#2k notes holy crap you guys!

[fayes-fics]

A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.” 

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.” 

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic. 

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade. 

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision. 

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him. 

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction. 

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.” 

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman. 

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first. 

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?” 

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now…. 

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his. 

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together. 

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.” 

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly. 

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk. 

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member. 

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip. 

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!” 

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense. 

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race. 

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss. 

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside. 

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently. 

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing. 

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body. 

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever. 

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #1k notes omg you guys! #2k notes #2k notes holy crap you guys! #3k notes #3k notes WOAH that's amazing you guys

[asleep-in-the-keep-sideblog]

Announcement: Anniversary

Just me talking about the future of the fic :)

First off, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! Wow a whole year (plus extra) WITH (near) constant updates, that's crazy. More than I can say for my other fic... (it haunts me. I still plan to finish it but ouch). 

First things first!

I wanted to update sooner (since I've had this written for a month now) but I was also working on a one shot to post at the same time. I was making great progress but then finals came round and I got burned out. They're finished now but I'm still burned out. I'll give a brief hint about it though since I'm a little excited and just wanna talk about it. So its a Dadzawa fic that's actually happy and ends with them as a family (unlike how it was in the last chapter lol). It was supposed to cheer people up and also be practice for writing them as a family and stuff. The Danny is very different from the main fic tho. The fic was also supposed to serve as an anniversary present for all you guys too, to thank you for reading and being here. I really wanted to finish in time but it kept getting bigger as I wrote. I do hope to post it this month tho, so keep an eye out for that!

Next thing!

On AO3 it shows that the fic is now apart of a series and has a chapter count. I talked about this in the notes of a previous chapter, but I had been wanting to do that for a while now. I want to have the next part of the series out by next year. I know I have been updating monthly now, but I'm gonna try to do twice a month if I can. I'm really excited and It want it done soon! I might do 2 chapters this month or will just count the one shot if I get lazy.   

I also added the tags "full ghost Danny." Sorry to burst anyone's bubble that held on hope for Danny. Tbh the original plan was that his human half was still hiding inside him, just healing and small, but it was gonna show up in one of the chapters. The longer the fic went on, the more I started to rethink that. The human reveal, while good in the short run, would crumble some of the plot lines I had set up while also not contributing much to the rest of the plot. I am debating maybe doing a short series of "what if" where that is the case tho, just so people can get a taste. If I like it enough I might make it a full thing. Who knows. 

Final thing!

(this paragraph is referencing the support on AO3)

Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! Guys! This fic has 2k kudos????????!!!!!!! HOLY CRAP! WTF?! 

That is so huge! Gahhhh! Man, I am always critical of my writing (I've gotten better) but wow to have that kind of support just in my face! Literally speechless. I always had the thought in the back of my mind that once the fic goes on for long enough people will start to see its flaws or get bored. That's true for some, but I keep seeing a lot of the same names again and again and I am grateful to you guys so much. That was also one of the reasons I wanted to do the one shot. I just want to keep giving you guys more content that you'll enjoy.

Thank you so much for being here, truly 💚

Good luck on finals if you got them! 

#asleep in the keep #asleep in the keep extra #dp fic

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Congrats on the 2000 followers!!! You totally deserve it!!

Can I request #44 from the touching prompt with Marcus Pike or Nathan Bateman?

Thank you!!

Part of Youvebeenlivingfictional’s 2K Follower Celebration Notes: Thank you!! 🥰🥰 I went wiiiiiiith Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Reader Rating: T Prompt: Sitting on the other’s lap Warnings: Fluff, some angst and feelings of isolation, but mostly fluff!

You are having a shitty day. Look, working for Nathan Bateman could be frustrating at the best of times. You hardly ever have any non-Nathan human contact, and Nathan is a recluse in his own right. You see him every couple of days, and it's usually fairly brief. The only other human contact you have is when the odd person is brought to the facility for a Turing test— and in those instances, you’ve been instructed not to get too familiar. Their focus was meant to be on the Turing test, not you.

You know that Nathan uses Kyoko for… Stress relief, besides basic tasks. But you don’t have any source of contact. You have vacation days that you could take, sure, but everything always seems to be so busy— you never get around to leaving and visiting your friends and family. And lately, things at work haven't been particularly enjoyable. Nathan’s hit a roadblock with his work— a roadblock that he hasn’t been able to work out, or taking his frustration out on the punching bag. He’s been testy with you when you’ve had to work with him. Nathan isn’t a daisy most days, but considering your growing feelings of isolation and your lack of contact, you’re feeling particularly lonely. The only contact you have with another human is Nathan— and it sucks.

