#talk bridgerton fanfiction

[chaneajoyyy]

Dear brilliant and stunning librarian, would you happen to have a list for:

Miguel O’Hara x black or poc reader

Simon Basset x black or poc reader

Please please please with a cherry on top if you have the time. 🙇🏾‍♀️

Oh thank you boo🥹. Hey love!!! I sure do!!!

MIGUEL O'HARA X BLACK OR POC READER

on the way, sunday mornings- @demiesworld

"idk if it’s weird but do you know that thing where you grab your boobs for comfort?? imagine doing that to miguel 😭😭", a change in place, "omgg sunshine reader and her baby bots are an epitome of cuteness 😤🥺 i bet she would refuse to call then any other name than baby bots and watch miguel slowly loosing a "battle" - he will end up calling them like that too 😭", "i feel like miguel def gives rly mind blowing orgasms but not on purpose tho??", "no one can tell me that miguel isn’t the biggest gentleman ever!! He will carry your bags, open doors and all that like his life depends on it (all of it obviously with his constant frown but deep inside he couldn’t be happier)", mornings, "oml https://www.tumblr.com/inkdrinkerworld/723831735977197568/i-feel-like-miguel-def-gives-rly-mind-blowing imagine him giving you head…", "miguel would actually be *so* gently while fingering you..omg", "ab riding with miguel makes me go feral. like r is being so needy, and he's just like “this is all you're getting”, "can i request grumpy miguel x sunshine reader where miguel is more grumpy than usual because a spider keeps hitting on reader, but they’re so oblivious to the flirting and miguel interprets the interaction as them flirting back, when they’re just being nice (if that makes sense, no worries if you don’t want to :) )", "what about grumpy!reader and grumpy!miguel, like sexual tension and staredowns and aaalmost kissing but not and WHEEWAWWWSEDR", "sunshine civilian!reader and grumpy!miguel's date getting interrupted by some other anomaly and him being all grumpy and annoyed while she's just like "it's fine! just don't get hurt !!" , "could you write a blurb where autistic!reader is having a non-verbal day and miguel stops peter b from asking her a lot of questions and stuff because she can't respond? thank you <33", "Miguel prompts you say?? could i request "just...come here." pretty pls and ty xxxx", "pretty pls could u do headcannons of when miguel is jealous LORD cant get enough of him 😔😔😔", "Miguel asking Peter B for love advice since he wants so badly to ask the reader out on a date but it's been so long since he got involved with someone that he just don't know what to do 😂🩷", "Hiiiii what do you think about Miguel x grumpy!reader? I see Miguel and sunshine reader quite a lot here and as a black cat/ fellow grump…I was curious~", "Miguel doesn't want anyone to know but he actually loves that Peter brings Mayday to the association. His heart melts every time she laughs and he honestly loves watching her powers develop.", "for miguel maybe number 1 from the gesture prompts?? possibly with autistic reader<3", "mon bébé!! would u ever consider writing more abt your harleyquinn!reader x miguel?? i loved itttt soooo🥺🥺 maybe one where he learns about her past relationship with the joker and how bad he treated her which makes him want to protect and love her even moreee (also it just makes him want to track down the goddamn clown and beat the fuck outta him) I LOVE LOVE LOVE UR WORKKKK", "fawn my love!! If it’s no bother, what do u think abt miguel being with a harleyquinn!fem!reader? i am dying to hear ur thots on that!b🤍🤍"- @inkdrinkerworld

multiple endings- @infernalodie

drip- @daydreamingsirens

SIMON BASSETT X BLACK OR POC READER

pleasing the duke series- @royallyprincesslilly

*IF ANYONE KNOW ANY MORE MIGUEL O'HARA AND SIMON BASSETT FICS PLEASE HIT MY LINE!!!!*

[underoosparkerr]

i don’t know who needs to hear this but it’s not an “x reader” if the reader has a name.

it’s not an “x reader” if the reader has a name.

it’s not an “x reader” if the reader has a name.

it’s not an “x reader” if the reader has a name.

it’s not an “x reader” if the reader has a-

ps: nicknames and last names not inc in this rant

[undiscoverable-words]

Late Night Talking

I. The Debut

Phoebe was not sure what she was going to tell Penelope. She sat in the carriage across from her mama and rubbed her sweating palms across her knees. It didn’t help. Her mind flooded with her father’s threats after she returned to London, disgraced. There was no accounting for what could have happened to her, and for his slack she was grateful, but it all still made her stomach turn. 

“You will do great, dear.” Her mother promised, giving an unconvincing smile. 

A young woman’s debut was one of the most important moments of her life, as it helped shape and determine the debutante’s future. But after everything that occurred during her year away, Phoebe felt lucky to get a debut at all. She was sure her father would disgrace her and forfeit his title and estates to a distant nephew or cousin, and yet he allowed her debut. Calling Cecil generous was rare among their circle, everyone knew the way he truly behaved, but in this moment Phoebe would describe her father as generous. 

Phoebe mirrored her mother’s weak smile and clenched her fists in her lap as she gazed outside at the trees going past on their way to the palace. There was plenty to dread about the afternoon, and her buzzing brain could not decide what to worry about the most: perfecting her debut, re-entering London society, or seeing Queen Charlotte again for the first time in a month. The viscous scowl that etched the Queen’s face the last time she laid eyes on Phoebe made the debutante shudder, even now. And at the memory, her heart began to ache. 

During her year abroad, Phoebe had been fortunate enough to become acquainted with Prince Friedrich of Prussia. It had taken a handful of encounters for him to admit why he was in France, but once he admitted he was recessing from the London season after a failed attempt at finding a wife, Phoebe had to ask him all about it, and what she had missed. 

She had felt guilty for missing the chance to debut with one of her closest friends, Daphne Bridgerton, but was intrigued by the Prince’s tale that happened to involve her a great deal. As he went on, Phoebe felt disappointed at his interest in her friend, and then elated to find out that Daphne had found herself a love match with the Duke. And the joy was wholly selfless, as she felt more excited for Daphne to be in love than she did for the Prince’s availability, though she had to admit it was nice to know he was not spoken for. 

Phoebe would be lying if she had said Prince Friedrich was not attractive. She loved to see him smile, his whole face lighting up with joy, and his eyes bright. His blond hair shined in the sunlight, and his accent was more charming than she had expected, although maybe it was his personality and temperament that charmed her.

“It’s too bad,” She said, feeling bold, and warm from the flutters in her stomach. “I was meant to debut this season, if I were there perhaps it would not have gone so poorly for you.” 

The Prince flushed, but reassured her that he was charmed by her words and not at all offended by her courage. 

“The season is not over, Miss Pembroke, perhaps it is lucky that I met you now.” He said, returning her sentiment. 

He called on her often after their revelation. Phoebe felt like the luckiest girl in the world to enjoy her time abroad with such perfect company. When they were together time warped as if they had known each other for years and as if time went at lightspeed in each other’s presence. After weeks of courting, the prince wanted to propose to Phoebe. He invited her to meet his aunt, Queen Charlotte, and assured Phoebe that the Queen only wanted him to be happy, and to find a suitable Princess. 

“Do not worry, my love, once she meets you she will be just as charmed as I, and agree to have us married post-haste.” Friedrich reassured, with a loving, doting smile as he enveloped her hand in his. 

