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[charminglygrouped]

One very subtle but speaking moment in P&P that I don't think I've ever seen anyone talk about is this one:

“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.”

We all get caught up on the "six inches deep in mud" thing (and it is a very funny and versatile line)—but that misses the depth of the characterisation of Elizabeth that's developed in this sentence.

What Mrs. Hurst means is that Elizabeth had, at some point, been wearing her gown (this would have been morning dress) pinned up to show the bottom portion of her petticoat. This was pretty common in the very late 18th and early 19th centuries: an outer petticoat was not really considered an undergarment, but something that could be shown, at least in part. Gowns might be shorter than the petticoat; or very sheer to show a coloured petticoat; or slit up the front or sides; or entirely open in the front (called "négligée" or, racistly, "mameluke" style). A lot of petticoats were embroidered around the bottom (and sometimes in a pattern up the center as well) in a way that would be visible under these conditions. See these examples:

"Costume Parisiennes," The Ladies' Monthly Museum Vol 3 (April 1816), p. 231:

Evening Dress.—Round dress of soft white satin, made short enough to discover the muslin-petticoat underneath, which is ornamented with two full quillings of fine lace; the satindress finished at the border by four rows of scarlet velvet [...]. (see the illustration for this one here)

"London Fashions," The Repository of arts, literature, commerce, manufactures, fashions and politics (May 1, 1819), p. 304, plate 31:

A jaconic muslin petticoat, ornamented round the bottom with four rows of muslin trimming, composed of narrow welts finished with edging. Over this is an open robe, with a plain high body [...]. (description of left image above)

Ibid., no. 82 vol. 14 (Oct. 1815), p. 240, plate 22:

A cambric muslin petticoat, ornamented at the feet with a double flounce of French work, appliqued with a narrow heading of the same; the body, from the shoulder to the neck, gathered full into narrow trimming, corresponding with the heading of the flounce; a military collar, frilled with the French work; short French négligée, open in the iront, and trimmed entirely round to correspond. (description of right image above)

If Mrs. Hurst is correct, Elizabeth had either been wearing her dress pinned up anyway, or pinned it up specifically for the walk—and then, after she had arrived at Netherfield but before she had been announced, taken the pins out and let the skirt of the dress down to try to hide the dirt on her petticoat. This is an amount of forethought that suggests that she actually does care about how she looks, or about appearing tidy, or about what the party at Netherfield thinks of her.

She doesn't care enough to keep her from seeing Jane (“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want"), or enough to wish to avoid the walk (Mr. Bennet says “Is this a hint to me, Lizzy, to send for the horses?", which coming from him I think is tantamount to an engraved invitation to send for the carriage). But she cares just enough to briefly plan how best to minimise the damage, and decide to pin up her skirt before walking—or at least to take a moment to think about how she would appear to an observer, check her skirts, and take a step to improve her appearance slightly, once she had arrived.

Jennifer Ehle looks very cute and charming in the scene in the 95 version where she's walking to Netherfield and accidentally jumps in a mud puddle and looks at her skirts and shrugs like, oh well! But I don't think it's very "Elizabeth."

Elizabeth is sort of the Goldilocks of ladyhood. She doesn't have the rigid adherence to conduct-book logic that Mary has, or the sneering sophistication that the Bingley sisters have, or the impulsive, pleasure-seeking anarchic energy that Lydia has. She's neither very fashionable, nor completely without a sense of propriety, decency, or morality (whatever these words mean according to 19th-century mores). I think takes that emphasise only her wildness and distinctness from fashionable ladies, and takes that emphasise only her respectability, are both missing something.

[satellite-evans]

The Artist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: sometimes, an artist is far more interesting than the art itself.

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: fluff, angst? Anthony not being able to mind his own business, briefly mention of parents passing away

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Lady Danbury’s soirées were the heart of the social season—part chessboard, part battlefield, where every glance and whisper held strategic importance. Benedict Bridgerton, however, approached such gatherings as an observer rather than a player. He found the art on the walls more captivating than the posturing of the ton.

Wandering through Lady Danbury’s grand halls, Benedict stopped before a painting of a turbulent sea, his thoughts briefly drifting to his own half-finished sketches. A voice interrupted him, sharp and vibrant.

“It’s ambitious, but overworked. The sea churns, but the emotion feels... manufactured.”

He turned to see her: a young woman standing a few steps away, her posture poised yet unguarded. She wore her beauty with an effortless confidence, her eyes a vivid storm of intellect and intrigue. She wasn’t like the other women at the ball, fluttering fans and batting lashes. She observed the world with precision, as though she’d already decided it was hers to command.

“An intriguing critique,” Benedict replied, his interest piqued. “Though perhaps the chaos was intentional. Sometimes life demands a lack of restraint.”

Her gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Chaos is compelling, but it must be tempered with truth. This, Mr. Bridgerton, is a performance.”

“You know my name,” he noted, smiling. “You have the advantage over me, Miss...?”

“Y/N,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “And I find that knowing one’s audience is the first rule of any conversation.”

He inclined his head. “A lesson I’ll remember. Tell me, Miss Y/N, are you always this direct?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned back to the painting. “Do you sketch? You look at this piece as though you’re searching for something beyond the surface.”

Benedict blinked, surprised by her insight. “I do, though I’ve yet to create anything worth showing. You?”

“I paint,” she admitted, her voice softening. “But my work isn’t for the ton’s galleries. Some things are too personal to display.”

“Now you’ve made me curious,” he said, stepping closer. “What would it take to see one of your pieces?”

She tilted her head, her gaze teasing. “Persistence. But I should warn you—I am not easily impressed.”

Benedict smiled, already intrigued by the challenge. “Good. I prefer earning my victories.”

Before she could respond, Lady Danbury’s voice carried through the hall. “Ah, Benedict, I see you’ve met Miss Y/N. And what do you think of her opinions? Sharp as a rapier, aren’t they?”

Benedict glanced at Y/N, his expression warm. “Quite sharp, indeed. But rapier wit is vastly preferable to dull pleasantries.”

Lady Danbury chuckled. “I agree. Well, don’t let me interrupt. Though, Y/N, your brother Charles is looking for you. Something about the carriage.”

At the mention of her brother, Y/N’s composure shifted slightly. “Thank you, Lady Danbury. I’ll find him shortly.”

As Lady Danbury swept away, Benedict offered Y/N a small bow. “Will you grant me the honor of a dance before you leave?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, her eyes glinting with amusement. “If you’re persistent enough.”

Before Benedict could craft a suitably clever reply, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Y/N, it’s getting late.”

Both turned to see a tall man striding toward them, his posture commanding yet measured. He was dressed impeccably, the weight of responsibility apparent in his expression. His resemblance to Y/N—sharp features and the same striking eyes—was unmistakable.

Charles stopped beside them and inclined his head politely toward Benedict before addressing his sister. “The hour grows late, and I believe Lady Danbury is beginning to hint that the soirée is winding down.”

