fayes-fics

[fayes-fics]

So pleased you enjoyed this preflude fic. Your gif choices always make me smile. TY for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

Maid For Pleasure: The Agreement

Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Prelude fic. Two gentlemen, one housemaid, and an unusual document mark the beginning of a new adventure...

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Reference to sexual situations, explicit acts, pregnancy and periods. Power imbalance (housemaid!reader), period-typical attitudes. No use of "y/n".

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Here we go... This started as an idea for a free-use Kinktober drabble that went waaaay off the rails. It's now planned as a multi-part series; this is the prelude, which sets the scene. Fics will be posted in the order they are written, which will differ from the chronological order of the story. Endless thanks to my amazing, patient beta @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

The paper feels expensive - a crisp, heavy, ivory parchment - as it is passed into your hands.

“I find a confidential agreement to be most prudent for any manner of arrangements,” Viscount Anthony Bridgerton intones. “Mr Patter here is the model of discretion and will witness all of our signatures today.”

He gestures to a genial-looking elderly gentleman sitting in a nearby chair, dressed formally, with a leather folio case resting in his lap; the avuncular air he exudes makes you feel at ease.

“I must say, Miss,” Mr Patter pipes up, addressing you, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, “I have never heard of any gentleman drawing up a document such as this, especially for a staff member. Most use their staff with little to no regard. One should consider oneself extremely fortunate to be in the employ of such a generous, considerate man.”

You nod modestly in response, already sensing how lucky you are.

You entered the employment of the Bridgerton family a mere three weeks ago. A friend of your mother's had been the cook at Aubrey Hall for the best part of thirty years, well-treated and well-paid before her retirement. When you turned twenty without a marriage proposal, she recommended you for the open position there as a housemaid, and you secured it easily with her glowing reference. 

It was only on your fourth day at the beautiful estate that you first set eyes on your employer, the Viscount, and his slightly younger brother, as they swept in, both so handsome that you quite lost your breath. You had assumed their portraits, hanging in the hallway, to be flattery by an obsequious artist, but now you think those likenesses may even be somewhat lacking.

Having had relations with local boys you grew up around, lost your innocence behind the wall of the churchyard, in fact, you knew well enough what the tingle between your legs signified—pure physical desire. And indeed, both of the men’s regard for you was instantly heated, laden. A tingle all over your skin with want: to have them both. To experience anything and everything these worldly men might teach you, no doubt well beyond what any of the local boys could ever offer. You suspect there are realms yet undiscovered that these gentlemen could guide you through.

Then, just yesterday, circumstances conspired so that you found yourself alone with the Viscount in the drawing room, his mother and most siblings having returned to Bridgerton House in London that morning, leaving only he and Benedict behind. It was as if he could scent your desire, for he crowded into you, taking a deep, lewd inhale before asking if you would be willing to provide services beyond those of a maid for him and his brother Benedict, services of an intimate nature. You almost tripped over yourself with excitement to consent. His victorious smile had your insides molten. However, you were confused when, instead of touching you or taking you right then and there, he merely nodded and withdrew, declaring that he would make arrangements.

And so here you are. Summoned into Anthony’s study on an early summer’s afternoon, he sat behind his desk with Benedict casually off to his side, shooting you a crooked smile when you had meekly entered.

“You can read, yes?” Anthony checks belatedly as you look down at the papers he handed you. 

“I can,” you confirm, suddenly so grateful for your grandmother's insistence that you learn as such, in spite of your lower social standing.

“Then please read. Take your time,” Anthony assures. “If everything is to your satisfaction, we shall all sign. If you have any questions or need help understanding any of the contents, we will be happy to assist. Or if you have any requested changes, we will ensure those are annotated with Mr Patter here as witness.”

You take a deep breath, then begin to peruse the paperwork, which may well be the oddest, perhaps the only, document you will ever sign. The matter-of-fact, business-like arrangement is so at odds with the subject matter at hand, but somehow you are inordinately grateful for such ceremony. Especially when you read specific clauses that secure a future for you, should the perhaps inevitable happen.

Anthony’s elegant, looped handwriting is scrawled large across the page, a flutter behind your ribs as you slowly take on board everything he has written down.

+++++

This agreement is strictly secret and confidential. Its content, existence, and the identity of those involved shall be known only to the parties concerned and the witness to its signing, the latter also being responsible for its safekeeping.

Party A, hereafter known as Doe, willingly and knowingly enters into the following arrangement with Parties B & C, hereafter known as Bucks.

Doe hereby agrees to the following:

Doe will not have sexual contact with any other person for the duration of this agreement.

Doe will be available for sexual activity with and/or penetration by Bucks at any time. This may include both Bucks at the same time.

Doe will not expect or request any preparatory activity or preludes for sexual activity, including (but not limited to) kissing and embracing.

Doe permits full, unfettered use of her entire body by Bucks at any time, including while she is asleep. Doe permits any part of Bucks’ bodies to be inserted into any part of her body. She also permits Bucks to insert inanimate objects into any part of her body.

Doe will follow any and all orders given by Bucks. Doe may experience physical discipline and the infliction of temporary pain. Doe may invoke the word ‘red’ to cease any activities that inflict a level of pain she cannot bear.

Doe will participate in any of the above activities in any environment, including (but not limited to) public settings and in front of other people. Said people will not be permitted to touch Doe. 

Doe will not wear any undergarments at any time while Bucks are in residence, or anything else that restricts their prompt and easy access to her nether region. 

Doe will sleep naked at all times while Bucks are in residence.

Doe will keep her netherneither region readied for use at all times, via oils or other such lubricating substances, including when asleep, while Bucks are in residence.

Doe may refuse Bucks only under the following specific circumstances. No other reason for refusal is permitted:

Doe is sick or injured. OR

Doe is on her courses, evidence of which will be provided. OR

Doe is heavy with child (within 3 months of expected delivery).

Bucks hereby agree to the following:

Bucks will abide by Doe’s refusal if her reason is specified in the list above (see clause above). Bucks would like it noted Doe’s courses or her being heavy with child does not preclude their interest in sexual activity, should Doe be amenable to such.

Bucks will not deposit their seed in a manner intended to cause Doe to become with child. However, should this happen unintentionally, Bucks will be bound by the clauses below regarding medical care and provisions for any resulting offspring.

Bucks may discipline and inflict temporary pain upon Doe, but will not undertake activity with the intention of permanent scarring. 

Bucks will only insert inanimate objects into Doe that are clean and can fit into where they are being inserted without causing injury or lasting distress.

Bucks will cease all activity they are undertaking if Doe invokes the term ‘red’.

Bucks may choose to inform other household staff of this arrangement, but only to the extent necessary to ensure activities can take place uninterrupted and without knowledge of Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family. 

Bucks will provide the best staff bedroom within their household(s) for Doe to be its sole inhabitant. Bucks may enter said bedroom(s) at any time.

Bucks will provide and pay for all clothing suitable for Doe's standing and/or employment. 

Bucks will provide all necessary transportation for Doe should they wish to engage her outside of her principal place of residence/employment, that being their country home.

Bucks will provide and pay for all medical attention for Doe, above and beyond that which is provided to the usual household staff, including in any cases of discomfort, distress, anguish, sickness, injury and pregnancy.

Bucks will provide for any offspring born of Doe that are conceived as a result of their actions. This includes (but is not limited to) a suitably sized dwelling in the local area to be kept in ongoing good condition for Doe for the perpetuity of her existence, plus an immediate £1,000 per birthed offspring for all future food, clothing, healthcare and education. Bucks will not publicly acknowledge offspring as their own but retain visitation rights as/if they wish. Offspring will not bear Bucks last name or be eligible to otherwise inherit from their estates.

All parties hereby also agree to the following:

12. Maintain a suitable level of personal hygiene and grooming, including regular bathing, trimming of nails and body hair, particularly in intimate areas.

13. Keep this arrangement strictly confidential from Bucks' mother, siblings and extended family.

This agreement becomes instantly null and void should any of the following occur:

One or both Bucks become betrothed. If this occurs, a new arrangement may be negotiated between any interested parties, including the Buck(s) betrothed.

Any other member of Bucks’ family is informed of or becomes aware of this arrangement. 

Doe leaves the employment of Bucks’ household.

Doe becomes infected with any pox or incurable disease that could be passed to Bucks.

Any party may request a meeting with all other parties and the witness to this agreement to resolve any disputes that may arise, including any non-compliance with the clauses above.

Any party may terminate this agreement at any time, for any reason, by written notification to the other parties and the witness. All other parties must adhere to the termination of the contract without question or reprisal. 