He moved to caress her face, and nearly kissed her in that moment. His breath fanned her cheek as she stared up into his bright blue eyes and already felt as if she could not breathe. 

“Marry you?” The Queen scoffed, eying Phoebe. 

Friedrich reached for Phoebe’s gloved hand and gave it a squeeze as he pleaded with his aunt. 

“She was meant to debut this season, Tante, it is fated that we met and formed a love connection, don’t you think?” He tried. 

The Queen looked on at Phoebe, wholly unimpressed. 

“No matter the consequences, you shall have a wonderful season, darling, I can feel it.” Amelia said, pulling her daughter away from the ghostly memory of her freedom and happiness. 

Phoebe nodded, offering a hum, but not moving her gaze from the window. She was not as sure as her mother that things would go well. 

Friedrich followed Phoebe through the gardens, trying to reach her. Once he finally grabbed hold of her hand, he spun her to face him. She did not want him to see her so ashamed, so she cast her eyes to her shoes in the dirt. 

“Darling, it is no matter. We can marry whether Tante blesses it or not. I know of a place that will marry us expeditiously, and then we can be happy together and build a life, and one day look back on today and laugh.” 

Phoebe’s heart lurched, aching, both sad and hopeful. 

There was no doubt that upon reflection the plan to run away was entirely flawed and shortsighted on both sides, though Phoebe still felt every last reverberation of heartache once it all fell apart.

The carriage halted, arriving at the palace. If the scorching sun, tight corset, and high stakes were not enough to make Phoebe feel faint, the utter number of debutantes made her feel suffocated and insignificant. Her breathing felt sharp as she stepped down from the carriage and waited for her mother to join her.

The pair had agreed to meet in the early morning hours, prepared for a long journey on the way to their nuptials. When Phoebe reached the main foyer, there were royal guards standing in her path. She was informed that Prince Friedrich was shipped off to Austria alone, and that Phoebe was never allowed to see him again. 

Phoebe spent the rest of her year abroad focussing on writing, and practicing her musical talents, as well as her French. She returned home to an angry father and a smudged reputation. This was also when Phoebe learned that Queen Charlotte was an incurable gossip, and was not afraid to disgrace the young Miss Pembroke for daring to fall in love with her nephew the prince. 

And now she stood in front of the Royal Palace, waiting to present herself to the Queen alone this time, hoping to not be disgraced further. All the while her father’s words rang through her mind as she made her way up the front steps, arm in arm with her mother. 

“You stupid, foolish girl! Now no one will have you when you make your debut. That is not what we had planned for you. You have ruined yourself!” He yelled, causing Phoebe to flinch, and hide the tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“Now, Cecil, surely we can find someone willing to marry her and still love her.” Her mother tried, earning a nasty scowl from her father. 

“By God, Amelia, does she get her stupidity from you? Is that where it was inherited?” 

Amelia gasped, and Phoebe stared as her parents argued. 

“What about the Bridgerton boy? He, too, just came home from traveling, and he also had a disgraceful engagement blunder last season. Surely he would be happy to court our Phoebe.” 

The debutante in question watched as her parents schemed a sure-fire match for her without considering consulting her. 

“That’s it! You must marry Colin Bridgerton. Do not disgrace yourself or our legacy further, but do what you must to enamor him with you. I will not let you become a spinster.” 

“Oh, yes! I shall set up another appointment with the modiste to be sure to get the most lavish, breathtaking, eye-catching dresses for our little girl!” Amelia beamed, leaving the room to make the arrangements. 

Cecil turned to his daughter, a look of disappointment, pity, and disgust piled into his wrinkles. 

“There, girl. We’ve found a solution for you. Do not ruin this more than you already have.” 

Phoebe hoped she would not run into Penelope until later in the week, perhaps at tea, or during a promenade, though none of those seemed like the right time to tell one of her best friends that she must marry the man who holds that friend’s heart.

[moirindeclermont]

Happy Sunday!! Today prompts for my Polin Kinktober are Dirty Talking and Dacryphilia (which is a form of paraphilia in which one is aroused by tears or sobbing - this story is my version of that k!nk) also, there is going to be some exploration of body image issues, so if you're sensitive to that, keep that in mind. This is also more modern!au than regency.

Colin knew he had to stage an intervention.

He left Pen for a round of shopping and she come back almost in tears, not having found anything. Or to be precise, she did find plenty of stuff, but no one had her size. Which was also Colin experience, sometimes, being so tall, but it seems it weight on her a lot.

Which is why he staged that intervention. He don't have the pretence it would fix her problems, but maybe it will help her a bit.

His resolve straightened when he noticed she didn't ask him to follow in the showers as usual.

So, he did wait in their bedroom, already naked, for her to arrive.

She looked like a siren or a goddess, as she walked almost naked in their space.

She looked at him and smiled, knowing why he was here.

"How did you know I needed some of your reassurances?"

He smiled back, inviting her into the bed. "I know you sweetheart and how hard you are working on loving your body."

He did know. Hours and hours of therapy.

"I also know sometimes it is normal to have a little bit of a down. I want to help."

Pen caressed his cheek. "You been here helps, more than anything in the world. But yeah, proceed with your intervention."

She chuckled as she was kissing him.

"Lie down love and open the towel for me, please," he said, whispering against her ear.

She trembled a bit but she listened to him, her gorgeous body unveiled for him and him only.

Intervention was just a name he gave to this: he would undress Pen and calling her all the beautiful things she deserved until she was crying - the emotional release she needed after the physical one.

Colin loved to be able to do this for her, her tears and sob not because she was feeling ugly, but because his words and action made her feel beautiful and cherished.

He started by straddled her, caressing her cheek again.

"There is nothing I love more than losing myself in the splendor that are your eyes. They shine so bright when I'm near you. They become almost black when I do something you like. Your lips too are sinful just to look at, as I want them all over my body. Your tongue is a s devilish as the rest, making me feeling so good."

He accentuated each word with a soft touch on said parts that made her gasp and tremble slightly.

He kissed her again, deeply, before moving down.

"I don't think the poets have yet thought of a word good enough to describe what I feel when I can see your lovely neck on display," he stopped to give a light bite to said neck, making her giggle, "and you know that your breasts are my religion. I have never seen something so transcendental. Full and round, and the way the flesh spills when I squeeze them," he said, squeezing them, "if I could I would make you forsake every bra, so I would just access to these beauties every single time."

He paused to give each breast a kiss and a light suck on the nipple, making her moan.

"You waist and your tummy. I know how you feel about them, but I love every roll and every stretch mark. So good under my hands, it makes me want to kneel in worship," he whispered, squeezing and touching, while his tongue followed some of her stretch marks. Pen was looking at him, her eyes shining with unshed tear as he went down.

"The curve of your stomach that dips into your mound. I dream about that curve. If I was good at math, I would find its equation, because somehow I can grab it as it was made just for me," he added, demonstrating his statement. He went on her hips and her thighs, a kidding where she was most sensitive for now.

"I tremble the first time I touched your thigh. This creamy expanse of skin and muscle and, yes, fat... Because it's not a bad word, I love how you squeeze me when I put my cock there."

And then, her ass "you don't know how many times I almost fall, just walking, because I was lost looking at your fantastic ass moving." He confessed, hearing her laugh softly.