Y/N offered her brother a cool yet affectionate look. “You always did have an impeccable sense of timing, Charles.”

Benedict, recovering quickly, stepped forward with a polite bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Charles’s gaze sharpened slightly at the name before he returned the bow with measured precision. “Charles Y/L/N, Earl of Whitestone.”

Benedict’s eyebrows lifted in recognition, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Whitestone? I believe my brother, Anthony, has spoken of you. He mentioned you were recently elevated to the title.”

Charles gave a brief nod, his tone guarded but civil. “Anthony and I have known each other for some years. He’s a good man, and an excellent Viscount.”

“As I’m certain you’re an excellent Earl,” Benedict replied smoothly, sensing the protective edge to Charles’s demeanor.

The corner of Charles’s mouth twitched upward, though he remained composed. “I do what I can, though the title comes with its share of burdens. And you, Mr. Bridgerton, seem to have a knack for engaging my sister in conversation.”

Benedict chuckled lightly, inclining his head toward Y/N. “Your sister is an extraordinary conversationalist, my lord. I find myself quite fortunate to have made her acquaintance tonight.”

Charles’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who appeared unruffled by the exchange but wore a faint smile of amusement. “Fortunate, indeed,” Charles said evenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe it’s time to depart. Y/N?”

Y/N turned back to Benedict, her expression unreadable but her tone cordial. “Thank you for the discussion, Mr. Bridgerton. Perhaps we’ll meet again, should the occasion allow.”

Benedict bowed, his tone warm. “I certainly hope so, Miss Y/N.”

As Charles and Y/N walked toward their waiting carriage, Benedict watched them leave, his thoughts lingering on the sharp wit and quiet allure of Y/N.

Charles, walking slightly ahead of his sister, cast a glance back toward Benedict, then murmured to her, “He seems taken with you.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly as she replied, “Let him be. I’m hardly an easy conquest.”

Charles smirked faintly, his tone fond but serious. “Good. Just remember, Y/N, you’re worth far more than simple flattery and fleeting interest.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze forward but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

The clatter of carriage wheels echoed faintly as Charles and Y/N made their way back to their townhouse. The dim glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets, casting fleeting shadows across Charles’s pensive expression.

“You like him,” Charles remarked, breaking the companionable silence. His voice was even, but his words were laced with a quiet observation.

Y/N glanced at her brother, her expression unreadable. “He’s intriguing. Sharp-witted. But liking someone, Charles, is a luxury I can ill afford.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her carefully. “Luxury or not, you seemed more yourself tonight than I’ve seen in months. There’s no harm in entertaining the idea—provided you remain cautious.”

Y/N’s gaze softened at her brother’s concern. “I appreciate your vigilance, my dear Earl of Whitestone. But let’s not rush to paint him as either hero or villain. Men of his world are not often held to the same scrutiny as women of ours.”

“True,” Charles admitted, tilting his head slightly. “But Anthony Bridgerton isn’t one to speak highly of a man without reason. If his brother is half as principled, I’d consider him worth the risk.”

Y/N’s lips twitched at his words. “Risk, indeed. But enough about Mr. Bridgerton. We’ve our own affairs to manage, and I’m certain our tenants won’t care for my musings about art or charm.”

Charles nodded, though he noted the faint pink flush that crept up her neck as she turned toward the window.

As the Whitestone carriage disappeared into the darkness, Benedict stood at the edge of the Danbury estate, his gaze lingering on the path where Y/N had vanished. The warmth of the evening had cooled, but he hardly noticed the chill. His mind replayed their conversation—the sharp wit in her words, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of art, and the measured grace with which she had danced around his charm.

“Y/N,” he murmured softly, as if testing the sound of her name. It felt as striking as the woman herself, an enigma he couldn’t easily solve.

Lady Danbury’s sharp voice startled him from his reverie. “Well, Mr. Bridgerton, if you plan to stand out there all night, you might as well help me escort the remaining stragglers to their carriages.”

Benedict turned, an easy smile masking his contemplative mood. “I was merely enjoying the view, Lady Danbury. Your soiree is, as always, a triumph.”

Her keen eyes narrowed with amusement. “And yet your gaze was fixed on the road, not my ballroom. That young lady certainly left an impression.”

Benedict didn’t deny it. “She’s remarkable,” he admitted, more to himself than to Lady Danbury.

“Be careful with that one,” the older woman warned, though her tone was fond. “She has depth. And depth demands substance in return.”

Benedict inclined his head, her words sinking in. As much as he relished the challenge, he realized he wanted more than a fleeting encounter.

The ride home was a quiet one. Benedict sat in the carriage, the sounds of horses’ hooves a steady rhythm that gave his thoughts space to wander.

He’d encountered many women in his time—clever debutantes, bold widows, and those who wore charm like armor. But Y/N was different. There was a quiet power in her deflections, a vulnerability hidden behind her sharp observations.

His mind lingered on her smile, fleeting yet warm, and the way her brother, Charles, had watched over her like a hawk. Benedict respected that protectiveness—it spoke of loyalty, of family bonds he deeply valued.

When he finally reached the familiar halls of his family home, the house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft rustle of wind through the trees outside. He retired to his room, but sleep eluded him.

Instead, he sketched—rough outlines of Y/N’s features, her poised stance, the energy in her eyes as she critiqued the painting at Lady Danbury’s. Each stroke of charcoal carried with it an urgency, an attempt to capture the essence of someone who refused to be defined.

By the time dawn’s light began to filter through his window, Benedict set the sketch aside, his resolve clear.

“I’ll see her again,” he murmured, more determined than he’d been in years.

The following morning, the Bridgerton family gathered around the long dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Despite the sumptuous spread of fruit, fresh-baked pastries, and piping hot tea, all eyes were on Benedict.

“Who was she?” Eloise asked bluntly, buttering her toast with unnecessary vigor. “Lady Whistledown was positively tantalized.”

Benedict sighed, taking a deliberate sip of tea. “Good morning to you too, Eloise.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daphne chimed in with a knowing smile. “It’s not every day Lady Whistledown dedicates an entire paragraph to your exploits.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised. “Y/N Y/L/N, wasn’t it? I believe her brother, Charles, is the new Earl of Whitestone. Solid reputation, though he keeps to himself since inheriting the title.”

Benedict nodded, setting down his cup. “The very same. I had the pleasure of speaking with her—she’s sharp, insightful, and refreshingly candid.”

“And beautiful?” Colin teased, his grin wide.

“Extremely,” Benedict replied without hesitation, earning a round of laughter.

Anthony’s amusement faded slightly as he regarded his brother with a calculating look. “Charles is an old acquaintance of mine. We crossed paths during the early years of our titles. A good man, but fiercely protective of his family. Tread carefully, Benedict.”

“Always,” Benedict said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass of Whitestone’s modest garden, a sketchpad balanced on her lap. The cool breeze carried with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby hedgerows, mingling with the crisp aroma of her graphite pencils. The gardens were her sanctuary—a reprieve from society’s endless noise and expectations. Today, her focus was on a half-finished drawing of a willow tree bending gracefully over the garden pond. Yet, as much as she tried to focus, her thoughts drifted back to Benedict Bridgerton.

