and Lizzie knows him well enough by now, knows the way his mind works. She can see the way he was watching her during every inquisition her mother threw his way. “I thought they were very valid questions.”
Lizzie knows Darcy, mostly, and she knows the way he stands before her actively not touching her is deliberate. Darcy likes barriers when they talk about the serious things, needs the space to deflect and defend without her there to cloud his judgment. Lizzie mostly respects it, can even understand it most days because he has the unique ability to destroy up any coherent train of thought she has while he is around, but it also leads him to making unfound conclusions at times. Darcy’s mind, his default to analyze anything and everything, is both his greatest asset and flaw.
So she reaches for him, her hands and fingers tangling with his at their sides as she raises her jaw to meet his gaze.
“I’m going to need further explanation on that,” she tells him quietly. Darcy starts to move away, but the grip she has on his hands doesn’t let him.
Pushing up on her tip toes to reach him, Lizzie brushes her lips to the corner of his mouth, and lingers after, waiting for him to lean in and kiss her the way she knows he’s wanted to all night but refused on account of her parent’s presence. Which, well, she can appreciate in some far away type of way, but also finds borderline infuriating because she really wanted to kiss him too.
When he does, when his mouth slides against hers a little more roughly than normal she is reminded of two things: Darcy can be the most impatient persons she has ever met and he is, possibly, just as drunk as she is. The wine from dinner tastes very nice against the roof of his mouth.
When he pulls away, they both sigh at the loss of contact, the loss of warmth, and Lizzie smiles lazily up at him as her eyes slide open. “Nice diversion,” she smirks, and Darcy frowns.
“You started it,” he says.
One of her hands leave his to reach up and mess with the silk of his tie, fingers twisting and pulling until the perfect knot comes undone. She leaves the suspenders alone. They’ve actually grown on her quite a bit.
Darcy watches her for a long moment, trying to contain his smile as she messes up his well-kept appearance. When he speaks, his tone is low, just for her. “I want to get married,” he says so simply, so conversationally that it almost makes her laugh. He’s not like her - he doesn’t use twenty works when just four will suffice. He doesn’t hide behind pleasantries.
His statement isn’t anything Lizzie hasn’t already deduced. It definitely isn’t anything Darcy has been very good at hiding, so she merely asks, “Are you asking me or telling me?” with her palm resting flat against his chest.
He considers her for a long moment. “More a statement of fact,” he informs her and then, “I need to know if that is something you want. With me. And if it’s not… well, then - I would just like to know.”
(There is a conversation running through her mind now. One that involves Lizzie and her sisters huddled together on Lizzie’s tiny childhood bed, Jane’s tears soaking the cotton at Lizzie’s shoulder and Lydia’s arms wrapped around them both. It is before Darcy, but after Bing, after what Darcy - the Darcy Lizzie was convinced she knew and understood and hated - did to Bing and Jane. Most of the day was spent exactly like that: the three of them curled around each other, watching awful movies and trying to make Jane laugh through her tears, but there was a point, sometime after Harry met Sally, when Jane told them, I hope you feel it. I hope you feel what I felt with Bing the first time we met. I may not have him, but at least I have that. At least I know what it’s like to know.
The truth is, well - Lizzie had felt it.
She does feel it. She feels it everyday. And maybe it hasn’t always been there or maybe she just couldn’t see it through the anger and prejudice to recognize it, but it is there now. So much so that sometimes it rears through her like a storm when Darcy looks at her, when he murmurs I love you, when he does something so infuriating, but so perfectly Darcy that all she can do is laugh. She feels it every morning when she wakes and he’s there.
All of this, however, doesn’t erase the fact that these feelings, the utter certainty with which Darcy regards everything about their life together has the tendency to absolutely terrify her at times.
Lizzie has never dealt well with change.)
She kisses him then in distraction, to give herself time to think of the proper thing to say, what she wants to say. The hand that isn’t tangled with his reaches up to wrap around his neck, pulling her down to him so she doesn’t have to do all the work. Darcy makes a quiet, messy sound in the back of his throat and she smiles against his mouth, pushes her body closer to his. She remembers the first time they ever did this, back at Pemberley, and how her hands had shook, but his were still, certain as they rested against her face, tangled in her hair. His fingers tighten around hers near their sides. The palm of his other curves around her hip, and he uses it as leverage to push her back until she’s flush up against his front door again. Lizzie moans, feels him pressed against every inch of her, and her claves are already starting to ache from having to press up on her toes to reach his mouth, but she doesn’t care.
When Darcy pulls away it is with a ragged breath, and Lizzie has to close her eyes and remember to breathe to keep herself from going dizzy. When she opens her eyes, Darcy is looking at her, expectant.
“I do,” she mumbles quietly, and his hand tightens around hers at their sides again. It should surprise her, she will think later, that those are the first words to fall out of her mouth.“I do want that,” she tells him. “I’m just not ready for it right now.”