"And this pussy," he said opening her legs wider "this pussy is my religion. Your auburn curls glistening with arousal at my words, the way your vagina clutch and stretch around my cock. Your clit, the source of your pleasure. My altar on which I give myself to you." He put one finger on her slit, finding her wet.

"I love eating you while my hands find every dip and curve of your body," and then he did just so, teasing her with tongue and mouth as his hands went to touch her hips and waist, her stomach and her thighs, all the places he most loved.

"Fùck, Pen... I need you," he said breathless and as she nodded, he align himself, entering slowly.

"The way you accept me inside you," he said before starting thrusting, "so wet and warm, it's like you were made for me."

He lift her legs and put them on his shoulder, chasing the right angle.

Pen was sobbing by now, he left her tears untouched as she was watching him, moaning her pleasure. "Pen, my love. You are everything I always dreamed and more," he said as tears were falling on his face too. He didn't care. She was more important.

They released almost at the same time, Colin slightly before Pen, as if his orgasm triggered hers as well.

Only then he moved, kissing her again and tasting their tears combined. It was always so emotional for both of them, when they did it like this, but as they cuddled and whispering love words to each other, they had not a care on the world.

Colin did make Pen laugh the next morning: he sad he would start a sewing course, so he could make her dresses she liked.

[caitlinsnicket]

caitlin snicket's 🌸⋅ forever masterlist ⤜⤜⤜

“my words are unerring tools of destruction, and I’ve come unequipped with the ability to disarm them”

i found that the old way i did my masterlist (making a post and putting links on it) was unpractical and complicated in the long run (there's a limit of links you can put in one post), so i found it easier to put everything in a google doc.

my previously written fanfiction is under the fandom name, and then under the character/characters. beside of the name of the fic is a tag saying what it is (headcanon, one-shot or series) and how it is (sfw, nsfw, kinda nsfw). on the very top of the doc is the date of the last time i've updated it, for better navigation.

click here to have access to the masterlist!

do not repost, copy or translate any of my works!

[urfavnegronerd]

what if i started writing for bridgerton u guys

[loonfull-sonnetzz]

Haiiii darlings sorry for being super inactive. Just finished bringing Bridgerton so 👀 I might write some Bridgerton fics teehee 👀👀

[pinchofhoney]

i know that the last time i showed up here was last november. i also know that i have five stories started and more than twice as many messages in my inbox, but i've watched bridgerton and i just need to write something for them (or else i'll die)!!

that's why i'd like to ask with whom would you like to read a short story based on a shawn mendes' song perfectly wrong? (i'm just in the little mood for hurt) and of course, i'd like to ask you to leave me your other ideas in my inbox<33

thank you, and hopefully see you soon<3

[eleanor-bradstreet]

The Night We Met

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett Ficlet Rated: G Word count: 800

Summary: Just Benedict and his thoughts, staring at a full moon. Author's Notes: Inspired by two favorites on my Ben playlist with similar nighttime longing vibes, The Night We Met and Talking to the Moon. Links are to cover versions, but I love them so.

Benedict shifted in the window seat, settling in for what he knew would be long hours ahead. The full moon hung heavy over the grounds of Aubrey Hall and bathed his room in its cool blue gleam. It always seemed larger in autumn for some reason, which exacerbated his conundrum. He could no longer sleep during the full moon. It had been five months and each time, without fail, when the moon had waxed to its brightest, his mind would not quiet no matter how he tried to block out the light or dull his senses with substances or pleasures. It called to him, compelling him to sit in its beams and stare at it helplessly. Because it was the closest he could get to her, remembering the night they had danced in that same pearlescence, and hoping beyond hope that she may be on the other side looking at it too. He knew she was somewhere out there, somewhere far away.

His memories of that night had grown so soft, hazy with the shimmer of her skin and glittering silver dress, the sweet sound of her voice, how the blood rushed in his ears when he saw her, tingling with that premonition of something good to come. As soon as she had left, it all began to seem like a dream, something his fevered brain concocted thanks to too much champagne, or perhaps Colin had spiked his tea. Nearly all of his friends and family had thought him crazy and reinforced this suspicion when none of them could claim to have seen the woman at the masquerade, or to have any idea who she was. 

He only had three things that convinced him she truly existed and that he really had experienced the heady magic of that night. First was Colin, who had briefly interrupted their meeting. In desperation the next day, Benedict had asked him to confirm that he had seen the lady in silver with his own eyes, which he admitted he had, but knew nothing further about her. Next was her glove, the silver silk he had slid off her delicate hand and which she left behind as she tore out of the ball. Though it hadn’t helped him to find her, it was a precious token, physical proof that she had been in his arms and wasn’t just a beautiful spectre.

And lastly was the full moon. The way it made him feel, the memories of that night flooding over him each time he looked up at its persistent glow. It was like a waking dream, recurring every month and paralyzing him with his desperate longing for her, a reminder of how she had slipped through his fingers and how he had no way to find her. If he had one wish, it would be to go back to the night they met. When he had all of her, or at least most of her, not knowing her name. This time, he would be sure to learn it, he would hold her tighter, kiss her longer, run after her faster if she still ran away. If she wanted to refuse him, of course he would respect her decision, but he wanted her to make it after he told her how he truly felt. The way his heart soared when his arms were around her, the way her kiss wrote a hundred poems onto his tongue, the way his soul had told him that she was significant, that she was the one he had always been waiting for.

Now he had none of her, not her name or even the full image of her face. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of her, a gossamer memory of green eyes and silver skirts. He knew that lunatics were so named because it was believed their madness derived from staring at the moon. Now in his fifth month of torment, going mad sounded like the preferable alternative to the pain of knowing that he had met the love of his life, had kissed her lips, and then watched her disappear without a trace. 

He knew that finding true love would be difficult, but he could never have anticipated this cruel trick of fate, to tempt him with a taste of bliss and then tear it away without explanation. Perhaps he was born to suffer. At the very least, he could channel his energies into his work as he already had, painting canvas after canvas with dark vistas of that night on the terrace, a face hidden by a demi-mask, gloved hands, a lady in silver, always turned away. Perhaps with time the memories would start to fade and he would no longer be robbed of a night’s sleep. But the resounding ache in his heart made him doubt that would occur any time soon. And so he sighed, surrendering to the moonlight, to his pain, to his madness, wondering where in hell she could be.

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp

[bookwormscififan]

He Listens

Read on AO3!

A/N: The hopeless romantic in me wanted to write a thing based on a sequence in season 3 of Bridgerton that I absolutely loved. I just think it's beautiful when someone listens to your opinion to the point of gifting you something that's perfect from that opinion.

--

Mad strolled down the street, picking at the hem of his shirt while looking through the store windows. His thoughts were interrupted by the collision of himself into someone, and he muttered apologies as he glanced up to see who he’d walked into.

“Mare,” His cheeks flushed as he looked into the amused face of the lecturer, smiling kindly as he held Mad’s shoulders to steady him. “H-Hello.”

“Hey, Mad,” Mare replied, brushing off Mad’s shoulders before stepping back, pointing a thumb behind him with a crooked smile. “How do you like the music?” Tucked under one arm was a satchel, treated leather with a gold clasp, the same one Mad had bought him as a joke gift years ago.

Mad tilted his head in confusion before he registered the busker playing an accordion down the street, out of tune and too fast for Mad to properly process. Biting his lip, Mad turned his attention back to Mare, taking a deep breath before answering.