She had replayed their exchanges from Lady Danbury’s soiree countless times in her mind. His words had been genuine, his curiosity sincere. Yet it was his gaze that lingered in her memory—the way his eyes softened when he listened to her critiques of the art, as though he truly saw her and not just another face in the crowd. Y/N frowned slightly, annoyed at her own vulnerability. He’s intriguing, certainly, but so are countless men who wander into my path. Why should this one matter more?

Her pencil faltered as the sharp rap of a knock echoed from the front of the house. She stilled, curiosity piqued. Guests were rare at Whitestone, and Charles had already mentioned he expected no visitors today. She heard the muffled creak of the door opening and the low rumble of her brother’s voice, but the words were indistinct. Setting her sketchpad aside, Y/N rose and dusted her hands off on her skirts, wandering closer to the house with light steps.

Inside the parlor, Charles extended a firm handshake to Anthony Bridgerton. The Earl of Whitestone and the Viscount Bridgerton cut striking figures in the modest room, both exuding a commanding presence, though Anthony’s was tempered by a composed air of diplomacy.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” Charles greeted, stepping back to motion him inside. “This is an unexpected visit.”

“I thought it past time we caught up,” Anthony replied with a faint smile, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before settling back on Charles. “Though I must confess, my errand isn’t entirely social.”

Charles raised an eyebrow as he led Anthony toward the parlor’s armchairs. “I assume this has something to do with your family’s estates bordering mine?”

“In part.” Anthony seated himself with practiced ease, but there was a guardedness to his tone that Charles didn’t miss. “The other part involves my brother, Benedict.”

Charles stilled briefly, his expression giving nothing away. “Ah, your brother,” he said smoothly, taking his own seat. “I must admit, he did make an impression at Lady Danbury’s soiree.”

Anthony’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “So I’ve heard. I trust my brother behaved himself?”

Charles smirked faintly, folding his hands over his knee. “Mr. Bridgerton was... eager to engage my sister in conversation. Though I’m not sure she was as willing to reciprocate.”

Anthony chuckled, but his tone shifted, his words laced with sincerity. “Benedict speaks highly of your sister. It’s rare for him to show such genuine interest, Charles. He’s not one to court frivolities.”

Charles leaned back, his gaze sharpening. “You understand, Anthony, that Y/N has had her fair share of shallow suitors. She’s cautious, and rightly so. My priority is ensuring her happiness and protecting her from anyone who sees her as a fleeting amusement.”

“Benedict doesn’t play such games,” Anthony replied, meeting Charles’s gaze head-on. “In truth, I’ve never seen him take such an interest in anyone. Your sister seems to have stirred something in him—though, knowing Y/N from your stories, I suspect she hasn’t made it easy for him.”

Charles allowed himself a faint chuckle. “No, she certainly hasn’t. Y/N is not one to be charmed easily. But it’s clear your brother is determined, which could either work in his favor or cause him considerable frustration.”

Anthony inclined his head, his expression softening. “Benedict values substance, as I’m sure Y/N does. They may both surprise you.”

Charles studied him in silence for a moment before offering a measured nod. “We’ll see. For now, I’ll judge him by his actions, not his words.”

Y/N lingered just beyond the doorway, her heart racing at the snippets of conversation she managed to overhear. Charles’s voice, steady and firm, carried faintly through the air. He’s defending me, she realized, a pang of gratitude swelling in her chest. Her brother’s protectiveness had always been her shield against the pressures of society. Yet, there was another voice—smooth and commanding.

The Viscount Bridgerton.

She had never met Anthony before, but his reputation preceded him. To hear him speak so highly of his brother was... surprising. Benedict’s charm had seemed effortless, but perhaps it ran deeper than she had assumed.

Careful not to draw attention, Y/N eased closer to the edge of the doorway, curiosity getting the better of her.

Anthony’s final remark, “They may both surprise you,” was met with a soft clearing of a throat. Both men turned to see Y/N stepping into the room, her expression poised but her gaze quietly assessing.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” she said with a faint smile, addressing Anthony. “You must be Viscount Bridgerton. I apologize for not greeting you sooner.”

Anthony rose immediately, his movements fluid and respectful. “Miss Y/N,” he greeted, his tone warm. “The pleasure is mine. I was just remarking to your brother on your keen sense of discernment. It seems Benedict wasn’t exaggerating.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening. “He spoke of me?”

Anthony’s smile mirrored hers, though he chose his words carefully. “Indeed. Rarely have I seen my brother so animated in recounting a conversation.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Charles, whose stern expression had softened, before settling back on Anthony. “That’s high praise coming from you, my lord,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Perhaps I should be flattered—or cautious.”

Anthony chuckled, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “Flattery or caution—either is warranted. But if I may, Miss Y/N, Benedict is many things, but insincere is not one of them.”

Y/N seated herself gracefully, her expression thoughtful. “Then it would seem your brother and I have much in common,” she replied smoothly, though her mind raced. What exactly has Benedict told him?

As Anthony and Y/N exchanged polite conversation, Charles observed his sister closely. Her tone was cordial, her posture poised, but he knew her well enough to detect the subtle sharpness in her gaze—a warning to anyone attempting to pry too deeply. She wasn’t rattled by Anthony’s words, but she was undoubtedly calculating her next move.

Anthony, for his part, seemed at ease. His diplomacy was well-honed, his remarks layered with subtle reassurances. Yet Charles couldn’t help but feel the quiet tension in the room. Anthony was here not simply to visit a friend, but to ensure Benedict’s intentions were made clear—or perhaps to defend them.

“I find it intriguing,” Y/N said, interrupting Charles’s thoughts, “that you’ve taken the trouble to visit us, my lord, when your brother has already made his interest known. Surely, you trust his judgment?”

Anthony’s brow arched slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do, Miss Y/N, though it would be remiss of me not to learn more about the woman who has managed to hold my brother’s attention.”

“And have you drawn your conclusions already?” she asked, tilting her head.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but not intrusive. “Not entirely. But I do know this: my brother is a man of passions—art, creation, and the search for something meaningful. He finds those qualities rare. I suspect he believes he’s found them in you.”

Y/N’s composure didn’t falter, though her chest tightened slightly at his words. Her response was deliberate, each word measured. “An interesting theory, my lord. I wonder what he might say if he were here to speak for himself.”

As the conversation unfolded at Whitestone, Benedict Bridgerton was oblivious to his brother’s bold intervention. He sat alone in the Bridgerton family’s drawing room, a half-finished sketch resting on the desk before him. It was an abstract piece—a hazy rendition of the way the light had played across Y/N’s face as she’d described the painting at Lady Danbury’s soiree.