They’re both pragmatic at heart. They both knew, she thinks, what they were getting into when they started this thing. Still, discussing marriage at just six months in isn’t enough to start her running in the opposite direction, but it is enough to give her pause. Lizzie is almost relieved when Darcy just nods, mouth turning before he leans in to skim it against hers again.
Lizzie can feel his smile in her teeth, and it almost makes it hard for her kiss him back properly, but eventually he takes over, kisses her harder, his hand finally leaving hers to pull at her hips, trying to get her as close to him as possible. It’s not going to work - the whole sex against the door thing - they’ve tried it before and he’s too tall and she’s not nearly coordinated enough, but the whole making out against the door thing is nice, and Lizzie will enjoy it while it lasts. His steady fingers start to skim the hem of her skirt, then slip underneath the soft cotton, tracing the line of her inner thighs.
It’s how she knows he’s drunk - the way he doesn’t take his time, the way his fingers press against the damp cotton between her legs. Darcy is methodical, precise, he likes to open her up real slow, take his time, and watch her come apart. Now, his fingers are pressing against her without remorse, hard and fast, and it’s barely a minute in and she’s already gasping. His mouth pulls away from hers, and she’s thankful as she gulps in air, but then she catches sight of that smug turn of his mouth and she starts to say something smart, but then his teeth are grazing her jaw, her neck, the spot halfway to her collarbone that makes her knees go weak. His fingers slip underneath her underwear, press against her more firmly, and she loses the ability to form all coherent thought.
Darcy is very good with his hands, and she’s already almost there, just about to beg, when his mouth brushes against hers once, fast and short like a goodbye. It the kiss that snaps her eyes open, the abruptness of it, but it’s the loss of warmth as his hands leave her, as he steps away that have her looking at him, watching as he drops to his knees before her. Lizzie is about to say something, the alcohol and him messing with her head, confusing her, but he just laughs, the sound pressing into her skin as he murmurs relax.
It surprises them both that she listens, that she is mostly quiet as he first lifts her right foot and slowly removes the heeled boot she wears, then the left, tossing them to the side after. It’s an exhilarating change, being the one to tower above him for once, and her breath catches when his palms slowly smooth up the line of her calves, the pads of his thumbs tracing the bone of her shin as his hands move. He stops just below the hem of her skirt, fingers fisting in the cotton and pulling until the fabric is sliding down her legs. Her underwear is next, and she watches him, watches him watch her, her breath catching at the way he smirks, at the look in his eyes as he helps her step out of the pool of fabric that has collected at her feet.
And then Darcy’s back is straightening, his hands carefully placing one of her legs over his shoulder and Lizzie isn’t stupid, she isn’t an idiot, she knew where he was going with this, but it still feels awkward with her mostly naked and him painfully not. It still feels too vulnerable, it still sets her on edge, so her hands are digging at his shoulders, trying to pull him up, but Darcy isn’t having any of it.
He just smiles - an honest, full, teeth and all smile - and presses a kiss to her inner thigh.
“Will -” Lizzie starts, then stops short, eyes closing as she whimpers when his knuckles brush over her softly, then his mouth.
It’s one of the many things Lizzie loves the most about Darcy - his mouth. His sometimes condescending, arrogant, but ridiculously talented mouth.
He knows her better than anyone - like this and otherwise. Darcy knows what she wants, what she needs, what strings to pull and how to push her to the point of unraveling. He opens her up wholly to him with his mouth and tongue, teases her with his fingers and her knees buckle, nearly giving out from under her. One of his hands actually has to reach up to steady her, to keep her from falling, and he’s going so slow, building her up piece by piece that she starts to go crazy, starts to actually beg for it, her please strangled, caught in her throat as she chokes for air. Which, well, Lizzie isn’t exactly proud of the begging. She will deny it later, but Darcy is even better with his mouth than he is with his hands, and he responds in earnest, gives her exactly what she wants - more pressure, his thumb bumping against her clit every so often sending her into a frenzy, her hips jerking against his mouth.
The fullness builds in her spine, starts to spread everywhere, and she flicks her eyes towards him, watches him, and feels a strangled moan catch in her throat when she realizes he’s been watching her the entire time. She can see his face and it tells her everything - every thought, emotion, every promise he wants to make to her but knows she isn’t ready to hear. Lizzie reaches for him, needs to anchor herself, needs to hold on to something, and her fingers tangle in his hair, pull and tighten as she starts to fall apart.
It is the most intimate, vulnerable moment of her life, and she comes easily with his mouth between her thighs and her heart in her throat.
After, when he pulls her down to the floor with him and they lay a tangled mess on the hardwood of his foyer, Darcy presses a kiss to her temple, says something she doesn’t quite catch.
Lizzie laughs anyway, soft and low, her body pressing against his to form a messy line of limbs.
Yeah, she thinks to herself lazily, I’m going to marry him.