“The tempo isn’t right. They’re playing too fast for anyone to appreciate the music, and the tune isn’t right. For that instrument, the song should be played in a B Major scale, but the musician is playing it in C. There isn’t enough time for the tune to surround you before they’re on to the next bar.” His flush darkened when he realised he’d been rambling, turning away from Mare as he scratched the back of his neck.

“Interesting. I have to go,” Mare stated, touching Mad’s shoulder lightly before walking away, leaving Mad to marinate in embarrassment before deciding to walk home.

----

“Wait, tell me again. Mare just… left?” Jackie asked around a mouthful of his sandwich, popping up behind the couch Mad had flopped onto. “Like, no proper goodbye or anything?”

“He touched my shoulder,” Mad mumbled, looking at Jackie with an expression that could only be described as ‘pitiful’. “Said he had to go, and I just… let him.” Grabbing a cushion, he pressed it over his face before screaming into it, sounding utterly broken.

“Maybe he was running late,” Jackie suggested, leaping over the back of the couch to sit at Mad’s feet, laying a reassuring hand on his ankle. “He’s a teacher, right? He probably had a class or something. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

“Doubt it,” Mad shot down, lowering the cushion. “I went on a tangent. Not the short types that you tell me aren’t bad, but one of those where I point out all the issues with something. He’s not going to talk to me ever again. Idiot,” he finished with a smack to his forehead, groaning at the pain that registered.

“Alright,” Jackie patted Mad’s ankle before effortlessly turning him so they were sitting face-to-face. “Give it until the end of the week. If Mare doesn’t speak to you by then, I’ll watch those space documentaries you’ve been asking to watch. If he talks to you, you don’t get to feel bad about yourself for a month.”

----

As Mad’s luck would have it, Jackie won the deal. Mare knocked on the door of his and Jackie’s shared apartment at the end of the week, bright yet apologetic smiles and holding a violin case. Mad let him in with a furrowed brow, offering him a coffee before sitting in the seat opposite him.

“I’m sorry I rushed off the other day,” Mare began, carefully taking the violin out of its case. “After what you’d said, I wanted to make sure I did this right, and I couldn’t risk forgetting a single thing you’d pointed out.” Standing, Mare set the violin on his shoulder, giving Mad a gentle smile before beginning to play.

At first, Mad was confused, but then he began to recognise the tune, and his cheeks flushed. Every detail Mad had pointed out, every flaw in the busker’s performance, Mare had rectified and was now performing for him. Mad closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him as Mare continued to play.

It took a few moments after Mare had finished for Mad to open his eyes, looking at Mare with a dazed expression. Blinking slowly, he watched Mare pack the instrument away, startling when he sat beside Mad.

“You… played the song… exactly how I’d described it.” At a loss for words, Mad just stared at Mare, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “Why?”

“Because you wanted to hear it played right,” Mare answered softly, “Because I wanted to see your face as you listen to the song played properly. I like watching you truly enjoy something.” He moved slowly, setting a hand on Mad’s knee before shifting closer, looking into Mad’s whiskey-gold eyes with a smile.

“I-I thought you were annoyed,” Mad mumbled, brushing his fingers over Mare’s hand on his knee, breath catching when Mare turned his hand to hold his. “People always get annoyed when I tell them things like that.”

“Mad,” Mare began, holding Mad’s hand tightly. “I’ll never be annoyed with you. I think you’re amazing. The greatest person I’ve ever known. I’m in love with you, I thought you knew that.” His teasing smile faded when he saw Mad’s eyes widen, moving to release his hand before Mad held tighter.

“Say that again.”

“I-I love you, Mad. I think I’ve always been in love with you,” Mare whispered, leaning forward as Mad’s lips parted slightly. “I use that satchel you bought me because it makes me feel like I’ve got you with me all the time. You’re perfect to me.”

The second Mad’s eyes darted down to Mare’s lips, he was being kissed, heart pounding in his chest as Mare’s lips pressed against his. Closing his eyes, he let Mare control the kiss, melting against him as his chest filled with warmth.

“Oh, good, you’re finally together. I was waiting for you to finally kiss. Mare, is there any way you can get Phantom to come over?” Jackie asked as he passed the living room, laughing when Mare threw a cushion at him before walking away.

--------------------

@iamvegorott @brokentimewatch @rattyboyisemo @dungeon-dragons-dragons

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

love is just a camouflage (for what resembles rage)

Chapter 2: Yours truly, Lady Whistledown

by @dollypopup and @orangepeelshortbreadcookies

Summary:

History so does love to repeat itself, does it not? With time dripping through the hourglass, the entire Ton is abuzz with wonder. One should heed such as a cautionary tale, however: it would do well to remember that the eyes of history are ever watching.

Same as mine.

OR

What if. . .Penelope really, truly, from the bottom of her heart, had no remorse about what she’s done as Whistledown?

Relationships:

Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton & Eloise Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton & Francesca Bridgerton

Tags:

Angst, Family Feels, Sibling Bonding, Lady Whistledown Reveal, Whine and Wine, Colin Bridgerton SadBoi Era

Authors' Note:

Diggy diggy dig dig

[the-other-art-blog]

I'm loving a mother's love. Could you write more about MariaxRichard love story?

I don’t know what to say to this anon, honestly.

Will I write more about Maria and Richard's time together? Yes, not a flashback but maybe in a conversation with Sophie in chapter 3. But that was not a love story. To me, Richard was a sorry-excuse-of-a-man who made Sophie feel unloveable, forgetable and insignificant. He belongs to the group of crappy parents in Bridgerton like Simon's and Philip's fathers. If it were not for the servants, Sophie's childhood would have been even worse. Sophie's trauma did not start with Araminta, and let's not forget who brought her into Sophie's life.

And while I enjoy reading aus where Richard was a loving father, I wanted my story to be much closer to book!Richard. So, everything that happened in the books is still there.

[zegrasdrysdale]

if things are going the way they're going w the first part of the nico au then y'all will be getting it today - probably some time during game 1 of the scf !! so so exciting, and i love how it's turning out already

i'll be using my usual taglist for the first part of the series but if you wish to be tagged in future parts / blurbs / headcanons that take place in this universe, then please fill out this form

[undiscoverable-words]

Late Night Talking

II. Diamond

The Diamond of The Season.

Phoebe was sure there was a mistake. She cautiously made her way towards Her Majesty, breath shaking and palms still clammy. She was so worried she might trip that she only watched the floor as she walked. Her mother held onto her arm, looking straight ahead, smiling graciously at the Queen. Once she reached the end, Phoebe allowed herself to look up at the Queen, letting out a low breath, her throat feeling tight. 

The Queen looked on, observing Phoebe in all that she had to offer. There was immediate recognition on Her Majesty’s face as she stared down at the young girl who had requested to marry her nephew the Prince not four months prior. The Queen arched her brow as she watched Miss Pembroke shake like a leaf. 

“My Diamond,” Queen Charlotte announced, smirking as the entire room filled with hushed gasps and Phoebe jolted, staring up at the Queen in a panic. 

Her Majesty was always one for a bit of drama. 

“I told you you would do well, my dear.” Amelia complimented her daughter as they retreated to a recess of the room. 

“I don’t understand,” Phoebe admitted, breathing heavily, wishing she was not currently squeezed by her corset. “I thought– She…” Phoebe swallowed the marble that sat in her throat. 