Frustrated, he set the pencil down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t seen her since the garden farewell days ago, and the memory of her enigmatic smile lingered like a half-finished melody. Every word she had spoken felt deliberate, each glance calculated. Yet, for all her guardedness, he had glimpsed something more—an intensity that matched his own.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the sketch with a mix of irritation and admiration. What is it about her that has me so utterly undone?

The door creaked open, and Colin poked his head inside, his ever-mischievous grin firmly in place. “Still brooding over Lady Y/N?”

Benedict scowled, though there was no real malice behind it. “I’m not brooding.”

Colin stepped inside, uninvited, and plucked the sketch off the desk. “Is that so? Because this,” he said, waving the paper, “tells a rather different story. Don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over one of Anthony’s sermons.”

Benedict frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Colin flopped onto the settee, clearly enjoying himself. “Anthony’s gone to Whitestone, hasn’t he? To visit Y/N and her brother. He practically ordered Newton to saddle the horse this morning.”

Benedict shot to his feet, his voice incredulous. “Anthony went to Whitestone?”

Colin’s smile widened. “Oh, yes. Didn’t he tell you? I’d wager he’s there now, making some long-winded speech about Bridgerton honor and the seriousness of your intentions.”

Benedict’s fists clenched, though it was more out of frustration than anger. “Of course he would meddle,” he muttered, pacing the room. “I don’t need him playing matchmaker.”

“Perhaps not,” Colin replied, his tone light. “But I suspect you’ll thank him in the end. Anthony may be insufferable, but he has a way of clearing obstacles—even those you’re too stubborn to see.”

Benedict ignored him, walking around in the room furiously waiting for his brother to come home. He did not need Anthony meddling with his business when even he didn't have the chance to visit you or buy you flowers. He prayed that his brother didn't scare or intimidate Y/N in any shape or form.

Back at Whitestone, Y/N’s mind churned as Anthony’s words settled. The sincerity behind them was disarming, but it also raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She glanced at Charles, who was watching the exchange with his usual stoicism. Her brother was protective, and she valued his judgment, but she also resented feeling like a piece on a chessboard. Why should my life’s direction hinge on the machinations of two Bridgertons?

Y/N straightened, her voice breaking the charged silence. “You speak highly of your brother, my lord. But I can’t help but wonder if his interest is shared equally by the rest of your family. Surely a marriage, that you keep mentioning I might add, between a Bridgerton and an earl’s sister comes with certain expectations.”

Anthony’s expression didn’t falter, though his gaze turned contemplative. “You’re right, Miss Y/N. Family expectations can be... formidable. But we Bridgertons tend to weigh them against the matters of the heart. My brother is pursuing you not for duty, but for something far greater. That is why I came—to assure you that his pursuit is no fleeting fancy.”

Her breath caught for the briefest moment before she composed herself. “And yet you speak for him instead of letting him speak for himself. Tell me, viscount Bridgerton, is it a tradition of your family that the elder brother visit first before the man himself came here to court me or are you just more excited than Benedict?"

Anthony’s smile turned faintly amused. “Perhaps. But as the head of the family, it is not a tradition, but my duty to do so."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the Bridgerton drawing room, where Violet sipped her tea, listening to Eloise debate some pamphlet on societal reform. Colin, seated nearby, was making a show of writing letters while sneakily trying to eavesdrop.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a sharp creak, followed by the heavy sound of deliberate footfalls. The atmosphere in the house shifted.

“Anthony,” Violet remarked, looking up from her teacup as her eldest son entered. His expression was stony, his movements clipped.

“Anthony, you look—”

Anthony!" Benedict’s voice roared through the house, heavy with fury.

"Benedict," Anthony greeted cautiously, straightening. "What’s the meaning of this outburst?"

"The meaning?" Benedict spat, his voice echoing through the room. "You went to the Whitestone estate without even telling me. You had no right!"

Violet, startled by the commotion, stood. "What’s going on here?"

"Ask your eldest son," Benedict said bitterly. "Apparently, he’s taken it upon himself to play matchmaker or, worse, guardian of my personal affairs."

Anthony’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly calm. "Benedict, I was only acting in your best—"

"No!" Benedict interrupted, his voice rising. "You were acting in your best interest, Anthony. Or, at the very least, what you think is best. You didn’t consult me, didn’t even think to ask what I wanted!"

By now, the household was gathering in the hallway, drawn by the shouting. Eloise whispered to Colin, "This is far better than the last novel I read."

Anthony’s patience began to fray as he stood taller, his tone hardening. "I went because I thought you might care for her, Benedict! And if you do, it’s only natural to ensure the family is suitable."

"How dare you presume to know what I care for!" Benedict snapped. "And what of her? Did you think she’d appreciate you barging in, uninvited, to assess her worth like livestock? I don’t even know if I care for her, but now I may never have the chance to decide for myself because of you!"

Anthony’s face fell briefly into guilt before he rallied. "I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was trying to protect you—"

"Protect me from what, Anthony? From a young woman with a talent for art and a brother navigating his new title? Or perhaps from the whispers you always seem so terrified of?"

"You don’t understand," Anthony said sharply. "These things matter. Reputation matters. If you pursue her—"

"Stop!" Benedict’s voice was loud enough to make the rest of the family wince. "You don’t get to make this about reputation or family honor. You didn’t even think to come to me first, and for that alone, you’ve overstepped!"

Violet interjected, her voice firm. "Both of you, enough. This shouting is unbecoming."

"Unbecoming?" Benedict scoffed, his anger undiminished. "What’s truly unbecoming is my brother meddling in affairs that are none of his business!"

Anthony took a deep breath, his voice dropping but still heated. "I went because I thought it was for the best, Benedict. If I was wrong, then I apologize. But don’t act as if I’ve committed some great crime for trying to protect my family."

Benedict shook his head, his jaw tightening. "If you wanted to protect me, Anthony, you should have come to me first. You should have trusted me to handle my own life."

Without waiting for a response, Benedict turned and stormed out of the room, the sound of the door slamming behind him reverberating through the house.

Benedict rode hard, the crisp autumn air stinging his face as he left Mayfair behind. The rhythmic pounding of his horse's hooves against the packed dirt offered little solace, the anger from his fight with Anthony still churning in his chest. The thought of his brother making decisions about his life—his relationships—without so much as a conversation left him fuming.

The horse slowed as they approached Hyde Park. Benedict hadn’t meant to end up here, but the vastness of the greenery and the relative quiet of the park seemed preferable to the confinement of Bridgerton House. He dismounted near a cluster of trees, tying his horse to a low branch.

Wandering through the park, Benedict eventually spotted a familiar figure seated beneath a sprawling oak tree. Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass, a sketchbook balanced on her knee, her brow furrowed in concentration as her hand moved deftly across the page. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice his approach.

For a moment, Benedict simply observed her. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on her face. There was a peacefulness about her that pulled at something deep within him, a stark contrast to the chaos of the morning.

He cleared his throat softly.

Y/N jumped, her pencil jerking across the page. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide before recognition dawned. “Mr. Bridgerton!” she exclaimed, a hand flying to her chest. “You startled me.”