Signed by:

_____________

Party A (Doe)

_____________

Party B (Buck #1)

_____________

Party C (Buck #2)

Witnessed by:

_____________

William Patter Esq, Patter & Sons, Canterbury, Kent, England 

On _____________ (date)

+++++

“I understand all of the content. I have no questions or requested changes,” you confess quietly, knowing you are flushed, trying to tamp down your need to squirm, your clit pulsing softly, aroused merely by the words upon the page, let alone what they could signify.

Both men look extraordinarily pleased, their faces lighting up as you take the proffered quill and scratch your signature above the line for Doe, the first thing you have ever signed. 

The men then move in and sign; Anthony as Buck #1, and Benedict as Buck #2. All of your signatures are vague enough that no identifying names can be easily determined at first glance.

Anthony hands the paperwork to Mr Patter, who signs as the witness before sealing the document in his folio and, rather quickly, makes his excuses, heading out the door to his awaiting carriage…

… Leaving you all alone with two gorgeous men that you have just promised your body to—belly afire, pussy drenched.

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

Anthony & Benedict taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282

[fayes-fics]

heheh I love reblogs like this NGL! So happy you enjoyed this. Thanks for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

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

Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower

[fayes-fics]

I'm delighted you enjoyed this series so much! I'm halfway through the next instalment. Hopefully soon! TY for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

✨ Lessons Masterpost ✨

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Ratings: 18+ explicit smut, minors DNI, threesomes, no incest

I just realised, months later, I had not made a masterpost for my Lessons threesome series. So here it is!

Regency Timeline

In narrative chronological order, not the order written

✨✨✨✨

The Lesson

Anthony agrees to teach Benedict the ways he keeps his girl satisfied.

✨✨✨✨

Lesson Learned

Anthony catches his girl and Benedict without him and teaches them both a lesson.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons Taught

Anthony and Benedict team up to teach some lessons.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons Applied

It’s time for Anthony to be taught a lesson.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons In Motion

The boys give their girl an eventful carriage ride.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons In Roleplay

The boys play dastardly highwayman and rescuer for their girl.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons In Breeding

The boys are in a race to get their lady pregnant.

✨✨✨✨

Lessons in Matrimony COMING SOON

Our throuple take the next emotional step...

✨✨✨✨

Modern AU Timeline

✨✨✨✨

Today’s Lesson

Modern AU, it's playtime with the oldest Bridgerton boys. (not part of Regency story timeline)

✨✨✨✨

[fayes-fics]

Bahah, yay it's THAT gif 😉 I need to get back into modern AU filthy mouth Benedict, cos hooo boy is he fun lolol. TY for reblogging this, my dear 😁🧡🧡

Rhythm

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Modern AU. Filthy talking and dancing with Benedict.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, dirty dancing, dom/sub undertones, hair pulling, biting, frottage/thigh riding, female orgasm.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: This is an anon request fill (request: Benedict talking and dancing dirty, please, please, please. TY). Sorry, this is at least 4 months late Nonny. This is also dedicated to @chaoticcalzoneranchsports and @bridgertontess. Thanks to @eleanor-bradstreet for the title suggestion. i hope you all enjoy <3

You are dancing, correction, gyrating in time to the pounding music, your back pressed up against his front. He’s a tall solid presence, and there’s a large hand almost branding an imprint onto your stomach through the delicate layer of your dress. The smell of warm bodies and overpriced alcohol lingers in this hot, sticky nightclub. His name is Ben. He’s a friend of a friend—Kate’s brother-in-law. Anyway, you are tipsy and horny, and he is gorgeous with hazy eyes and a troublesome smile. You push back into his crotch and roll your hips, the message unmistakable. Uncaring who is watching, the rest of your friends have already left.

“Are you always so forward?” the voice that rumbles in your ear is resonant, well-spoken and tinged with an edge of something that fizzles right to your core.

You twist your head to place your lips near his ear. “No, there’s just something about you… sir,” knowing that the last word is loaded, you are provoking him, seeing if he’ll be into playing. It’s been ages since you had a night of passionate kinky sex, and he looks like sin incarnate in expertly tailored trousers and an even better-fitting shirt.

“So, is that what you are into? Hmm?” His other hand grabs your throat, forcing your head back so you look up at the ceiling. “I could give you exactly what you need right now,” he intones, the delivery now more gravelly.

You throb inside your underwear, and your nipples pebble hard, rasping your bra with delicious friction. Oh, hell yes, he is into it.

“Tell me more,” you stutter out, utterly enthralled, the pressure on your windpipe just the right amount of danger to make your body sing, bodies rubbing deliciously against each other. He has read you like an open book. 

His lips brush the shell of your ear, warm and plush. 

“If you call me sir, I assume you want a name too? And I think I know what you like to be called,” he begins, his voice pitched low so it reverberates in his chest pressed into your spine; that hand slides away from your neck to your bare shoulder. “I think you like to be called a good girl,” his fingers trail down the length of your arm, igniting little tracks of fire over your skin. “Especially when you are doing unspeakably filthy things. If I'm right, press your fingers between mine,” he adds as his hand covers yours at your side.

He huffs victorious as you lace your fingers into his.

“Oh, good girl,” he praises as you shudder and shift your stance wider, wrapping your other arm backwards, looping your hand around his strong neck, fully rotating your hips in circles with the beat, hypnotised by the potent crackling energy between you.

“I felt that delightful little shudder,” he murmurs, his breath so hot on your ear. “Let's see if we can make you do it again, shall we?” your bodies moving together in a sinful, sinuous motion.

You just nod gently. 

He tugs at your dress so it is tight over your breasts. “Look at your gorgeous nipples, so hard. Are they aching? Does every move of fabric over them make you want to moan?” His voice is deadly, making them pebble almost painfully under the restrictive pull he has created. You want his tongue to soothe them. “Oh, such a sensitive one, eh? Do you like light brushes of thumbs, or do you prefer to have them squeezed between fingers, hmm?” He pauses, waiting for your response,

“Squeezed,” you admit on a deep exhale.

 He makes a noise. “Mmm, I thought so. You like just a little bit of discomfort, don’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“Hard sucks rather than gentle licks,” he guesses, again correctly. “Perhaps some teeth too. Do you want me to bite your nipples?” 

“Yessss,” you hiss, mesmerised as he gets on a roll.

“Are you ticklish?” He feathers fingers down your side, easily felt through the thin fabric. And you attempt to wiggle away, but his hold is too firm. “Oh, definitely ticklish,” he concludes with a chuckle. “When I run my fingers, mouth and nose down your body, I will enjoy making you giggle and squirm under me” — more debauched promises that catch your breath. 

His hand lands heavy on your diaphragm and smears down to your belly, the heat, strength, and sheer size making your breath catch. 

“And what will I find when my tongue sinks below here?” he asks, his little finger slipping into your belly button through the fabric. “Will I be able to smell your arousal? Hmm?“ You stutter as his tone slips into an even lower register. “Because I'm pretty sure I can smell a trace of you right now, and it’s delicious.” 

He kisses that spot on your neck that turns you to putty as the hand slips lower to the space below your belly button, and the heel of his palm digs in as his hips surge forward. There’s no mistaking what is pressed onto your left bum cheek. It makes your breath catch, and you ache to see, touch, and maybe even taste it.

“How wet are you right now?” he buzzes, his breath dusting your earlobe as he takes it into his mouth and bites gently.

“Very,” you whisper back, almost unheard.

“I want to slide my fingers between your legs and feel it,” he sighs, “but perhaps that is too much for such a public space. I will just have to keep talking and dancing with you in this delightful manner.”

Part of you wants to grab his hand and haul him into a taxi; take him back to yours right now. Another part wants to lean back into him and listen to that sonorous voice spout filthy things, the delicious promise of what could transpire as arousing as the possible reality.

“Please do,” you croak out and feel the curl of his confident smile on your cheek. 

You know people are stealing judgemental glances at the two of you, dancing so dirty, limbs entwined, and heads together. But the cocktails are making you carefree, hedonistic, uncaring of what others may think, just hunting the euphoria of chemistry and connection.

“I want to taste you so bad,” he breathes, “wrap my arms tight around your thighs, bury my face into that delicious scent and run my tongue between your legs until you scream, and I have to hold you down as you squirm so damn hard for me.”

You feel your core pulse as he says it, and your clit throbs heavily. Desperate for friction.

“Oh god…” the whisper leaves your lips before you can stop it.

“What? What is it?” his tone breathy and decadent.

“I'm so turned on,” you gasp, wishing you could hide it but can't. “I'm aching.”

He makes a noise that is deep and wanting, and he spins you in his arms, so you face him. There is a sheen across his forehead, his pupils blown wide, and a vein in his neck jumps. He dips slightly lower, slotting a leg between yours as you sway to the music. When he straightens up again, the meat of his quad muscle is pressing up onto your clit, and you gasp as he smirks at you. He holds your hips and drives you up and down his upper thigh, taking your weight and making you see stars.