How could Her Majesty sneer at Phoebe one moment and then grant her the highest honor of the season the next moment. If Phoebe truly was the Diamond, surely she was good enough for Prince Friedrich. Phoebe’s heart lurched and ached at the thought of the prince. She missed him and his sweet smile dearly. 

Once back at their Mayfair house, Amelia was quick to announce to Cecil that their daughter was, in fact, not ruined after all. He showed minimal reaction, other than the surprise Phoebe found in his eyes. 

“Perhaps Her Majesty realized that anyone who caught her nephew’s eye was not to be hastily disregarded.” He offered, clearing his throat. He then looked directly at his daughter, and said with the most stern of tones and expressions, “I still have final say of the man you are to marry, do not forget.” 

Dearest Readers, 

This author would be the first to admit that Miss Pembroke was not a suspected first choice for the title of Diamond for the season, though is Her Majesty the Queen anything if not surprising? Perhaps the new birth signified in Spring applies to Miss Pembroke, where she was previously left for dead in the cold of winter, she now blossoms anew to shine as bright as a Diamond for her debut. 

However, gentle readers, do not take this as a declaration of agreement with Her Majesty. I suspect some deeper reasoning behind the choice to name Miss Pembroke, the sole daughter of Lord Cecil Pembroke, as the season’s Diamond. As I stated in previous seasons, the declaration of a Diamond does not exempt said Debutante from any fall from grace. Perhaps Her Majesty simply wished to hoist Miss Pembroke higher just to watch her fall farther, and more consequently, shatter. While coal under pressure may turn into a diamond, said diamond under pressure may crack.

Whether or not this Diamond should fracture, you know this author waits with bated breath. What an exquisitely invigorating start to the season. Are you on the edges of your seats, Ton? I know I am. 

Lady Whistledown

Phoebe read the newest pamphlet the following morning with her breakfast tea, and felt her eyes well with tears. It all made perfect sense. The Queen was only setting Phoebe up for failure, sure to flounder under the pressure of being a Diamond. The shame and anger Phoebe felt bubble up inside her made her long for the distant memories of France. She pushed them away quickly, as any thought of France only reminded her of Prince Friedrich. 

“Dear, we must be ready for visiting hours! I have no doubt you’ll have a queue of suitors this morning.” Her mother said, startling Phoebe from her macabre thoughts. 

Feeling defeated, Phoebe nodded in agreement, resigned to whatever might come her way this season. Her mother beamed, leading her upstairs to her lady’s maid to help her change into her day dress. While not having much of an opinion on how the day should go, Phoebe was in charge of choosing her attire, and opted for one of her less exciting dresses, pale sage with sheer tulip sleeves and light beading. She decided she would save her new favorites from France for when she found a suitor she specifically wanted to impress. 

Cecil called his daughter into his office, intercepting her on her way to the drawing room. The low lighting within the office made Phoebe uneasy as she was used to a room with more windows allowing for more natural light. Her father sat at his desk, slightly hunched over an array of papers when she came to the door and knocked gently. 

“Daughter.” He greeted, gesturing for her to enter. 

She obliged, walking carefully as if the floor would shatter at her weight. Cecil cleared his throat and looked up from his papers to examine his daughter. 

“You wanted to see me?” She prompted, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny. 

“Your mother tells me you are to receive visitors this morning, and I urge you to be the absolute closest you can to perfection. The early stages of your debut are crucial, and if you wish to avoid our agreed upon arrangement for you to seek out a courtship with Colin Bridgerton, I suggest you try your hardest to impress the callers you may have. I will be in after visiting hours are over and I have received a list of your callers to discuss your next move at tomorrow’s ball. Do not promise any dances unless the caller in question ranks higher than a Baron, though I doubt it.” 

Phoebe stood, shrinking at his implications that she was still a lousy prospect for suitors. 

“Why did you want me to pursue Colin– Mr Bridgerton, if you want me to accept nothing less than a Baron? He is a third son, and has no title.” 

“That was before you were named a Diamond.” Cecil explained through gritted teeth, practically spitting at the term Diamond. “Go. We can discuss further after you meet with your prospects, as I said.” He adds, promptly dismissing her from his office. 

Phoebe felt nothing but shame on her way down the stairs to the drawing room. Her father had revoked her of any confidence she might have had, and that was very little already. She arrived at the drawing room just before the clock signaled the top of the hour. Tea and biscuits were set up, readily available. The seating was made ample for the possibility of a hoard of suitors, though Phoebe thought that rather ambitious. Her mother sat by the window, smiling as bright as the morning sun, eager to watch her daughter begin the courting process. 

All but a quarter of an hour passed before the first visitor was announced to Phoebe and her mother. 

“Mr. Bridgerton for Miss Pembroke.” 

Amelia seemed unphased by the coincidental arrival of the man her and her husband had previously selected for Phoebe to encourage. Phoebe, however, was extremely surprised and slightly suspicious of his presence, wondering if her mother and Dowager Bridgerton had corresponded and set up the meeting. 

Colin entered the drawing room with a rather immodest bouquet of chrysanthemums wrapped in a thick ribbon of the signature Bridgerton blue. Phoebe’s demeanor changed to one of warmth at the gesture and she smiled broadly at him as he came farther into the room to present the flowers. 

“For you, Miss Pembroke.” He stated, offering Phoebe the bouquet. 

“Thank you, Co– Mr. Bridgerton.” Phoebe smiled, admiring the flowers. 

She gestured for Colin to sit and he obliged, cautiously glancing at her mama to be sure he wasn’t being untoward. With no objections, Colin adjusted his posture to remain comfortable, and cleared his throat. 

“If I may, Miss Pembroke, you looked rather lovely at your debut. All of us Bridgertons are happy that you’ve returned from your travels and seem to be faring well. And to be named the Diamond, that must be an honor, despite what Whistledown may have said–” Colin went on, causing Phoebe to stifle a giggle. 

“It is good to see you again, as well, Mr. Bridgerton. How was your tour of Europe if I may ask?” 

Colin smiled brightly and began to regale her of his time abroad, getting lost in the descriptions of the many places he explored. Phoebe admired how he looked so enchanted at even the memory of his travels, and she was happy that his trip was more fortunate than her own. 

Having grown up next door to the Bridgertons, Phoebe was well acquainted with the bunch, specifically attached to Colin, Daphne, and Eloise. She felt at ease amongst a familiar face, and enjoyed his conversation for the better part of the hour, completely unaware of her lack of other suitors. 

She felt guilty after the next thought passed through her mind. Colin Bridgerton was far more handsome than she could recall from two seasons before. It made her heart drop at the realization that she had thought something about the man one of her best friends was completely enamored with, but she could not help the way her mind drifted as she watched him speak so spiritedly. She admired the sparkle in his eyes as he told her tales of Greece, and she took note of the dimples near his mouth when he smiled. Phoebe lost herself in admiring the details of her dear friend’s face.

“Pardon me, I seem to have prattled on far too long.” Colin interjects his own line of thought. He clears his throat. “Mother sent me to extend an invitation for tea tomorrow afternoon before the first ball of the season.” He said, meeting her eyes. 

She noticed his were a mixture of brown, green, and grey depending on the light, and had to avert her gaze before she stared. 