“I apologize,” Benedict said quickly, stepping closer. “Startling you was not my intention. I... Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, let alone you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, though there was a trace of humor in her gaze. “Hyde Park isn’t precisely secluded, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Touché,” Benedict conceded with a small smile. “Still, I seem to have a habit of interrupting you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in her lap. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. Then, with a resigned sigh, she handed it over. “It’s not finished,” she said quickly.

Benedict took the sketchbook, his eyes scanning the page. It was a study of a fountain in the park, the water captured mid-flow, the surrounding trees sketched with delicate precision. “This is remarkable,” he said sincerely. “The way you’ve captured the movement of the water—it feels alive.”

Y/N flushed at the compliment, though she tried to mask it with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing special. Just practice.”

“Your modesty does you no justice,” Benedict said, handing the sketchbook back to her. “This is more than practice. It’s art.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but she said nothing, her eyes dropping to the sketch.

They sat in silence for a moment before Benedict spoke again. “I owe you an apology, Miss Y/N.”

“For startling me?” she teased, though her tone was light.

“For that and...for my brother’s intrusion at your home earlier today,” he said, his voice more serious now.

Y/N looked up sharply, her expression unreadable. “You knew?”

“I only found out after the fact,” Benedict admitted, frustration seeping into his tone. “Believe me, if I had known what Anthony was planning, I would have stopped him.”

Y/N studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I won’t pretend it wasn’t unsettling to have the Viscount Bridgerton show up unannounced, but your brother was respectful.”

“That doesn’t excuse him,” Benedict said firmly. “He had no right to involve himself. Whatever this is,” he gestured between them, “it’s our business, not his.”

A flicker of something passed through Y/N’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even approval—but it was gone before Benedict could decipher it.

“Your brother’s actions are understandable, though,” she said finally. “Family often feels entitled to protect us, even when we don’t need their protection.”

“‘Entitled’ is the word,” Benedict muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

Y/N tilted her head, a trace of amusement creeping into her expression. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry,” Benedict admitted, though his voice softened as he continued. “Not just because Anthony went behind my back, but because I... I don’t want anyone to think I need someone else to make my decisions for me. Least of all you.”

Her brows lifted at his candor, and a small smile played on her lips. “I think I can decide what to think of you, Mr. Bridgerton, regardless of your brother’s interference.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink around them. There was an openness in Y/N’s gaze that felt like an invitation, though to what, Benedict wasn’t entirely sure.

“May I sit?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N gestured to the patch of grass beside her. “Be my guest.”

Benedict settled himself beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. The tension that had coiled in his chest all day seemed to ease in her presence.

“Do you often come here to draw?” he asked after a moment.

“Whenever I can,” Y/N said, glancing at the fountain in the distance. “It’s one of the few places in London that feels...free.”

“I can see the appeal,” Benedict said. “There’s a tranquility here. A sense of space.”

“And yet you seem restless,” Y/N observed, her eyes studying him intently.

Benedict chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose I am. My family has a way of...complicating things.”

“Families tend to do that,” Y/N said lightly.

He turned to look at her, a question forming on his lips, but he hesitated. “Do you...” he began, then stopped.

“Do I what?” she prompted.

“Do you find it hard?” he asked finally. “Being the person others look to? Shouldering the weight of their expectations?”

Y/N’s gaze grew distant, her fingers idly tracing the edge of her sketchbook. “I think we all bear expectations, whether we like it or not. The trick is deciding which ones matter and which ones don’t.”

Benedict nodded, her words striking a chord. “And have you decided?”

Her lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile. “I’m still working on it.”

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and the faint splash of the fountain. For the first time that day, Benedict felt a sense of calm.

Perhaps, he thought, this wasn’t such a terrible day after all.

( part 2 anyone?)

[lynati]

(Oh, the author of this is having FUN!)

"Vance's speech, on the other hand, wasn't just underwhelming but a little uncanny. Despite using room dividers to shrink the space, the campaign could not hide that the crowd felt like a medium-sized wedding, albeit a pathetic one where no one cares for the couple. Vance, perhaps recognizing charisma isn't his strong suit, spoke briefly before bringing up a series of local citizens ready to blame Mexicans for their familial tragedies of drug addiction. He spoke for a couple more minutes, before taking the reporters' questions about cat ladies. 

"Even in his short speech, it seemed Vance — like the Trump campaign overall — is still struggling to accept that they are running against Harris and not President Joe Biden. It felt like the speechwriter had typed Ctrl-F "Biden" and replaced every instance with "Harris," whether it made sense or not. Vance accused Harris of hiding from the press with a "basement campaign." Never mind that Harris is now the young and spry candidate who can keep up with an aggressive schedule, while Trump is the tired old man who can barely campaign between naps. 

"One upside to the Vance event: There was no line to use the ladies' room. Sure, there were women in attendance, but the gender ratio felt like the guest list on Joe Rogan's podcast.

"There was one kind of diversity in this small but weirdly intense crowd. Every type of white man that gets a hasty "swipe left" on his dating profile was in attendance: 'Roided out dudes with bad tribal tattoos. Older men radiating "bitter divorce" energy. Men with enormous beards that have never known the touch of a trimmer. Skinny fascists wearing expensive suits, despite the oppressive heat. Glowering loners staring at the two women under 40 like cats watching birds out a window. 

"There's a lot of chatter in MAGA circles about how the enthusiasm for Harris is "manufactured," as if all the people bringing down the house on an early Tuesday evening in Philadelphia are phantoms instead of real people. 

"But boy, I was there, and they are very real. More than that, the contrast with the Vance event underscored the Democratic messaging about "normal vs. weird."

"The people who flooded the Temple stadium looked like any cross-section of America on any given night. There was old, young and all in-between. There were tattooed hipsters and soccer moms. There were people of every race, dressed in every which way. It could have been a crowd of people chosen at random from the streets of Philadelphia, or any city in America, really. They were brought together by the chant quickly becoming the Harris campaign slogan: "Not going back."

(The full article is longer than this, and you should give the whole thing a read.)

[corvid-language-library]

和製英語（わせいえいご）

Japanese word constructed of elements from one or more English terms; pseudo-English word or phrase coined in Japan

和 = Japan, Japanese style (also: harmony, peace, soften)

製 = made in...; manufacture

英 = England, English (also: hero, outstanding, calyx)

語 = language, word, speech

Examples

A non-exhaustive list. Please feel free to reblog and add more!

サラリーマン (salaryman) white-collar worker

オフィスレーディー (office lady) female version of "salaryman"

フライドポテト (fried potato) fries

スーパーボール (super ball) rubber ball, bouncy ball

ガソリンスタンド (gasoline stand) petrol/gas station

サイン (sign) signature

マンション (mansion) apartment block

ツインテール (twin tail) pigtails, bunches

ソフトクリーム (soft cream) soft-scoop ice cream

ホットケーキ (hot cake) pancake

タッチ (touch) high five (does also mean "touch" apparently)

キーホルダー (keyholder) keyring

ブラインドタッチ (blind touch) touch typing

シャープペンシル (sharp pencil) mechanical pencil

シール (seal) sticker

アメリカンドッグ (American dog) corndog

バイキング (viking) buffet

ワンピース (one piece) dress

ビーチサンダル (beach sandal) flip-flops

[myfictionaldreams]

All Eyes On You // Mafia!Stucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: “Do you know what we would have done if we had turned up to that restaurant and seen you all dolled up like that? We would have bent you over the table in front of everyone and shown them exactly who you belonged to". - Steve Rogers.