“How's that?” he crows, knowing just how much you like it by the hitches in your breath and how you claw at his shirt.

“Holy fuck,” you mutter, as his grin gets wider and he presses his cheek to yours.

“Tell me what you like, how you like sex to be.” 

“I… I like it a little desperate, you know?” you murmur, feeling his heartbeat thrumming in his temple. “When you just can't handle it, and things get ripped off bodies. Maybe a little biting and perhaps a touch of rough treatment, just a little bit.” You've never admitted to a virtual stranger where your proclivities can range if the choice is there.

He hums approvingly as his movements mirror yours. “So you want me to rip off this lovely silk dress?” he asks, trailing a single warm finger down your spine. 

“Yes, please,” your reply is instant.

His teeth open on your neck and press lightly over your jugular, and fire runs in your veins. Your knees suddenly feel weak, and you bear more weight onto his thigh, riding it almost unashamed.

“Oh, look at this,” he chuckles darkly, “I've found your little obedience switch. You really do like to be bitten, don't you?”

You nod as the grip on your hip becomes a rough squeeze, digging into your flesh. “You want fingerprints on your hipbones?” 

“Yes, sir,” you answer languidly, under his thrall now.

The hand moves lower and round to the globe of your bottom. He pulls it away a fraction, then spanks your cheek; you moan so loud he tenses slightly.

“Shhhhhh, my dirty little girl,” he orders low and deadly, “I can see how much you really like a spanking.”

The music changes track to something with a sinful pulsing bass beat, and your bodies move together in a new rhythm.

“What would you do to me?” you murmur desperately into his warm skin, breathing in his citrus and woodsy cologne. “If I took you home right now, what would you do?”

“Do you want to find out, or do you want me to tell you?” the glittering promise in his voice is so beguiling.

“Both,” you exhale, and his lips finally meet yours. He invades your senses, a long deep, drawing kiss that steals your breath and has your tongues dancing together in a way that makes you feel even more intoxicated. This time on him, as much as the alcohol.

“Everything I've already told you and so much more,” he promises, sotto voce over your lips. “I would make you a screaming, soaked mess with my tongue, and then I would fuck you. Yes, fuck. I know you have had sex; you've probably even made love. Not like this,” his tone is smokey and dark.

The throb in your underwear is unbearable, and you feel yourself leaking out of your tiny underwear and onto his expensive trousers. You know he will sense it, seeping into the fabric separating your skin. And by god, you want him to feel it, hoping it will goad him even more. 

“How will you fuck me?”

“What is your favourite position?” he queries hotly.

“Anything that feels deep,” you confess honestly.

“I can tell that's a truthful answer because you subconsciously bit the corner of your lip after you said it.” he breathes over your cheekbone, your body still moving in tandem. “And, may I say, quite the most excellent answer. I'm sure it feels sublime to be buried deep in your body.”

At this point, it feels like he plans to torture you with filthy, murmured promises all night and something in your snaps—no longer able to withstand the tension boiling between you, making each touch feel like liquid fire.

“For god sake, please just make me come,” you beg. 

“Right here?” he checks.

“Yes.”

He growls and grabs a clump of hair at the base of your neck, forcing you to look up into his eyes. “Are you going to ride my thigh until you come, you dirty little girl?” he inquires, the other hand insistent on your lumbar spine, ensuring you are grinding hard.

“Yes, as long as you keep talking, god, please never stop talking,” your whole body shuddering again at the intensity coiling deep inside you. His lopsided smirk is prideful and devastating, like you just gave him carte blanche to destroy you.

“I never did tell you how I would fuck you, did I?” you shake your head and keep sliding on him, a vice-like grasp on his right shoulder and your left hand on his shirt bunched in your grip. “I’ll start slow,” he begins, “slow and shallow at first; get you used to me.” His tone is dripping with the confidence of a man with a sizeable cock, which, to be fair, seems accurate based on the bulge you graze every time you slide up his thigh. “Then I’ll go deeper, see if you can take me all in; I hope so because I can’t think of a place I want to be more than buried to the hilt in you. I'll hold just long enough for you to enjoy being so full, and then I will start moving again. All the way out to the tip, then thrust back in.” 

You are panting against his cheek as he rumbles such detailed filth, snagging your clit over his thigh, drunk on him, on the mental pictures he builds.

“Slow out, fast in, kissing you over and over, swallowing the noises you're making as you take all of me. Then I'm going to experiment with angles, see if I can hit somewhere that makes you see stars, curse, cling to me, beg me to make you come,” he moves one hand to cup your jaw as he talks. “Then that's what I will put all my efforts into, hitting that spot over and over and over,” his thumb sneaks into the corner of your mouth. You don't dare look anywhere but deep Into his blown pupils. “As you get so desperate, all fingernails and teeth, clenching my cock so hard as you say filthy things teetering in the edge until I touch that little clit of yours, and you break screaming. But I don't want to come yet. I have to fight that urge, hold everything back… because guess what?”

“What?” you pant.

“I want to do it all over again. Build you up and take you over another edge. It won’t take long, especially with my thumb on your pulsing engorged clit, even as you thrash because you’re still too sensitive there. But you will; before you know it, you’ll be coming again. Trembling this time, quieter but no less powerful. I’ll be watching your eyes roll back, your lips call my name and that? That is when I’ll let myself come with you, buried deep as you babble and milk me with your little aftershocks.” 

No one has talked to you like this before, so brazen, so filthy, so matter of fact about something so private in such a public arena. And you can’t get enough. The hand on his chest straying down over his cock, the heat and girth taking you by surprise. You may well need some build-up to take him all in, and you just know he will be able to hit every spot you like without even trying, and damn if that doesn’t make you flood even more.

He groans heavily. “Do you like what you feel?” he murmurs hotly in your ear, and you nod vigorously. “Good. You are soaking my leg, my good girl; it’s taking all my willpower not to bend you over right here.”

You whimper at that idea, moving faster; the thick muscle there is just the perfect stimulation you need. You couldn't care less about any audience you may have; it's probably heightening the experience.

“Bite me,” he encourages you, sounding almost winded. “Go on, leave your mark on my neck.”

You want to. So much. Something about the sturdiness there and the bulge of his Adam’s Apple makes it impossible to resist.

So you do. You straighten up, and with your fingers still splayed on his cock you sink your teeth lightly into the cord of his neck as you ride his leg, one of his hand snaking between your bodies to pinch your nipple hard. Its all the catalyst you need to hurtle you over the edge. Your clit burns white-hot as you break, screaming your release into his delicious-tasting skin, his other fingers leaving bruises on the crest of your hipbone as you jerk and spasm on his quad muscle.

“Oh fuck yes, darling girl,” he gusts, utterly impressed and aroused, “fuck you are amazing. Don't you dare stop,” he groans, surging his cock against your fingers now.

You can scarcely believe you are coming in front of so many people, wrapped around him like a vine, your feet barely touching the ground as he heaves you over his leg, and you convulse, feeling the tingles of ecstasy firing in every synapse and shooting out to your fingers and toes. 

“Ben, Ben, Ben,” you chant his name, abandoning the sir, muffled into him. He groans harder, letting you ride out the last of the wave until you slump against him, breathing laboured, your whole body still fizzing, knowing you would break all over again with just a touch of fingers.

“We are leaving right now,” he growls, “I need to be inside you within twenty minutes, or I will die.” 

“But my place is further than that,” you slur, pouting, still leaning on him.

He chuckles into your hairline. “Good thing mine isn't. How does ten minutes sound?”

“So fucking wonderful,” you pull back and smile up at him, sated.

“I couldn't agree more.”

And you couldn't be happier when he picks you up, winds your legs around his waist, and stalks out of the club.

And you couldn't be happier when he picks you up, winds your legs around his waist, and stalks out of the club. 

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[fayes-fics]

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An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

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[fayes-fics]

Aww, I'm so pleased you enjoyed this, lovely friend! I'm so behind with my thank yous, but special thanks to YOU for betaing this. Gotta love a feral Viscount. TY for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

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Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower

[fayes-fics]

Bahaahh I enjoyed your GIF here 😆 I don't plan a sequel for now, but I never say never! TY for reblogging my dear 😁🧡🧡

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

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Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower

[fayes-fics]

hahah I always enjoy your gif reactions, TY for reblogging this 😁🧡🧡

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When your marriage is not what it seems, Viscount Bridgerton is more than willing to provide that which your husband does not.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, extramarital affair, loss of virginity, sex teaching, innocence kink, corruption kink. Nipple play, clitoral stimulation, hand job, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, orgasms, smidge of breeding kink. Background homosexual characters, period-typical attitudes to homosexuality.