“Daph– excuse me, the Duchess of Hastings will be there. She is most excited to see you again.” 

Phoebe smiled as he corrected himself in favor of formality during proper morning calling hours, rather than allow their acquaintance with one another afford them familiarity. 

“I would love to come to tea, please send your mother my thanks, and let her know I will absolutely be there tomorrow. It was great seeing you again after all this time, Colin– I mean, Mr. Bridgerton.” Phoebe corrected, trying to maintain the creeping blush up her neck. 

The pair was not yet ready to forego their previous friendliness as children for the more proper encounters they would now be a part of as young adults of the Ton. 

Colin thanked Lady Pembroke for her hospitality and took his leave. Phoebe and her mother were now alone in the drawing room. Amelia looked at her daughter and smirked. 

“Was that planned, Mama?” Phoebe asked, turning to face her mother by the window. The Chrysanthemums sat, soaking in the sun, and complemented the design of the room. 

“Not one bit, my dear. But you two seemed to get along better than I remember. Perhaps there is something to be said–” 

“He is just an old friend, Mama. Colin Bridgerton is not a serious suitor, he called as a favor to his mother and sisters.” Phoebe interrupted. 

She did not want her mother to imply that there was or ever would be anything between her and Colin Bridgerton. She could not bear the thought of how that would hurt Penelope, whether Colin returned her affections for him or not. 

At dinner, her father made it a point to voice more snide remarks towards his daughter. 

“It was rather quiet this morning, was it not?” He raised an eyebrow and stared her down, silently asking her to challenge him, or to admit defeat. Phoebe could not be sure which. 

“Mr. Bridgerton called on her, darling, isn’t that something?” Amelia said, still convinced this was a sign of fate for the two within the marriage mart. 

“I am to visit with the Bridgertons tomorrow for tea.” Phoebe elaborated, hoping to halt any schemes her parents may try thinking they have secured her a match. 

Cecil grumbled as he cut the slice of roast on his plate. 

“Having only Mr. Bridgerton call does make things uncomplicated.” He said, before the dinner returned to silence.

[iboopedyournose]

Ahhhh the horny newlyweds are at it again 😍🥵 love the inclusion of the playful, romantic breakfast! Sexy af and gives more dimension to the characters 😊

Innocence Pt V

Innocence Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict teaches his new wife how to ride (not horses).

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, sex education, dirty talk, slight exhibitionism, vaginal sex, woman on top, a smidge of food play.

Word Count: 3.2 k

Author’s Note: Sorry it's taken a while to get this next installment up. Thanks to @makaylan for the read through. I hope you enjoy <3

You wake up to a strange sensation. Something warm and soft on the swell of your bottom as you lay face down. It feels like… lips? …Kissing?

You blink open your eyes and crane your head over your shoulder. There is your new husband of fewer than twelve hours. And yes, indeed, he is kissing your bare bottom, the sheet pulled back around your calves, warmed by a fire already roaring in your martial bedroom.

“Benedict?” you call softly, your voice laden with sleep.

He stops his actions and tilts his head to look up at you, his hazy hooded eyes so beguiling. 

“Good morning, wife,” his tone is husky and pitched low; it makes a tiny shiver run down your spine.

“What are you doing back there?” you question lightheartedly.

“I am enjoying my wife’s bottom. Does she have a problem with that?” he teases, his teeth snagging on your left buttock as he lightly slaps your other cheek.

You squeal and squirm on the mattress. “No,” you admit. 

He chuckles, then pushes up onto all fours clambering over you until his lips capture yours, turning your body slightly to meet him.

“How do you feel today?” he asks, nuzzling your cheek.

“Mmm, wonderful,” you confess, twisting under him so you face up.

Today you do feel different. Like you are finally a woman. You are married now, and while you doubtlessly have many things to learn, you feel nothing but excitement and wonder about what else may come. It makes you feel emboldened, flirtatious, and ready to enjoy new adventures with this wondrous man who is now your husband.

He settles over you, and you moan slightly at the press of his hot rigid cock between your bare thighs.

“Are you ready to learn more things, or does the lady need breakfast first?” he inquires airily, planting kisses on your jaw.

The mere mention of the word breakfast has your stomach growling loudly, and he giggles at the sound. You barely had a chance to eat at the whirlwind that was your wedding reception; you were also a little too excited for your wedding night to bother.

“Well, I think we have our answer,” he sniggers. “Luckily, I asked my staff to return early this morning.” 

“Can we have breakfast in bed, husband?” you ask; that newfound boldness reveals itself in asking for what you want, “together, naked?” 

His eyes flash appreciatively, and his lopsided grin turns deadly. “I definitely married so very, very well,” he growls, echoing his sentiment from the previous night, reaching over to ring a bell on his bedside table.

He is back on you, kissing a hot line down your neck, when there is a brief knock on the door a few moments later.

“Come in,” Benedict calls out, barely lifting his lips from your collarbone.

You squeak as an older man appears in the doorway; he blanches at first, taken aback but quickly schools his face to one of passive indifference. You attempt to grab the sheet and cover yourself to preserve some modesty. Still, Benedict seems utterly unphased by the gentleman seeing him or, indeed, you, completely naked, entwined in bed together.

“Ahh, Mr Smith. Good morning. Please, can you bring breakfast here for myself and my delectable new wife? Something light but filling, toast perhaps?” he asks casually, twisting to look at the man.

“Certainly, sir, will that be all?” the polite voice rings out.

“Could you throw another log on the fire? I fear I did not set it up well earlier.” 

The man bustles to the fireplace as Benedict’s lips close around your nipple.

“Benedict!” you admonish, your body flexing against him on instinct despite your consternation. “Your valet is right there!” you hiss through clenched teeth, nodding at the back of the man re-stoking the fire.

“Oh my love, we are newlyweds; I fully expect our staff to walk in on us fucking all over the house,” he drawls, running his nose over your pebbled nub, “as I suspect, do they. You should not feel ashamed.”

“But…” your protest dies as he surges up and catches your lips in a deep kiss, his fingers teasing that same damp nipple as he does so. You can't help the moan into his mouth as he does it.

“Yes darling, that's it,” he gloats, “in fact, I hope they will still be finding us doing this in forty years,” he smiles against your lips. “I plan to fuck you every day that I can,” he hums as you hear the door to the room click quietly closed with his valet’s departure.

“You are a menace,” you assert, lightly slapping his shoulder in rebuke.

“I’m your menace now, Mrs Bridgerton,” he teases, grabbing your hands and pushing them onto the pillow, glancing pointedly at your wedding rings, “and there is absolutely nothing you can do about that. You, I'm afraid, are stuck with me,” he chuckles, lips once again attacking your neck. You sigh in faux annoyance, settling into his sensual assault, your eyes closing from sheer pleasure.

A few moments later, as you are still exchanging endless sensuous kisses, there is a knock at the door, and Mr Smith re-enters with a tray of food under silver cloches. 

“Excellent,” Benedict exclaims gleefully. “Please leave it on the ottoman at the end of the bed there, Smith.”

His valet does as bidden, and with a brief nod of “Sir, my Lady,” which makes your cheeks redden, he departs.

“Oh god, I’ll never get used to being the lady of the house,” you exclaim.

“You had better, my darling; all the staff will be looking to you for how you wish the house to be run,” Benedict laughs as he crawls down the bed and picks up a cloche.