Quote from my other fic titled 'The Fun Game'.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, threesome, exhibitionism, voyeurism, possessive sex, dom/sub, rough sex, table sex, praise kink, deep throat, throat bulge, creampie, multiple orgasms, sir kink, oral sex, size kink/difference, hints of subspace

Words: 4k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

“How far away are we Sam?” you asked your bodyguard from the back seat.

“Only a couple more blocks, Boss Lady. Not much longer”, he remained calm to try and counter the anxiety that seemed to be rolling off of you.

“Ok, thank you”. Taking in a deep breath you allowed it to loosen the tense muscles throughout your body for a moment before releasing it out of your nose. The moment's peace only lasted for that, as your stresses went to other areas such as your palms began to sweat as you mentally cursed yourself for not remaining calm.

Adjusting your dress for what felt like the 50th time that evening, you looked out the window, beginning to recognise the area as close to your destination.

You were late—more than late. In fact, it was past the point of being fashionably late and you were beginning to look straight-up rude now, but it hadn’t been entirely your fault.

Ok… this was a slight lie as you had woken up late from a nap, rushing to finish your make-up and get dressed before meeting Sam in the car outside of your home where he laughed at your rushed expression.

“It’s fine sweetheart, we’re only a few minutes late”. This was true until one of the tyres went flat and then there was the traffic which was horrendous.

Of course, you’d called Steve explaining what was happening and he was swift to calm your nerves, “It’s fine beautiful, don’t rush, we aren’t going anywhere. Can’t wait to see you…”. His voice was low as he spoke through the phone, it was the type of tone that had your thighs clenching together and anticipating pumping through your veins.

Today, was your weekly, “fancy date” - as Bucky referred to it. Where the boys wanted to take you out to the beautiful restaurant that Steve had shares in, and knew the owner as well as the chefs. It was famous throughout Brooklyn for its reputation, only the highest of nobility could book a table and even then, it had to be done months in advance. But due to Steve’s connections, every week the exact same table was booked in the centre of the room, underneath the exaggerated crystal chandelier, a pianist in the corner and a scattering of other tables surrounding yours.

But now, you were late for the first time ever, having always been the punctual one in the relationship, it filled you with dread to be late. Not only this but you just wanted to be with them both already because they’d been out from the crack of dawn, attending meetings and phoning manufacturers.

“Here we go”, Sam’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as he parked right outside of the restaurant. Your bodyguard and friend promptly exited the car and opened your car door, holding a hand out to help you to also climb out of the car.

“I’ll catch you tomorrow, Boss Lady”, he then announced after opening the front door for you to enter. As you were now with Steve and Bucky, the building was always being scouted by guards and was safe for Sam to go and enjoy his evening off. Giving Sam a quick hug before he left, you finally walked further into the restaurant until you found the waiter at the entrance to the seating area.

“Right, this way Mrs Rogers-Barnes”. Your cheeks warmed at the name.

You weren’t married to either of the boys yet and they loved to tease you with the possibility of this in the future but for now, it was more something they loved to call you to show just who you belonged to, showing their possessive side.

Rubbing your hands anxiously together, you refrained from running across the room to take those few seconds off as you finally caught sight of Steve and Bucky, sitting patiently and waiting in their usual seats. Releasing the breath you hadn’t noticed that you were holding and wiping your palms against your dress, Steve’s eyes soften as he saw you behind the waiter.

“Hey, I’m so so sorry I’m late”, you were quick to rush out as the waiter left the three of you for a moment. Both of your boyfriends stood, placing their drinks on the table as you stared up at them, smiling sheepishly with embarrassment about the situation. But soon, that smile was fading away as you took in their stare.

It was almost predatory, your instincts were to look down at your dress, thinking maybe it had come undone. However, you found that it was all perfectly in place, completely hugging your body perfectly as it had been handmade and purchased as a gift from Bucky. It didn’t even reveal that much, stopping just before your knees so that couldn’t be why they were looking at you like they were able to gobble you up.

Pushing past the submissive instinct to look away from the stare, your eyes flicked up between Steve and Bucky, waiting for them to say anything. They were not rushing to make any moves however as they simply stared at you, taking in every single detail.

This gave you the opportunity to do the same with both men as Bucky wiped the corner of his mouth with his metal thumb, his eyes lingering on your heeled feet. Steve had forgone his jacket that now lay over the back of his chair, leaving him in a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone exposing some whisps of chest hair. Both sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, the muscles of his forearms tense and the black harness of his gun holster strapped tightly across his chest, not hiding his guns from the other patrons.

Then there was Bucky, wearing a slim-fitting black shirt that was unbuttoned the same amount as Steve, exposing the chain from his dog tags and a black and white checkered blazer to match his trousers, something you had bought him a few weeks ago for his birthday and your mouth was almost watering taking them both in. They were breathtakingly gorgeous and hulky, spending a lot of their time working out so they could easily beat up people that pissed them off but that came with the job role of being in a mafia gang.

Your body was beginning to react in a different way, core clenching in arousal, legs automatically squeezing together to try and rub against your clit to ease some tension. A move that Steve noticed immediately, the corner of his lip flicking up in a smirk before leaning towards his friend, whispering in his ear which set his friend into motion as you watched Bucky strut past, heading in the direction of the entrance where the waiter stood.

Turning back towards Steve, you jumped slightly as he finally took a step closer to you. Even though you were in heels, your neck had to strain back to look up at his abnormally large height. He and Buck were always the two to tower over everyone around them and it was something that you adored the most.

Steve’s ocean-blue eyes smoothly danced across your face, inspecting every pore almost. It made you feel slightly self-conscious, even if his stare continued to become more intense but you lost your cool, once again submissively glancing towards the floor and admiring the shine in his shoes.

“Don’t I get a kiss or something? Or am I in trouble for being late?” You had attempted to sound like you were joking but it came out as a whispered inquiry. Biting your lip on instinct, you finally found the courage to look up into his handsome face, freshly shaved and he was close enough that his expensive aftershave had your insides warming in a different way.

Before Steve could answer, Bucky returned standing directly behind you, bumping his chest against your back.

The waiter had returned with him and began to clear the table of the glasses, cutlery, napkins and even the candle in the middle until only the white tablecloth was left.

Your heart began pounding in your ears as you watched the waiter closely, only being forced to look away as Steve lifted his hand, finally touching you with a single finger underneath your chin, making you look directly at him.

“Tell me what your safe words are”.