Word Count: 6.3k

Author's Note: Long-awaited request fill for @daisfordaysstuff with Anthony corrupting a chaste newlywed who has unwittingly entered a lavender marriage. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading like a trooper. Enjoy! <3

As you wander into the splendour of Bridgerton House, part of you wishes your husband of just a few weeks, Baron Sanderton, were accompanying you. It feels odd to attend a ball alone. 

Now that you are a married lady, it is not really noted, unlike earlier in the season when you were a young debutante, and being unchaperoned would have been considered scandalous. What a difference a few short weeks and a ceremony make.

Earlier today, your new husband, feeling unwell, sent his apologies to the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton but insisted you should attend without him, to enjoy yourself and catch up with your friends. It was a lovely gesture, but also one that makes you sigh, even as you survey the beauty of the ballroom, resplendent with flower garlands wound around every rail and pillar. Your new husband is such a confounding man in many ways. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, never anything but a pure gentleman. Which, while courting, you had expected. It's since marriage that you have become more perplexed. 

Your mama gave you a speech on the morning of your wedding, clumsily explaining how your husband would visit your rooms and to allow him to do things to you. That if you are fortunate, what he does will result in you having beautiful children, and thus worth enduring. You did not dare tell her that you already knew some of what she speaks, having listened to the housemaids with a keen ear over the years. They inadvertently provided much more detail about marital acts that, frankly, you were eager to experience, their recounting so very contrasting to your mother’s version of events. A tingle between your legs when you eavesdropped on some of their more salacious conversations. 

And yet… not once in the intervening weeks since your wedding has your husband visited your bedchamber. Merely bidding you goodnight with an affectionate buss on your temple. Choosing instead to stay up late into the night with his good friend Baron Ledworth, a perennial bachelor, locked away in his wing of the house. Sometimes you wonder why he even married you, when he seems to prefer spending all of his spare time with his best friend; the fondness between them undeniable, especially behind closed doors.

And thus, to your chagrin, you find yourself a married lady but still a maiden, your union unconsummated. You grow, well, increasingly frustrated with every passing day that you do not get to experience that which you have overheard so much about. 

“Baroness Sanderton,” someone greets, breaking your reverie.

“A splendid evening, is it not?” You offer a polite response in return, not wanting to reveal that you don't recall their name, quickly moving on to seek champagne.

You perk up as you spy a whole table with glasses bubbling and grab one, downing it with alacrity. You watch the other guests pile in, craning your neck to see if any of your friends arrive with their mothers, many of whom are still seeking a match. As the minutes tick by and none of them yet appear, you grab a second glass, downing that too.

“Please do leave some champagne for the other guests, Baroness Sanderton,” a refined male voice rings out drolly.

You twist to find a bemused Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, the most eligible of eligible bachelors, by your side. You are instantly tongue-tied and contrite. Not only that your quaffing habits have been noted, but also by none other than the most handsome man in all of England.

For many a year, you had abstractly hoped that he may be the one to propose, fanciful of a notion though that may have been. You doubt anyone will be able to tame the rake that is Viscount Bridgerton. Still, now that you are a married lady, it appears he is much keener to converse with you than when you were an eligible Miss in want of a spouse.

“I am thirsty, Viscount Bridgerton,” you counter, aiming for nonchalance, even as your skin prickles hot as he continues to linger next to you.

“I thought the Baron sent his apologies,” Anthony’s brow knits.

“He did, but he insisted I attend as I wished to catch up with my friends,” you explain, twirling your empty glass between your thumb and finger, desiring another but not any accompanying judgment. 

“How novel,” he chuckles. “I would have thought you both inseparable in the first flush of marriage. Almost certain you would have caught whatever ails him, with so much time spent in close, intimate proximity.” 

The way his voice drops an octave, hinting at things which should not be discussed in public, has a frisson skittering down your spine. And yet the champagne already has a hold of your tongue.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” you riposte quietly, then instantly are flooded with regret as to what you have let slip, your cheeks heating rapidly. 

Anthony’s whole demeanour changes: surprise and intrigue claiming his handsome face as he grabs the empty flute from your hand and replaces it with another, rounding in front of you now, blocking your view of arriving guests.

“Baroness Sanderton, take my arm,” he enunciates crisply, in a volume you suspect is for other ears. “It would be remiss of me as host not to accompany you tonight, seeing as your husband is unwell.”

Looping your hand into his proffered crooked elbow, you allow him to lead you around the ballroom, still unsure why, but unable to resist the opportunity to be in his presence. Once you have completed a full circuit, acknowledging all and sundry in attendance, you are taken aback when he keeps moving towards a side door. Choosing the moment his mother steps onto a raised platform to welcome everyone, drawing the attention of the whole crowd, to guide you through said exit, unmarked by any other guests.

In the blink of an eye, you are out of the hubbub and being nearly dragged down a deserted hallway as his pace increases.

“Where on earth are we going, Viscount Bridgerton?” you frown, having to take quick, practically skipped steps to keep up, struggling not to spill any of your drink.

“Call me Anthony,” he responds, not remotely answering your question.

He glances around, then tugs you into a room, rapidly closing the door behind you, releasing his hold on your arm as he flicks a key in the lock. A vault in your stomach as you realise this appears to be his private office. A sizeable mahogany desk takes pride of place in a room lined with bookshelves, a plush reading chaise and a fire roaring under a portrait of a good-looking man you assume is his father.

“What did you mean, back there?” he fires rapidly, looking at you expectantly, an energy seeming to be rolling off him in waves as he ushers you further into the room.

“What do you mean?” 

You suspect, but do not wish to jump to any incorrect conclusions, mostly captivated by his animated demeanour.

“Has the Baron not fulfilled his duties as your husband?” he queries, his voice again in that lower register that has goosebumps breaking out across your arms.

“I am uncertain that I understand,” you feign ignorance.

Anthony fixes you with a stare so intense you feel frozen in an invisible spotlight. 

“Has your husband not attended to your needs, in the bedroom?" he rumbles, closing in on you, his hand cupping the bottom of your champagne flute, encouraging you to bring it to your lips.

You take a large sip, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes, pupils glittering, the reflection of the fireplace dancing there as you swallow the fizz. He awaits your answer, seeming very keen.

“He has not,” you confess quietly, your voice near cracking, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink you just took.

Anthony’s face looks like thunder. “How dare he!” he snarls indignant. “I knew he had a reputation, but I was hoping it erroneous.”

“A reputation for what?”

Anthony’s lips twist as if reticent to reveal what he knows. “To put it plainly, the Baron has never shown interest in female company. Until, that is, two months ago when his father threatened disinheritance unless he got married.”

You are suddenly reeling and slump back against Anthony’s desk. So much of what Anthony says makes the puzzle pieces fall into place. How out of the blue your husband’s interest and proposal were. How everyone seemed to whisper their surprise that he would so quickly take a wife so early in the season. But he was so very charming when courting you, part of you dismissed it as jealousy of those not chosen.

“He spends most nights with his friend,” you mumble absentmindedly. 

“Baron Ledworth?” Anthony guesses, and you nod. “Yes, he has never shown an interest in taking a wife either,” he adds pointedly.

“Are they…” Your voice falters, reluctant to say the next word, gulping champagne instead.

“I suspect so,” he affirms sagely. “Scandalous indeed, but it does happen, in secret.”

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently. 

There is a sharp breath from Anthony, and suddenly you realise you must have muttered your thoughts aloud under your breath.

“Your husband may have neglected his duties. But that does not preclude you from finding what you need elsewhere, discreetly. It is surprisingly commonplace for women who find themselves in marriages such as yours,” Anthony advises, a kindling in your belly as he speaks of such.

“Have you ever been party to such an arrangement?” You murmur, curiosity getting the better of you.

He smirks and takes a half step closer, plucking the now-empty flute from your hand and placing it aside on his desk, which you are still perched on.

“I have had no need to,” he shrugs, “but my brother has in the past and found it most… fulfilling. And I am not adverse to such a proposal, should there be one….”

It’s a knife-edge moment of potential and tension. The hissing of logs on the fire is the only noise in the room, save your slightly laboured breath as he draws closer, leaning into you. Your fingers curling into the desk on either side of your hips, certain you would not still be upright if it were not there, your legs suddenly turning to jelly, a roiling in your belly.

“Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Baroness Sanderton?” he inquiries, his breath hot on your face, his damp lips mere inches from yours.

Heart in your throat, you take a deep breath, then begin the boldest request you have ever made. 

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…” 

But you do not even get to finish the sentence. For the rest is swallowed by Anthony’s lips, landing squarely on yours, a low, throaty noise as he opens your mouth and kisses you like a wild storm.