“It's your house, Benedict,” you frown.

“Not anymore, my love,” he reminds, a warm hand encircling your ankle and tugging gently. “Now get down here and eat some of this food—I need you energised for what comes next.”

As elegantly as you can, you spin around and join Benedict at the foot of the bed. He pulls you flush to his body and feeds you a corner of deliciously buttered, still-warm toast.

“What comes next?” you ask brightly after you chew and swallow the bite.

“You, my darling, are going to learn to ride,” he smirks. “Me, that is.”

“Oh.. is it like riding a horse?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He snorts. “I hope you find it rather more pleasurable. And there is something to keep you mounted nice and squarely,” he leers, pressing his cock to your hip as you shake your head at his innuendo, even as a bemused smile tugs at your lips.

“Do I get a whip to keep you in line, just like a real jockey?” you quip in jest, again that new sense of being a wife and a woman making you say things you never thought you might.

His mouth falls open slightly, and his eyes have an appreciative gleam. “Oh darling, do you want there to be?” his voice dropping to a smokey rumble.

“Depends on if you are going to behave, my good stallion,” you murmur, loving the banter, raising an eyebrow as you take a triangle of toast for yourself.

“What happened to my innocent little thing?” he counters, a warm hand caressing your bottom, “and who is this delightful minx who replaced her?”

“You corrupted her with your wiles Mr Bridgerton,” you volley back, tossing your hair in a way you hope is coquettish. “A good teacher cannot complain when an eager pupil advances under tutelage.”

“I am a good teacher, am I?” he purrs, the hand stroking lazily over your lower spine.

“The very best,” your flattery sincere, “one day, this student wants to learn to talk as her teacher does. Such wonderful filthy things.”

“Well then, that can be your next lesson,” he suggests, nuzzling your hair.

“Excellent,” you enthuse. “Now, am I going to eat that jam there on toast… or from somewhere on your body, dear husband?” you tease, pointing to a pot of preserves.

He groans and grabs you. “You cannot say things like that,” rolling you on top of him, “and expect me to do anything but want to be inside you.”

“You are the one who said we needed to eat,” you giggle, reaching for another bit of toast and jamming it into his mouth rather inelegantly as you lay atop him, his warm skin delightful under your own, his cock persistent, branding against your belly.

He guffaws around the slice and rips it with his teeth, pushing some between your lips. “I can eat and be inside you at the same time, my love,” he utters in a sinful tone.

“Well, then do it,” you challenge, swallowing your bite of food.

He raises an eyebrow and shuffles under you, surging his hips upwards, his rigid cock sliding between your thighs. “I will,” he threatens playfully.

“Please do,” your whisper enchanted, licking an errant toast crumb from your lip.

“Oh, I was going to get that,” he pouts.

With a raised eyebrow, you reach for a spoonful of jam, and he watches as you smear some over your lips.

“Then come and get it, Mr Bridgerton,” you murmur, looking down into his rapidly dilating eyes.

“Oh, Mrs Bridgerton,” he rumbles, his lips chasing yours, his tongue lathing over your lips, sucking and gathering all the jam there, swirling its sweetness into your joined mouth as you kiss. Then you cry into his mouth as he effortlessly thrusts his hips, surging into your body. He feels just as he did last night, so huge and invasive. You stutter a breath as he just holds you there, allowing you to adjust to the feeling of him inside you again.

“Benedict…” you sigh, some of your bravado slipping away with the pure tide of sensation you feel being so viscerally invaded.

“Are you ready, my darling,” he questions, his voice velvet and decadent. “Try sitting up on me,” he adds, his hands grabbing yours to offer leverage.

With him still feeling heavy and so large inside, you slowly slide your knees on either side of his thighs, then draw them up so they are close to his waist, moaning as the sensation of being hunched over him changes the angle of his cock, a pull that is utterly delicious.

“Yes, that's it,” he encourages, “now pull up off me.”

You unfurl your body and sit upright; again, the tug of his cock inside feels almost painfully good, and your clit brushes over his public hair, the tickle so rousing.

“Oh wow,” you gasp, gyrating slightly to feel how good it feels to be speared onto his cock, but you have complete control over the motions.

“You like it, my love?” He knows the answer.

“You feel huge,” you answer honestly, and he groans at the compliment.

“Now try moving, my darling,” he urges. “Push up with your thighs and then sink back down,” he tutors, his hands guiding yours onto his torso as he moves to grasp your hips.

You push up and feel the drag of his cock along your walls, and it feels exhilarating. Then you sink back down, and your eyes go wide, and your lips fall open with a loud moan. It feels exquisite. Something about the angle and the way your swollen clit snags against his body as you rock down is so compelling and powerful.

“Oh my god,” you curl your fingers and scratch along his abs as you rotate your hips just a touch, “this is wondrous.”

He smiles a devastating grin, “I knew you would like it,” he preens. “Now giddyup my love, ride me,” he dares you, and something wild and fiery cracks open in your chest, a smouldering heat that burns. You want to ride his cock until you are both screaming.

Pushing up and sinking, you establish a steady rhythm that works for you, encouraged by his little noises and grip on your hips. He feels divine sliding in and out of you, just the ache you want to feel. Like last night, but somehow better, somehow familiar now. You experiment with pace, enjoying a lingering slow downstroke and a quicker snap-up.

“You are enjoying this, aren't you?” he murmurs, impressed.

“Yessss,” you chant, head thrown back and eyes closed now. His body feels searing between your thighs, under your fingertips and deep inside you.

You lean back a little and move your hands to his thighs, grasping the strong muscle there and open your eyes to look down at him, his mouth slack, his eyes laser focussed on you, on your face and darting down to your breasts as they jiggle with every drop. You lean further back and emit a huge groan as somehow you have found a spot that feels so good; little sparks go off in your head like fireworks. You start to move harder, faster, greedy, so greedy, for more.

“So… fucking… good,” you rasp a word with each downstroke as his fingers band tighter over your hipbones, your knees chafing the bedding, dropping without thought for anything but the feeling coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.

You grab one of his hands and press it to your breast, leaning forward into his hold and changing the angle of your hips, making circular motions, shuddering as he seems to nudge every spot inside as you grind down, selfishly stalking your pleasure. 

“My wanton little wife, look at you,” his voice velvety, clever fingers tweaking your nipples as you groan loudly. 

His body flexes delightfully under you as he reaches behind for the pot of jam, dipping his fingers in and reaching to paint a swirl over your breasts. Without breaking your rhythm, you place a firm hand on his chest and halt his hand. He frowns until you seize his jam-covered fingers and instead bring them to your mouth, lasciviously licking them clean as you rise and fall, lathing the warm, sweet, sticky pads of his fingers over your tongue in time with your movements. The noise he makes is inhuman, and you feel a surge of power through your body as he pushes up into you, desperate for more. You just smirk at him and press him harder into the mattress, allowing his hand to drop away from your mouth.

The power of this position, to have him so vulnerable under you, is a potent toxin, your thighs burning from the exertion, your blood simmering as you spider a hand up the now-damp centre line of his breastbone and grasp his chin between your thumb and fingers.

“Are you enjoying this, husband?” you tease breathily.

His response is a nod and low growl; you love how riled up he is. Shuffling your knees wider, you lean over him, the warmth of his belly rubbing yours as you keep fucking onto his cock, slower now, your lips ghosting over his, still holding his chin tight.