A heavy breath rushed past your lips, fanning across his face, your eyes becoming unfocused slightly. Oh, so this was the kind of night you were having.

“Red, yellow, and green. If I can’t talk, three taps”. Your voice was low as your pussy throbbed, knowing what was coming.

Steve was very much an exhibitionist, loving knowing more than showing off what was his and on many occasions, would simply pull up your dress and fuck you no matter the audience, whether it was in the car with Sam or other gang members, or in the middle of a restaurant, he didn’t care. 

This was also why he paid so much money into this particular business, to pay people off on what they saw. It wasn’t a weekly occurrence that he was fucking you in front of everyone but it was also thrilling, especially with how possessive Steve and Bucky got in moments like this.

Steve nodded briefly at your correct terms. Bucky then shifted even closed behind you, lowering his mouth until it was hovering next to your ear. “Tell me Doll, what name did they use at the door?”

Once again your skin warmed, looking over your shoulder at Bucky, admiring for a moment his fresh buzzed haircut before giving him the answer he wanted. “Mrs Rogers-Barnes”.

Bucky groaned as soon as the words spilt past your lips, he pecked your cheek once and then continued, “That sounds so good coming from your mouth… I want everyone to know who you belong to”.

His stare was intense down at you, eyes continuing to flick down towards your parted lips, watching as you breathed the words, “I’ll always belong to you both”.

Steve then began to run a finger down your soft cheek, making you look at him and away from Bucky, “Yeah? Say it again”.

You made sure to speak slowly, emphasising each word, “I belong to you and Bucky. I am yours”.

Steve’s chest vibrated as he released a deep groan, his trousers tenting at your beautiful voice, eyes darkening slightly in the low light of the room. Your heart was pounding in your chest, absolutely loving seeing them both like this, like you were the only thing they cared about in the world as if they were holding onto a thin thread that once snapped, they’d go absolutely feral on you.

“Damn right you’re ours, and everyone in this goddamn building is going to know about it”, Steve finally growled out. Then he was kissing you, or more, possessing your mouth with his, dominantly, feverishly and breathlessly.

With one hand resting heaving against your hip, the other glided over your jaw, gripping it and tilting so that he was completely in control of the kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth, ready to explore and taste everything that made you, you.

Your chest ached from needing air but you didn’t pull back, needing to feel his body on yours, trying to keep up with the way his lips were moving against yours in a bruising pressure. Both of your hands eagerly gripped onto his shirt, creasing the material but wanting to feel the abs beneath, moaning from the back of your throat as his teeth scraped your bottom lip.

Then Bucky was joining. His hands circled your body to reach for your hand, tugging them away from Steve and behind your back, easily holding the both in one of his larger hands. This gave him the perfect position to grind his hips against yours, his cock now in line with your hands so that you could feel his throbbing cock trapped in his pants, your instinct to squeeze was met with a desperate groan from the man.

Kissing along your exposed shoulder, he muttered, “Dirty girl, do you like feeling how hard you make me?”

With Steve’s tongue still twisting and exploring your mouth, you were unable to answer, instead, you moaned and squeezed him again in response. His noises were spurring you on, wishing to feel more of him, hear most of his desperate sounds of arousal that only caused yours to increase, knowing that you were the reason he felt like this.

Steve finally pulled back enough for you to greedily gasp in the air, his tongue sensually licking your lip one last time before pushing your head back further, giving him the perfect opportunity to lick the entire column of your neck. Your lips tingled from the assault, your eyes had closed on the initial impact and you kept the closed, savouring the warmth and solid bodies you were surrounded by.

“Fuck I want to taste you so bad,”  Steve admitted desperately, returning to hover over your lips.

“Then taste me” you encouraged, wanting this just as badly.

“I will but later, I want- no NEED, to be inside your sweet cunt right now. All day it’s all I’ve thought about, watching my cock pumping in and out of your warm, wet hole”.

All you managed to was mewl in response, in between your legs dampening further as Steve lifted the edges of your dress up to your hips before easing your panties down your legs, helping you to step out of them.

The mafia leader didn’t waste another second before easily manhandling your body, turning you on the spot until you were facing the table, pushing on your shoulders, and bending you over. 

Your skin instantly cooled with now being immediately surrounded by either of your boyfriends and feeling extremely exposed as your dress remained bunched at your hips. Glancing over your shoulders, you admired the way that Steve and Bucky were taking a moment to appreciate your dripping pussy that was on full display for them.

As you watched them, you tried to not let your eyes trail over to the latitude of people also in the room with the three of you. There were the other guests, eating and drinking, as well as the servers, the cooks, the musician and the managers. So many eyes.

But you simply did not care. They would leave if they wanted to but also, you knew that Steve had a special connection with this place, giving hefty payouts and only allowing certain people to book on the days that the three of you were attending. This was all to fuel the addiction of exhibiting you off to everyone, needing people to know that you were only Steve and Buckys.

“So fucking beautiful”, Steve praised, almost drooling at the sight before him. “Open your legs a bit wider for me baby”, he encouraged, knocking his foot against yours.

You opened the stance of your legs so that he could stand between them. Then he unzipped his pants, gasping under his breath as he squeeze his shaft a few times, “Gonna make you mine, make sure that everyone knows that you are mine”. And with his last word, Steve’s tip was slipping through your folds and pushing into your hole. No foreplay, no teasing, just straight into it.

“Oh, fuck”, you gasped as there was a mix between pleasure and pain as you stretched around his cock. He was so big as he kept pushing inch after inch in.

Steve’s hand was on the top of your back, keeping you pushed down against the table that was thankfully screwed to the floor, having made the mistake of fucking so hard on it before that it had skidded across the floor. “You’re taking me so well baby girl, relax for me, just a little bit more”.

Releasing another heavy breath to try and relax the tension throughout your body, your greedy cunt took nearly all of him until his tip was brushing against your cervix. You wanted to tell him how good it felt, to be stretched around him, to feel him throbbing inside of you but you couldn’t muster up the words.

Steve took a second to look down at where your bodies were joined before finally beginning to thrust slowly in and out, attempting to give you time to adjust properly but as you let out a particularly high-pitched mewl, something within him snapped. The mafia leader began to fuck you, animalistically, hips snapping viciously against yours, your hips almost definitely going to have bruises beneath the skin with the way your body was being propelled into the table.

You were in blissful heaven, wanting nothing more than just this, feeling his heavy balls slapping against your clit, your walls clamping around his member as he smacked a quick hand against your arse cheek.

With the enthusiasm of the way you were being fucked, sweat began to form and drip over your body, causing the beautifully styled make-up on your face to melt into the white sheet that you were laying on. Once again though, you didn’t give a single fuck, becoming even louder with your desperate moans, even more so than the piano that was continuing to be planned in the corner of the room. In fact, the restaurant was continuing to run as usual, people still eating and drinking, not risking the wrap of either Steve or Bucky, they could only watch, but this was it.