Nothing could prepare you for this. Your husband’s kisses have been chaste, pecks on your lips or your face, designed as much for those who observed them as for you. This is wholly different: an invasion. Hands grasp around your waist, hoisting you off the desk and hauling you against his body as his tongue rolls over yours, your heartbeat erratic, a strong, slick pulse between your legs as he crowds into you, enveloping you in his embrace.

“Anthony,” you exhale his given name shakily as your lips part, taking a heaving breath.

It has a primal effect on him, his grip tightening, hands sliding low on your back, cupping your bottom and surging himself into you, a hard mass pressed into your belly. He breathes your name in return, before diving in for more, robbing you of every shred of sense. You are drowning in him, in his spicy amber scent, as you learn to mirror his actions, his approving noise is the very best sound you could swallow.

“How much do you know?” he asks as you resurface for air, his lips skating over your cheek. 

“Of?” 

“Relations between a man and a woman,” he clarifies as he sucks your earlobe lightly, gusting loudly into your ear.

“I have heard ladies' maids talking,” you admit, hands running up his biceps on instinct, a latent power lurking under the structured wool of his jacket.

“So then you know it to be the very best pleasure there is to be found on this earth,” he provokes, mouthing the sensitive skin of your neck, causing shivers to race down your limbs.

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register, an arrogance laced in his tone, yet enchanting when it is focused on you. “That door is locked, and no one will notice our absence for hours,” he declares categorically, nodding towards the entry. “Just how much you would like to learn today is entirely up to you, y/n…” 

The power of choice he bestows upon you in this moment is near dizzying, a tremble in your being at the thought of the pleasures that may await. You are once more tongue-tied, unsure even what you are asking of him.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, relinquishing his hold and swaggering over to the windows, making a show of pulling the internal shutters over the lower half of the pane, so that no one who may be wandering the gardens later during the ball would be able to see in. This space is entirely private, just for the two of you.

Knowing he has your full attention, he then performatively plucks at the buttons on his jacket, dropping it from his shoulders onto the back of the plush-looking reading chaise, his dark grey brocade waistcoat following suit, causing you to stutter a breath as each button pops open. Then he is prowling back towards you, rolling the loose sleeves of his white shirt up around his elbows, his toned forearms flexing delightfully as he does so.

“What did you decide y/n?” He teases as he draws close, his scent stronger now. That same cologne, but also something else that is all Anthony: his skin, his essence. It makes your mouth water.

“I do not know,” you offer honestly, as he tilts his head to one side as if assessing you.

“Hmmm, I suppose ‘tis too much to ask someone unfamiliar with what awaits them to know what they need,” he concedes, pulling you back into his arms, the press of his musculature so much more pronounced with fewer layers between you now. “I propose I try some things and you shall tell me if you dislike them?”

You nod enthused, and his responding smile has your insides melting.

“Good. Now turn your back to me,” Anthony orders, swirling a finger in the air, a subtle clip to his tone that has you obeying before you even realise it.

You jolt as warm fingertips trail down the notches of your bare spine above your dress, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Then his breath is warm in the tendrils of your hair, held in an elegant updo, as he slowly unbuttons the little pearls holding your dress together. You have only ever had a lady's maid undress you before. A quivering in your belly as his fingers instead pluck at the fabric, a singular knuckle tracing each notch between the lacing of your stays underneath. 

You have to lock your knees when two warm hands sweep up to your shoulders and push the fabric from them, your gauzy dress fluttering away and pooling in a circle around your ankles. Grateful for the fire, you now stand before him in just your stays and thin chemise; still, your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

You ache for him to touch your skin, pull you into another confounding kiss. But instead, you stay still, squirming slightly in your silken ballet shoes as Anthony’s deft fingers start to pluck at the criss-crossed lacing of your stays. You breath in short pants as your breasts bounce with each tug, the structure soon falling from your torso and discarded upon the floor.

“Turn around, my sweet,” he murmurs duskily in your ear, bestowing a term of affection upon you that liquefies a hot mass behind your ribs.

You do as asked, a tremble in your skin as he rests a knuckle upon your clavicle. 

“Do you know your own body?” he asks, your faint frown causing him to expound: “Have you touched yourself?” 

That knuckle slips lower, skating the top of your breast now.

“T-t-touch myself where?” You garble out, your mind scarcely able to keep pace with his questions.

“For starters… here.”

You inhale raggedly a featherlight brush over your nipple, like a live wire, even through your cotton chemise.

“I have not,” you stumble, tongue heavy, a tingle where he lingers. 

His fingers unfurl, and he lightly pinches your nub between them. You gasp and sway towards him, a sudden lightning bolt zipping between your legs.

“Oh my sweet, the things I could teach you….” he sighs sinfully, and it sounds like the very best threat in the world.

His touch gets heavier, the pinch more pronounced, your mouth slackening. But just as you think it may slip into an unpleasant ache, he smirks predatoryly and releases his grip. Your whole being throbs with need, a sudden pulse of blood to your nipple, amplifying the molten heat deep inside. It makes you want to hurl yourself upon him. Experience everything he has to offer.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, you tug the neckline of your chemise open, widening it until it slips over your shoulders and falls to the floor under his hooded gaze. 

“Teach me, Anthony,” you implore, standing naked before him, save your knee-high silk stockings and slippers.

There is a growl, and suddenly you are picked up in his arms, bridal style, him carrying you across the room, your shoes slipping from your toes with his movement.

He lays you down upon the chaise, its soft tufted velvet tickling your naked shoulder blades as he stares down at you, as if laid out as a delicious buffet. Your eyes are drawn to a bulge in his trousers that makes you swallow hard, clamping your legs together. That is likely his ‘cock’ you have heard talk of.

“Do you wish to know how a man can pleasure a woman? Or do you wish to learn a man’s body more intimately, how to please him?” he pitches, noting where your gaze has wandered, a shrewd quirk to his lips.

“Both,” you splutter, and he chuckles richly.

“Oh, you are the very best kind of innocent,” he asserts, looming over you. “So very keen. Your husband is an utter fool.”

His fingers are back on your breast, this time on your bare skin, sliding to capture your nipple again, pebbling hard under his touch, all-consuming, making your spine arch off the sofa.

“But all the better for me,” he opines, a smugness to his tone as he swaps to your other nipple, seeming so pleased at your responsiveness. Your lips tingle, wanting more of his heartstopping kisses, knowing it will sweep you into a riptide you do not want to be rescued from.

And he seems to intuit such, bending down to capture your lips, a moan bubbling up from within you and vibrating over your tongue as it parries with his. Lowering his whole body, his shirt chafing your darkened nipples, the rough wool of his trousers as he insinuates his legs between yours. You cling to him, the muscle under the thin material, unable to form words as you catalogue all the splendours of a man lying atop you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips sliding hot down your throat then lower still, sucking upon your clavicle, shuffling lower, his cock a hot press into your mid thigh as he traps your right teet in his mouth, and again you cant upwards, so much heat and suction, a beeline for that engorged slick ache between your legs.

You softly call his name, your hand flying reflexively into his thick, lush head of hair, scraping your fingernails over his scalp as he feasts upon you, moving to your left breast, his saliva cooling on your right puckered areola.

“You will tell me if there is something you dislike, will you not?” he quips, his brown eyes shining as he tilts to observe your slack-jawed expression.

“Do not stop!” You beseech, tilting your breast back towards his lips as he laughs carefree and goes back to teasing you so resoundingly.

His hands trail down your flank, to the flare of your hips, squeezing your flesh, the noises he makes as he feasts upon you just ratcheting you higher, a need burning brightly between your legs.

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…” 

You don't mean to voice it, but you cannot censure your mouth from your tumbling thoughts.

“Good,” he growls, surging his hips so the contour of his cock is unmistakable, the wool abrading the softness of your inner thigh.

“Will you be removing your clothes too?” Your query is tinged with hopeful curiosity, a yearning to see a man, this man in particular, without clothing.

“I could bring you untold realms without removing a stitch,” Anthony asserts, tone dripping with that conceit which is so attractive. “Just my fingers and tongue … “ he adds, licking a wide stripe up your sternum, before moving back up to your lips, one of his hands sliding between your bodies.

You cry out into his mouth as his fingers slip between your thighs, the slightest touch on the swollen nub nestling there making you buck up.

“See?” he smirks, staring down at you possessively, as he unhurriedly flicks a mere fingernail over that bundle of nerves.

“What is that?” Your wide-eyed question makes his laugh echo into your ribs.

“That, my sweet girl, is what you should have been playing with. Every time you felt that odd fizzling low in your belly when you looked upon a man? This is what you should have done,” he intones, his touch getting firmer as you moan and writhe under him. “Gone home and touched yourself here. But then, if they taught you ladies as such, I doubt we would ever see you out in polite society again…”

He looks inordinately pleased with what he is doing to you and his own witty assessment, as all you can do is bite your lip and ride his fingers, a slick, wet sound growing louder as he plays with your body. 