“Tell me in detail, darling,” with a triumphant arched eyebrow; you echo the words he used the first night he stole into your room. 

Awe and surprise are written across his features, pupils blown wide, mouth opening a fraction. 

“I am a good teacher,” he gusts out, and you just twist your mouth into a smirk, awaiting his answer. He licks his lips, and you feel the hot breath from it, his hands sliding over your bottom. “I want you to fuck me hard, wife,” he begins. “Ride me until your body is shaking and screaming. Make yourself come on my cock, milk me, darling,” that silken tone makes a shiver race down your spine and your cunt clench around him.

He grunts at your vice-like pulse, and the need to follow his advice vibrates your very being. You kiss him hungrily, moaning into his mouth as your tongues dance, your hand curling his jaw as you kiss over and over, still rocking gently on him, unable to stop. Sitting up again, grasping his hands in yours, lacing your fingers, you rise and fall in a new quick pattern, starting to pant and fuck yourself roughly. He moans through gritted teeth at your new onslaught.

One of his hands guides yours down your body to the apex of your thighs, where you are roughly fucking onto him. Without words, you know what he is suggesting, and when your joined fingers slide against your clit, you feel hurtling straight towards oblivion, wound so tight. 

A strong pulse runs up your spine, causing you to buck hard over him. He surges up strongly into you, meeting you on your downward thrust, fucking himself so deep it feels like a new ache tugging a line inside, something making you mindless, crushing your fingers between your bodies as they furiously circle your throbbing clit. 

“Don't stop,” he chants as you close your eyes and ride so fiercely the bed squeaks slightly. He groans loudly and stares up at you desperately, a bead of sweat forming on his brow that you ache to lick off. 

Then with a scream that feels like it rips your lungs, you convulse around him, slumping deep, your thighs trembling, blood rushing in your ears, vibrations coursing through your body from a tingle in your scalp to spasms in your toes.

Strong fingers sink deep into the flesh of your thighs as he calls your name and curses long and low as his fingers sink into the meat of your thighs, and as you flutter around him, you feel that same bloom inside, his warm release coating your walls.

You collapse on top of him, exertion and satisfaction making your muscles feel languid and weak. Your head rests on his collarbone as his hands release their grip and sweep gently over your back, mapping the notches of your spine as you recover with deep, ragged breaths.

“Well done, darling,” his voice sounds wrecked and scratchy, his thighs twitching under yours as little aftershocks spasm through your frame. You feel him soften inside your body but don't want to move, and he seems reluctant, too, his arms holding you down onto him in a tight embrace. “I don't want to leave your body,” he admits in a whisper, “that was too good.”

You chuckle, feeling a lightness spread through your body, a mellow fizz under your skin. “Mmmm, then don't, husband,” you buzz quietly. “Just stay inside me until we are ready to go again.”

He laughs softly into your hair, kissing your scalp. “That may be a while, my love,” he confides.

“I have all the time in the world, husband,” you smile, twisting to look at him, landing a kiss on his stubbly jaw.

“Hmm, that is very true,” he concurs, his eyes sparkling with tender mischief as he holds your gaze. “After all, this is only the morning of day one of our honeymoon. There are another nine to go; just imagine all the things we shall get up to,” he murmurs, his tone laced with sensual promise as his fingers trace up your back.

You can hardly wait.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet

[maybeacloud]

Only The Good Die Young || E. Bridgerton

Summary: Fem!reader is staying with the Bridgertons for the social season and decides to confront Eloise about her feelings.

Word count: 0.8k

Warnings: None

<A/N> This is the first piece of fanfiction I have shared with anyone so it might be a bit rough, but if you have any feedback don’t be afraid to comment! Also, English isn’t my first language, sorry about any spelling errors :P

…

It was already past dark and most of the Bridgerton household had retired for the night. Only one person remained, curled up on a small sofa in the drawing room, her nose buried deep in a book. You could not help but stare. You were not sure you could ever get enough of it. Eloise’s hair, which had previously been pinned up, now hung loose around her face, and a burning candle cast a gentle light on her face.

You walked up to her, drawing her attention away from the yellowed parchment. “May I speak to you about something?” You said hesitantly, suddenly too nervous to meet her gaze.

She laughed “Of course you may. You can always come to me.” Her smile was as warm as always, and her eyes looked like deep blue waters in the flickering candlelight. You suddenly felt hot, as if you skin was burning, and you forced yourself to look away.

“If we are to remain friends-“

Eloise cut you off; “Of course we are, what makes you believe that we would not?” She tried to make it sound light hearted, but the words came out sharper than she had intended.

“If we are to remain friends” you started again “I can not keep secrets from you”

You looked down on your friend. Her face had settled in a worried expression. You suddenly regretted bringing up the topic but that was to no avail. You must finish what you started.

“I have these - feelings - that I would like to discuss. And I do not expect you to feel the same way…” at this point you had started pacing back and forth like a trapped animal.

“… but in these past few weeks I have come to know you as someone who is not quick to judge others, and I sincerely hope you will grant me that kindness…” Your steps slowed.

“For I hope I have not misjudged you, ms. Bridgerton.”

As you turned to look at her, your eyes meeting for the first time since you started you rambling, you knew you had to tell her. You could not keep a friendship build on lies.

Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted slightly as if she was wanting to say something. You stood in silence for a moment allowing her time to intervene. But she just tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows furrowing into an expression of worry and confusion.

You realised you had dragged this out for far too long. And you suspected your nervous fidgeting had not helped soothe your friend’s worries.

“Every time I look at you, Eloise, it’s as if my whole world disappears and I am left with nothing but blank space; I am left grasping to find my way back to reality because if I am alone with you my mind will wander to places it should not.” You could not afford to stop talking, for if you did you might not find you way back.

“I am willing to throw away whatever dignity I have if it means I get to hold you, and it scares me. Because I- I have never felt like this before.” That last sentence came out more as a whisper.

Eloise sat still as a statue, unchanged, and for a second you started to wonder if you had imagined the whole thing, but then she moved. She straightened her posture, looked down at the book laying on her lap and hesitated for a moment before fixing her gaze back onto you. You suddenly felt unable to breathe, as if a weight was put on you chest.

Eloise, without breaking eye contact, untangled her bare feet from her nightgown and slowly stood up, meeting you at eye level.

Her face was impossible to read as her expression seemed to change constantly.

“Eloise, I-“ You started to apologise, but all words left you as you felt her hand reach for yours. Her touch was warm, like a small spark that quickly grew into a burning fire. She held onto your hand, still with her eyes fixed on you. And without thinking you took a single step, almost closing the distance between your bodies.

She was close enough for you to feel her warm breaths against your skin and you could not pull your eyes from her face. You were desperate to memorise every freckle on her face, the way the flickering shadows from the candlelight softened her features and then there were her eyes. They were like a frozen lake; idle on the surface, but beneath it lies a deeper water, constantly moving with the current. They wandered across your face before settling on your lips.

“Tell me…“ She trailed of, her voice was low and husky. A shaky breath escaped your lips and she took that as an invitation to start slowly guiding your hand upward until your palm rested against the bare skin right below her collarbone. “…tell me if you want me to stop.”

And with that she fully closed the distance between you, and as your lips met hers you knew that you never wanted her to let go.

…