Steve continued to pound into your cunt, hitting every beautiful spot that had you seeing stars. Bucky then knelt next to your head by the table, watching intently at your face, not that you could see with your eyes closed in pleasure, eyebrows knitted together in concentration and mouth gaped open to not hold back the beautiful sounds you wanted to admit.

The tightening was suddenly overpowering in your core, the release teething on the edge as you smacked your hand on the table. “Steve, Sir, please don’t stop”.

“Cum for me honey”, he encouraged out of breath, his hair sticking to his forehead from the amount of energy he was using. Your thighs clenched as you came hard, screaming out as your cunt fluttered around his cock, muttering Steve’s name repeatedly.

You weren’t even given a second to gather your breaths before Steve was pulling his cock out, once again manhandling your body with his large rough hands, turning you over so that you were now laying on your back across the table. Your head was leaning off of the edge of the table so you raised it up, looking at Steve as he positioned your legs up his body, feet resting against your shoulders.

Then Steve was fucking you again, just as voraciously as before, hands holding onto your thighs to keep them in place and give him something to pull back on with each of his thrusts. You admired the way he looked, tips of his cheeks now tinged with pink, muscles bulging under his holster and shirt, face completely overwhelmed with lust.

An ultra-cool hand was suddenly tilting back your head over the edge of the table so that you were now looking upside down at Bucky’s cock that he’d pulled out of his trousers. Instinctively, your mouth opened, knowing exactly what was coming and what you wanted.

“Gonna make me feel good, Mama?” Bucky asked, his voice husky and thick.

“Yes, please”. Your boyfriend groaned at your polite response, sliding his cock into your mouth. In this position, it was difficult to take control of the blowjob, instead trying to concentrate on sucking on the girthy member, feeling the veins popping and tasting the precum that was already leaking from the tip.

Working in time with Steve, Bucky made was in complete control as he thrust into your mouth, grunting in pleasure as he pushed your throat to the very limit, seeing it bulge before pulling out and allowing you to breathe.

You were dizzy with your head being in this position and the absolute domination of Steve with your cunt, continuing to fuck you hard. The adrenaline was pumping as you had to concentrate on your breathing but the overwhelming pleasure that was being pumped into you was almost blinding and eliminating all rational thoughts from your mind.

Steve was also quick to remind you between thrusts, “You’re ours, only ours!” He became more frantic and you knew he was going to cum, and as his hips suddenly stuttered, he released one of your thighs in the process, your leg flopping to the side giving him more space to rub against your clit.

Steve's hot cum was pumping into you, soaking your walls as you too were pushed over the edge, your convulsing cunt helping to milk Steve’s cock. This only caused your throat to constrict along with the rest of your body and without being warned, his orgasm came as a shock to him as well as Bucky was too spurting cum into your body which you rushed to swallow on instinct.

As he eased out of your mouth, tears had begun to leak out of the corners of your eyes, completing the cock-drunk look that had taken over you. 

“Easy Doll,” Bucky soothed as he helped you to sit up, holding up your body as the blood rushed from your head, Steve’s hands wandered up your thighs as he remained in position but your legs were now hanging off of the edge of the table.

Steve bent down first, kissing your cheek to bring you back to the moment, asking, “Do you want to stay here, or go home?”

“Go home”, was your honest answer.

Steve easily tucked himself back into the restraints of his pants, shouting to the manager, “Kyle, we’ll take our food to go”. Then in a much softer voice to Bucky, “Take her to the car, I’ll join you in a minute.”

As Steve moved away, Bucky replaced where he stood, still holding you up as you swayed slightly from the hard fucking session, you could feel the cum dripping out of you and onto the table and onto your thighs. Still not risking the glance around the room to see if people were staring, your eyes were glued to a button on Bucky’s chest instead.

“You ok, hot mama?”, Bucky asked with a hint of concern etched to his beautiful features, eyebrows raised slightly.

“Yeah”, your voice was only just audibly to him and you made the effort to look up into his eyes, the sight calming as he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You were feeling a little bit spacey so seeing his emotions so visible on his face, helped to ground you slightly. “I... I don’t think I can walk”.

“That’s ok, I’ve got you honey”, his face physically relaxed as he leaned in to kiss your temple, taking off his jacket to pull around your shoulders whilst also helping to pull your dress back down. Once you were covered, he eased a hand under your knees, a hand on your back to pick you up into his arms. 

You gripped his neck tightly, hiding your face as the two of you left the restaurant, moving towards the car that waited for you three. Bucky helped to ease you into the back of the car, easing the seatbelt across your chest before sliding in next to you.

“Hey Romanoff, just waiting on the boss”,  Bucky greeted his bodyguard Natasha from the driving seat. She nodded her head before turning in her seat to look at you, smirking widely through her dark lashes.

“Hey sugar, have a good meal?” Natasha teased causing you to smile and flush.

“I don’t quite think I’ve had my fill yet”, you joked back, grasping Bucky’s arm for comfort and warmth. The red-haired women’s smirk broadened into a grin before she faced forward. You got on well with Natasha and enjoyed having her around as much as you did Sam.

Leaning your face against Bucky’s arm, you breathed in deeply, savouring in his aftershave, ready to eat and be naked once you all returned home.

[joleenjackalope]

So I have some Lenore thoughts, I like the idea of her a lot. But I don't think she's worth her price. So here are just some of my thoughts, as well as my doodling out some of those thoughts. I don't think she necessarily needs all these things, it's more that I let my internal rants about how she could be better guide me out of my art block these past couple days.

Part of why people pay more for collector dolls is because they have some type of attachment to them. Either being a Monster High character they already love, from an IP they love, or even the Off White had some brand recognition. (just not from me) And I felt like Lenore COULD have been the lady in white/weeping woman ghost story that just about every town has.

That being said- What is with the glitter tears?? If she had a unique sculpt that actually had a downturn on the brows and a sad face, and actually LOOKED like a weeping garden ghost, that alone would have made her more appealing!

Then why unpainted accessories? Why one big unpainted accessory her main focus? I like the vines (I didn't go very detailed here) but either paint them or make them smaller. (What I did) But if you want me to believe that the doll is WORTH $75 then you need to show that some actual care and effort went into her manufacturing and paint her damn accessories.

I just wanted an excuse to draw the spider. I don't like the human face but I only like a few of any of the MH pets anyway. so...

Put her damn hair up. Just like with the accessories, show me she is WORTH her price.

All of the above combined, the collector dolls stray further away from the High school aspect of MH and although Victorian/period fashion isn't necessarily my thing, I know a ton of collectors would have loved her looking like a ghost who's been haunting for a long time. And since she's not a character that's being portrayed in the high school - a collector doll would have been great! There's lots of adult/non-student characters.

Mini notes- I didn't draw patterns for her clothing, but the pattern on her dress as is would have still looked lovely on a bigger, fancier gown. I didn't do full body and I have no notes on shoes. They're not my specialty. And I would have appreciated her not having a full white sclera.

Also, line art for this piece is available here, tag me if you color it! I'd love to see. ♥♥♥

[jones-erode]

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