“So delectable,” he murmurs, kissing you more, all open mouths and teeth, you moaning into him wantonly now, something building inside you that feels almost perilous, a feverishness that makes you rash, impetuous, your hands plucking at his shirt, needing his skin upon yours.

He withdraws his hand, and you whine at its loss, but stare transfixed as he brings those now glistening fingers up to his lips. So close you can almost smell your scent upon them, honeyed yet tart. You gasp as he plunges them into his mouth, his eyes closing as he sucks his own fingers. You are quite sure this is not what ordinary men do; so debauched, untamed in his enjoyment of your flavour.

Releasing his digits with a wet pop, he suddenly rears up and, crossing his arms, tugs his shirt up and off, it sailing away in an arc as your eyes feast upon his physique. You have seen artwork of shirtless men, mostly in religious contexts, but none seem quite to compare to Anthony Bridgerton. A fuzz of hair over his torso thickest in the indent between his pectorals, but fanning out across his broad slab of chest. A line also runs down the centre of his tapered waist, disappearing temptingly into his trousers. You ache to know how far it goes, wanting to trace it with your fingers.

“Go ahead,” he goads, as if intuiting where your thoughts have gone, courage seizes your hands. 

Your fingers plough into the thatch, surprised by how soft it is, tracing all the lines under his rapt attention.

“Soft…” you mutter, petting him, letting your touch slide brazenly down over his belly button, sweeping the top of his trousers. 

“Keen, I see…” he smirks, but you can't help but match his smile as he starts to undo the buttons at his hip, more than willing to show you that which you are curious to see.

He athletically jumps up to standing, towering over you as the buttons relent and his trousers hit the floor. You suck in a breath. There, nestling at the end of that trail of hair, is his cock. Much larger than you had expected, the solid cylindrical mass curved up towards his washboard stomach, tapering at the tip where it is flushed with a darker hue. Beneath it, a twin sac that droops. An instinct to touch has you making to sit upright, but a quelling hand on your shoulder halts you.

“Lie back, my sweet, just watch,” he murmurs, his other hand circling a fist around his cock and moving the skin there up and back down with one swipe as he groans. You observe, fascinated as he repeats the motion a few times. “This is how you handle it, do you follow?” he checks, and you affirm, keen to be allowed to copy his actions.

He crawls over you again, seizing your wrist and guiding it towards his cock. His lips ghost yours as you grab hold of him unseen, his face filling your entire field of vision. Velvety smooth skin over a stiff mass, your fingertips just touching your thumb as you encircle him.

“That it…” he encourages, his eyes intent on yours as he huffs delightful little noises over your lips, you slowly pumping his cock in your hand, getting used to its dimensions, its shape. The warmth and weight are wonderful; you cannot help but speed up a touch, his approving groan your guide. You pause as a substance drips onto the side of your fingers as your hand travels up to his tip. 

“‘Tis normal,” he rapidly assures, but he whimpers when you pull your hand away.

Bringing your fingers up to your mouth, much as he had previously, he makes a noise of garbled surprise as you follow his lead. Your tongue darts out to lick the substance from your fingers, intrigued as to what it might be like. The singular flavour makes you pause, uncertain if you particularly like it. Not bad, but not as sweet as that which you could taste in his mouth from your own body.

He mutters a curse at your actions, you unaware of the effect they have upon him. Suddenly, with a snarl, he tugs your fingers from your lips, diving down for a kiss that is more desperate than any previous, lowering his entire being flush to yours once more, so much naked skin-on-skin contact as he plunders your mouth.

“Are you entirely certain you want this?” He checks, his voice changed to a touching sincerity—such a tender contrast to his ferocious kiss.

“Yes I am more than certain,” you confirm, running your nails down the play of back his muscles to emphasise your point, his cock searing against your throbbing clit.

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

“Your cock goes inside my quim,” you sate, parroting words you have overheard.

“Well, yes, but not quite yet, my sweet,” he advises over a warm chuckle. “For I have not yet prepared you for me. I should, as this is to be your very first time.”

Anthony’s touch glides between your legs, but this time, he barely brushes your clit. Instead, he sweeps lower, and you startle at the novel sensation of a finger pressing into you, a trickle of wetness leaking onto your bottom as he does so.

You are certain your face is a picture as he slowly rocks into you, going a fraction deeper each time, your slick juices easing his way, your vice-like grip on the rounds of his shoulders, the anchor you need. Your gaze pings between his face, watching you closely, and down your body to where his toned, hair-dusted forearm curls between your thighs, tendons flexing with each gentle push.

“You have just enough of an opening for me to do this, my sweet,” he tutors softly. Then a different finger presses lightly on a spot that causes a little twinge to tug inside. “But this barrier shall soon be broken… by me,” his voice turning a touch gravelly. “Only me,” it's throaty and possessive, leaning down to capture your lips bitingly.

He adds another finger alongside the one buried within you, making you moan over his teeth with how full you feel. The motion of his hand speeds up, cleaving your walls open over and over, your pussy clinging tightly to his knuckles.

“That’s it, you take me so well,” he lauds breathily, a faint quake in his being, holding back from being too rough. 

“I… I am ready for you, Anthony,” you appeal, bowing yourself upwards into him to underline your message.

You mewl as his fingers retreat from your pussy. An odd bereftness, as if something is missing without him inside you.

“Am I so very glad your husband is otherwise persuaded,” he declares, but gives you no time to respond, for he kisses you so many times that you lose count, almost light-headed as he barely allows you time to draw breath. 

Then his hips move, pulling your legs wider apart and, as your tongues meet, you stutter loudly at a sudden blunt, hot pressure between your legs that can only be his cockhead.

“This may hurt a little,” he counsels, pulling up to stare into your eyes, his pupils utterly blown.

You bite your bottom lip, but give him a look that permits him to continue, gasping as the pressure builds. There is a stab of pain that is momentarily searing before he groans and slides deeper. Your eyes go wide at the persistent stretch, magnitudes more than his fingers, your channel forced open by his cock. Every inch you are certain is more overwhelming than the last, seeming to take forever until he halts, a warm sac resting upon your bottom.

“How is that, my sweet?” His ask is soft and he drops a delicate kiss on your cheek.

So many sensations in your being at once: the throb in your distended clit mashed hard against his pubic bone, a light burn in your tendons from your thighs being pinned so very wide open, the heat radiating from his body cloaking yours, that insistent pressure inside; entirely alien but so very enthralling.

“I-I-I feel very full,” you profess, haltingly.

Your choice of words seems to make him puff with pride. “I am going to move now,” he explains, cupping your jaw gently.

Without breaking the intense eye contact, he draws back until just his tip remains inside you, then ploughs back in, you moaning loudly as your breath stolen from the potency of it all, your pussy pushed wide by his invasion. No longer any trace of discomfort, just a zing of pleasure that races from your core all the way to the top of your scalp. A cloying need for him to crash into you repeatedly, curling your fingertips into his bottom to telegraph your desires.

He more than takes your hint, initiating a rhythm that has you moaning loudly. He wraps around you, his lips on your neck as he fucks into you in a wave, a squeak of protest from the chaise as he does so.

“Be as loud as you wish,” he murmurs hotly into your skin, “no one shall hear us above the sounds of the ball.”

Indeed, only as he utters such, do you become cognisant of a muffled cacophony leaking through the thick door for the first time since you entered the room—music in the ballroom, and chattering voices in the grand hallway competing with each other. 

And so you do, unfettered, vociferous, letting him know how much pleasure you feel coursing through your entire being as he surges into you, each noise you make seeming to catalyse him further. A growing looped call and response between you. You never expected the marital act to be this all-encompassing. How people talk of anything else seems impossible to you. You want to shout from the rooftops, want always to be entwined naked with this man, your body alive, a symphony racing under your skin, as he takes you somewhere truly magical.

“Do not stop…” You repeat, this time through clenched teeth, greedily grabbing at his shapely rear as it flexes. 

“I will not, not until you come apart,” he attests, his chest hair mashed into your pebbled nipples, as he moves over you. A pressure building far inside, your pussy leaking copiously around him, onto the velvet beneath you. But both of you pay no heed, only chasing pleasure.

Your hand flies up to the chaise back behind your head, needing an anchor, to match him halfway, force him deeper than he has ever been, a primal desire for him to leave an impression within you. He groans as you meet his thrusts, looking upon you with seeming disbelief, such wild abandon in your choices. 

A trickle of sweat tracks down from his hairline over the curve of his cheekbone, and you push up to seal your lips first to that salty track, then clumsily to his lips, needing more of his intoxicating kisses, skating an edge that makes your lungs restrict, all your muscles taut.

“What is happening to me, Anthony?” you gulp, a tide rising throughout your being.

“You are so, so close, my sweet,” he rasps, his voice low, scratchy. “I can feel you fluttering around me, just a little while longer, and you will know true bliss…” 

His silky promise makes you more determined, your pussy rippling around his cock, his tip seemingly steely as he ploughs deep, speeding up even more, an erratic desperation behind his moves that suggest he is similarly afflicted.

A hand worms between your bodies and you scream as his fingers strum your clit, so very swollen and coated in slippery juices. Your fingernails dig into his back as your entire being snaps into a technicoloured synesthesia, nudged into an oblivion, breath stolen, pulse racing, eyes clamped shut. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock as he howls into your ear from the pressure you exert. You whine at the sudden loss of him withdrawing rapidly, a slick tide following him as he splashes warm ropes of fluid onto your folds, barely pulling out in time.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk” he pants, collapsing over you in a manner that is almost suffocating, your bodies both tacky with sweat and cum, your lungs fighting for air under his mass.

“Anthony…” you croak.

He comes to his senses, rearranging your pliant, exhausted body on the oversized chaise so that he is curled around you, your spine pressed into his chest. 

“That was magnificent,” he opines, his lips crushing into your messy hair, your updo now entirely worked loose by the repeated jolts into the velvet.

You hum in agreement, hazily attempting to file away so many wondrous things about this seismic experience. Your combined fluids are tacky between your inner thighs as you snuggle back into Anthony, finally returning to yourself enough to make a query.

“What was that? That came out of your cock?” 

“That is my seed, my sweet. That which makes you with child.”

“Ohhh!” you exclaim, suddenly piecing together what your mother had said.

“You are a married lady and still they do not tell you such?!” He scoffs.  

“Not in any detail. I was told to endure what my husband may do to me, for that will give me a child,” you shrug.

He laughs incredulously, then twists you under him, hovering over you, a teasing quirk tugging at his lips. “Was that such a terrible experience to endure?” Anthony jests.

You can't help but grin impishly. “Utterly dreadful, my lord,” you volley back, a newfound confidence bubbling within, something profound about your womanhood. “And you did not even have the courtesy to leave me with child…”

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

“Do not tempt me, Baroness….” he cautions, his baritone vibrating into your ribcage.

“If my husband will not, perhaps you can…” You goad, knowing you are playing with fire for all concerned; such a scandalous, almost indecent, proposal.

“If he continues to abandon his duties, I shall have words with him.” Anthony proclaims fiercely.

You suck in a surprised breath. “You shall speak with the Baron yourself?”

“Why should I not? This provides the cover he needs to continue his dalliances as he sees fit, while to the outside world, the Barony line will continue. And it also allows for us to be intimate, for as much as you wish…” He reasons, nuzzling your jaw.

“But what of your duties?” You counter. “A Viscount cannot evade his need to marry any more than a Baron can.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes, then fixes you with a blistering look. “But until that day….” 

His lips seize yours, and any other thoughts scatter to the wind. And before you know it, he is teaching you something else new, this time parting your thighs with his broad shoulders and burying his face into your folds, you screaming to the chandelier above as all around Bridgerton House the festivities continue.

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

Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @cinnamoodles @blackdxggr @alexandrainlove @witty-wallflower

[fayes-fics]

Hehe, I'm so pleased you enjoyed this fun silliness, my dear, TY for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

Coitus Mahemium

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Crack fic. Sex can result in injury, but you keep going anyway...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, inebriation, vaginal sex, minor injury with blood, substance high, crack content.

Word Count: 0.8k

Author's Note: This is an anon request fill (from HERE) I got during Kinktober but held onto as it's pure crack. I'm dedicating this to a lovely friend, @chaoticcalzoneranchsports, who enjoys a bit of silly crack content as much as I do. <3

“Oh god, this feels so good…” you shudder, dragging yourself up and down in his lap forcefully, climbing towards orgasm.

“Fuck, I know….” he moans in your ear, hands wrapped around your bum cheeks, encouraging your bouncing, the vein in his neck pulsing hard as he, too, skates close to coming.

You didn't even make it off his sofa tonight; you both just tugged off your trousers, perhaps a touch inelegantly in your tipsy state, deciding to ride him right here.

You look down to watch his cock disappear between your legs, and he growls when he realises what you are doing. Unfortunately, the noise he makes has you snapping your head up just as he leans in….  And your noggin smacks hard into his face.

Benedict cries out and collapses back into the sofa cushions, his hands flying up to his face as he hisses.

“Shiiitttt! I'm so sorry!  Are you alright?!?” you fret, stilling your movements, unsure what to do. 

What is the correct etiquette here? Is it impolite for one to climb off a cock mid-fuck? Or is it more impolite to keep going after such a faux pas?

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he assures, muffled behind his hands cupped over his mouth and nose.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.. please don't stop,” he implores, surging his hips up to indicate he wants you to keep going, even as he doesn’t remove his hands.

You start to move slowly, holding his shoulders, your brow knitted in concern.

“Show me,” you request quietly when his face looks oddly contorted, slowing your moves to a stop.

“Please, please don't stop. I really want this. So much,” Benedict campaigns again, almost whiny.

“I want this too, but…” you reach forward and pull away his hands, shrieking slightly in surprise.

His lip is spilt, and his nose is bleeding, his hands are covered in blood.

“Fuck Benedict! We need to get that seen to! You might need stitches!” you fret and start to climb off.

“No!!” he gruffs, grabbing your hips. “I'm fine, just please, please. We can go to A&E… later,” he pulls you back down onto his cock, still impressively rock hard.

“Later?!” you echo in disbelief.

“Yes, look… fuck I want to come so bad, please…. just please…” he beseeches, pouting in a way that would look adorable, were it not the cause of another pulse of blood to appear.

“Benedict… I can't fuck a bleeding man…” you sigh, even as he attempts to do it himself, rocking his hips.

“Yes, you can!” he cries desperately, “just okay, look, wait….” He twists and reaches to the side table and grabs a box of tissues, quickly stuffing one up each nostril and jamming one between his lips. “There, all better…” he argues, muffled, even as they turn pink. 

“Ben…” he looks utterly ridiculous, and you can't help the tipsy giggle that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation.

“Ha! See?! You can see the funny side,” he contends, waggling a finger at you even as he rocks into you. You just stare at him with fond exasperation. “Please, y/n, pretty pretty please. I can't go to A&E with an erection and a bloodied face. That will just cause all sorts of questions. I don't want to be a doctor's anecdote. Think about it; you are actually doing me a favour here…” he wheedles, pulling that puppy-dog expression.

He has a point.

You shake your head affectionately, then start to move. He crows triumphantly, and his hands grab your bottom, smearing traces of blood onto your shirt where it hangs low.

“You don't think they will have questions that I have bloody handprints over my bum?” you point out sardonically with a groan, his cock so good, you are already right back to pleasure.

“You have a great arse; they will just assume I grabbed it to deal with the anxiety of my injuries,” he ripostes with panted breath.

“My arse is not a stress toy, Bridgerton!” you dispute, gusting each word as you climb towards ecstasy.

“It's a bloody fantastic one,” he lobbies back cheekily, “quite literally tonight…” he adds drolly, raising a comedic eyebrow.

You can’t help another giggle even as you ride harder, both of you groaning loudly now as you slam onto his cock, both so eager to come.

—

Half an hour later, the triage nurse raises an eyebrow as she clocks the large bloody handprints on the shirt-tails hanging over your bum and the blissed-out look on Benedict’s face. In hindsight, perhaps giving him some leftover codeine you found in his bathroom cabinet before you ordered the taxi to come here was not such a good idea after all. 

He’s now high as a damn kite.

“I use her arse as a stress toy,” he offers sincerely by way of explanation to the nurse, then lolls his head and shoots you a goofy grin.

“Clearly…” she deadpans.

“She’s so lovely; she made sure I didn’t have an erection, too,” he continues, confessional on the mix of alcohol and painkillers.

You slump your head into your hands as he reaches out and pats your shoulder haphazardly.

Yeah… Great way to avoid being an anecdote, Bridgerton.

No taglist as this is goofy silliness.

[fayes-fics]

fave fics (in no particular order):

many things

somewhere only we know

it had to be you

mrs bridgerton 1&2 (I actually asked for pt. 2 hahaha, you killed it)

and from the regency era the sonnet pt. 1 and the second son

much love 🩷

HI Nonny!

Oh, I'm so intrigued to know who you are, ngl! 👀😁 You are the reason Mrs Bridgerton universe became a thing! So TY 🎉

I really enjoyed writing that follow-up fic you requested, especially the scene where they break it to their kid. It came out exactly how I wanted it to, and for me, that's rare. I'm mostly frustrated that my writing is sometimes lacking compared to what I see playing out in my head. Anyway, it appears you are definitely a Modern AU fan! 🫶

Many Things was the first modern AU fic I wrote, and I still remember the enjoyment I felt while writing it. Especially the very vivid picture of them just going at it in the hallway, all riled up from their argument. I can still picture it so clearly now, even though I've not read it in AGES.

I'm so pleased you love Somewhere Only We Know too. It's probably my personal fave Modern AU one-shot.

Sonnet #29 will always be special for me as it's my first ever piece of fanfiction. 🥹

Second Son, I'm still so surprised it got SO popular (it's my #2 after Eden here on Tumblr in terms of notes). I literally wrote that in two hours on holiday weekend, while I was doing laundry lolol. I guess sometimes fics just fall out of my brain fully-formed, hahah.

Anyway, I will stop rambling on. Thank you for your message letting me know your faves 😁 Much love back to you 🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine

[fayes-fics]

Hi Faye! I love your fics so much! I just wanted to come in and show some love for your Mrs Bridgerton series! It's one of my favorites- not just of yours, but in the entire Bridgerton fic universe!! Idk if you ever have another one shot or something planned for that universe, but if you do I wouldn't mind it! 😉 I was listening to Juno and it made me think of this AU

Much love!!! 🥰🥰

Hi lovely!

Oh, Mrs Bridgerton. 🥹 Thank you for picking that. It has SUCH a special place in my heart and I don't even really know why.

I just love the idea of that sort of love story being portrayed more often. The ability of two people to have the bravery and honesty to admit they made a big mistake and to try again.

I do have a prequel planned for that universe, yes! It's a request for the story of the night they met, and it will be titled Becoming Mrs Bridgerton. It's on my pile to write. I haven't been feeling modern AU stories for a while now, but when I do, that is likely to be one I return to. That and my WhIle You Were Sleeping rewrite that I hope to pick up for the holidays.

I'm so pleased some music made you think of my fics. 🥹What an honour. Thank you for your lovely words. It means so much!

Have a great week, Much love back! 😁🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine

[fayes-fics]

I have TWO MONTHS of thank yous to catch up on. I am ashamed. 🫣 Please bear with me, as this week I will attempt to get to all my reblogs and queue them up.

I also hope to be writing soon. I've got a bit of an eye infection at the moment, so staring at the screen to type is tough, but I hope it will clear up soon and be back at it this week

Hope you are all well😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Hey Faye!

First of all, I am completely in ✨love✨ with all of your works! (Especially the Benny’s ones, as you can see from my pfp, haha. My fav one is probably ‘It Had To Be You’, which I enjoyed more than the movie🤧).

Second, you helped me a lot with the improvement of my english skills, since I’m Italian, especially in the writing part and I’m always in awe of your use of words, as it is able to canalise the emotions in such a wonderful way.

I hope you’re doing great!!

Much love from Italy🧡

Hi there!

Thank you for reaching out! I'm very pleased if my writing has helped you improve your English. Wow, what a privilege! It always blows me away that people all over the world read my fics. 🥹

I'm so honoured if you loved It Had To Be You that much! 🫶 I'm not sure I agree that it's better than the original movie, but you are so kind to reach out and say so! I had a LOT of fun writing a version of it in the modern AU Bridgerton universe.

I hope YOU are doing well, and thank you for your lovely message.

Much love TO Italy 😁🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine

[fayes-fics]

Hello Faye!

I wanted to share my favorite fics, and it was a bit hard to pick, but I managed. I do enjoy the one shots, but I always end up re reading the series/multichapters ones.

I really enjoy Moments, I love the idea of second chance with love, to have something they thought it would only be a fantasy when they met, something brief, but to later find out it was never meant to be like that.

I also enjoy It had to be you, I think about it a lot, because to me it is fun and kind of humanly, and I mean just in the way they both grew up and were still finding each other, and it was until they really stood still and let themselves be vulnerable to really see each other, despite the flaws they hated. I still had not watch the movie that inspired it, but to me this fic feels so itself that sometimes it is hard to believe it was inspired heavily in a movie.

For something smutty, because it is your blog and that's your mark, Innocent, it was so interesting taking that concept and not falling into the too naive and kind of manipulate dynamic I had read over the years when it come to the whole exploring their bodies and pleasure. So it is very dear to me.

Outside of the series/multichapters, I do love Modern Benedict lots, especially the Crack fics, I do love the text one that they start as a wrong number (I'm sorry I'm not good with names, but I do rememberthe plot), but that always brings a good laugh out of me.

So this is my take on this :)

Hi lovely! 🫶

Sorry, I've been offline a lot this weekend, but thank you for this message.

I'm so pleased you loved Moments. I adore the whole second-chance love of it all, too. The idea that sometimes the one that got away didn't really, you never know what life might hold!

It Had To Be You seems to be really popular, but I feel I can't really take credit for that in lots of ways, as it's so heavily based on the movie. I encourage you to watch it one day, so you will see how much is borrowed (purely affectionately).

Innocence, ah, yes. I love the idea of writing women who are exploring pleasure tbh even if they are virgins when they begin. The very best thing about Benedict is, he definitely aids and abets that; it's just in his nature. I'm so happy to hear you love that one.

Aww, I'm so glad you love the Modern AU text fics. That is closest to what I wish I could write one day, comedy content. I'm such a huge comedy nerd. Oh, the wrong number one was called Textual Encounter (a silly pun lol), and I had SUCH fun writing that.

Thank you for your kind words and for letting me know your faves. It means a lot to me that people have faves they return to. 🥹😁🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine

[fayes-fics]

I’m usually a silent supporter but I wanted to tell you my favorite of yours because it’s so underrated! I love the modern Anthony “Friends” series!!! It’s so good! But all your fics are amazing and I get so excited when you post! ❤️

Hi Nonny

Aww it’s so lovely to hear from you. 🫶 Please never be silent, you are always welcome on anon (or not).

Yay Friends+ series is a fun one. It brought great friend and beta @colettebronte into my orbit so I will always be grateful for that. 🥹

Thank you for your kind words. I hope to have new content for you soon 🤞😁🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine

[fayes-fics]

Wattpad is goading me 👀🤣

[fayes-fics]

Faye, I came to your blog to re-read a fic and saw your latest reblog and felt: well, it’s my time to shine

*cracks knuckles*

Favourite Faye Fics? (alliteration points) OKAY, HERE WE GO

I have to begin by saying I am a Benny Boy gal as you know. I also have a preference for Modern AUs - no idea why, maybe I know deep down I would be cast out of regency for a multitude of reasons within a week of being in the ton 😂

But, here’s a few favs:

‘It Had To Be You’ - strangers to bickering to friends to lovers? YES. yearning? Y E S. great smut? always in a Faye fic.

‘Somewhere Only We Know’ - similar reasons to above. Plus the idyllic atmosphere of a cabin in the outskirts of town - seems handcrafted for me.

‘Transitions’ - okay there is a trend here… friends to lovers with yearning and great smut. But I love how you write Ben’s smugness yet immediately caving for her in this. Him begging for her to finish at the end is a 10/10

‘When The World Is Free’ - I stick up to my reputation of being a yearning gal. But yes, the world building and character relationships in this are phenomenal. Not just with Benedict, but the crafting of the friendship with Eloise. How THEIR relationship is affected. It’s all so gorgeous, I can see it in my mind like a movie.

There are more I’ve not mentioned but I was about to read and go to sleep but had to reply to this reblog. Much love to you, Faye!

-yearning nonny

(P.S. if you’re curious I was gonna re-read Ingenu)

Hi lovely! 🫶

It always brings a smile when you appear 🥹 haha I never thought of the alliteration lol.

Aww it makes sense you chose the yearning fics, given your nickname. 😁

Who doesn’t love a bit of modern Ben eh? It feels like I haven’t written for him in donkeys years lol. I need to try soon You picked some of my fave modern Ben’s tbh. Somewhere Only We Know will always have a special place in my heart. 🥹 It Had To Be You was so much fun to write, mostly cos I adore the film but also the scenes worked so well gender flipped for a more modern audience imo.

Transitions was written specifically for a friend of mine and designed to injure them particularly, but I’m so glad it works for others too. He is just the right side of cocky in that. And I always love to write him begging hehe

Aww my literary baby When The World Is Free. 🥹 I’m so pleased you enjoyed her bond with Eloise as much as our boy. One day I WILL attempt to turn it into an original novel. I just need to chat to a WW2 expert to expand it properly.

Thank you for your very kind words and for letting me know your faves. 🫶 I hope you enjoyed your Ingenu re-read (awe virgin Ben is adorable) and are sleeping well.

Much love back to you! 😁🧡🧡

Tell me your fave fic of mine