When you’ve had crappy days in the past, Nathan has ignored it, which has been fine with you. But maybe today you’re just a little too overt with how shitty you’re feeling. Frankly, you don’t think he’ll notice, or bother to say anything. You figure Nathan would be one of those parents (god forbid) that would just ignore a kid having a tantrum because asking what’s wrong would count as ‘rewarding bad behavior’. In the morning, you brush past him in the kitchen, grab your coffee, and leave. You don’t bother saying anything to him— you’re not the good morning kind of coworkers. And you figure that even if you had said it, you’d get an, “Mm,” in turn, and you’re not in the mood for his half-assed pleasantries. In the afternoon, you pass him in the hallway. You’re on a call. Nathan feints to step in front of you, a teasing little smile on his lips. But you’re focused, and your stomach is growing heavy with upset and desolation. You just step out of the way, hardly meeting his eye as you go on your way. You don’t have time for whatever he’s up to, or thinks he’s doing. He can prank Kyoko if he’s really in a giddy mood— not today, Bateman. In the evening, though, when you’re brushing through the living room, an arm hooks around your waist and yanks you backward. You flail, huffing in shock as you topple back, your hands bracing against the arm and back of the couch. You’re confused, especially as you feel and hear Nathan under you, asking, “What’s going on with you?” “What?” You manage. “You have been in the shittiest mood, girlie. What’s going on?” You squirm, trying to get up, but Nathan’s arm tightens around you. “Answer me and I’ll let go,” He tacks on. You open your mouth to answer, and you try to cobble the answer together, you really do— but Nathan’s arm is so warm around you; he’s pressing you into his chest— holy crap his thighs feel...Very strong. “...Did your brain break, what’s happening up there?” The taunt breaks into your train of thought. You glance back at him. “I’m just— I’m having a day, can you let go?” “What’s causing the day?” “Who gives a shit?” “Whose lap are you in right now?” His question is almost a murmur— you have to curl your fingers into your palm to stave off a shiver. “I haven’t… I’ve been here for a while, that’s all— I’m not mad about it,” You tack on hurriedly, “I’m just…” You can’t tell Nathan that you’re lonely, it sounds so small and stupid and juvenile— and you’re in the guy’s lap. “...I’ve been a dick lately, huh,” It’s not a question when he says it. You hesitate before you nod a little bit and look forward again. “Noted,” Nathan mumbles, and you know it’s as close as you’re going to get to a sorry. Frankly, it’s more than you expected. “What else?” He asks, resting his chin on your shoulder— and you’re not expecting it. The brush of his beard against your neck startles you, and you can’t push your shiver away this time. You can practically hear Nathan’s smile as he murmurs, “Oh.” “Shut up.” “That’s why you’re gettin’ all fussy on me?” “You’re being a dick, we just established that you’re being a dick—” “You are so wound up, girlie,” He murmurs, turning his head and nudging his nose along your jaw. “You’re a shithead,” You manage, but you can’t help squirming in his lap. He just chuckles, his hand splaying across your thigh. “I’ll let you up right now,” He offers, “Or, we can just hang out like this for a while.” “...What’s in it for you.” “Same thing that’s in it for you: contact.” You hesitate before you let yourself lean back against Nathan’s chest, your shoulders sagging. He lets out a surprised little hum, and you mutter, “Stop that.” “What?” “Analyzing this.” “Habit.” You humph moodily and look down at his hand, absently running your finger along the back of it. “We can do this more often, if it helps,” Nathan offers after a few moments. And you do not trust it, but you shrug a little, muttering, “Maybe.” “Physical touch results in the body’s production of oxytocin, the hormone strengthens bonds between people—” “You’re doing it again.” “Shutting up.” “...Dick.” “Girlie,” Nathan taunts you gently, nosing at your jaw again, and you can’t help your smile.

#asks #replies #prompts #Youvebeenlivingficitional Follower Celebration #2k Follower Celebration #Follower Celebration #nathan bateman imagine #nathan bateman x reader #nathan bateman fic #Nathan Bateman x You #Nathan Bateman/You #Nathan bateman/Reader

[calpalirwin]

B.U.B

Summary: Everyone got more than they bargained for when Ashton started dating Sam.

A/N: Ugh, this is such a bittersweet moment. The official end of my brain child with @creator-appreciator​ and our new trope: back up boyfriend (BUB). But what an appropriate note to end on: a wedding! If you haven’t read it, or need a refresher, be sure to catch all 5 previous parts of BUB under the miscellaneous portion of my masterlist!

Disclaimer: Not a poly!sos series!

Content: General bub tom-foolery wedding edition!

Word Count: 2k on the nose!

And away, and away we go!

__

Part 6

“Lazy day?” Ashton asked from his spot on the couch next to Calum when Sam came downstairs in leggings and a tank top.

“Nope!” she grinned at him. “Going dress shopping with the bubs and the girls.”

“Is it really a bub outing if I’m not there?” Calum asked.

“Wait, you’re not going?” Ashton asked, looking over at his friend. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Misery loves company?”

“Oh, you are not miserable!” Sam scoffed. “You’re just pouting because I told you you can’t come.”

“I don’t pout. I just find it unfair that you banished me from a bub activity.”

“It’s not a bub activity. It’s a wedding party activity. Of which, you are not technically a part of.”

“Princess, you’re forgetting a crucial piece of intel. And it’s that I am the party.”

“You’re still not coming, bub.”

Calum narrowed his eyes at her. “Have fun talking Luke out of glitter.”

“Have fun not knowing what the dress looks like,” she taunted back. Sam swiftly pressed a kiss to Calum’s cheek before kissing Ashton. “Have a good day, boys.”

“Bye, baby. Have fun,” Ashton told her while Calum sunk lower in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

~~~

“So, these are the colors,” Sam explained, pictures spread across the kitchen table, everybody listening intently. “The girls got their dresses and they are stunning! But all four of you still need to go get your tuxes. And when you do, take this color! This is the color!” She held up the photo in question, looking around at who she trusted most to hold on to it.

“I got it,” Calum said, snatching the picture out of her fingers. “Is there a different color you want Ash’s? Or mine for that matter?”

“No. Same color’s fine for you and Fletch too.”

“You don’t want him to match your dress?”

“Oh, her dress is beautiful!” Luke teased, seeing his opportunity and taking it. “Makes her look like a princess, Cal.”

“A queen, dumbass…” Michael sighed.

“Whatever. Point is, it’s a beautiful dress, and she looks amazing in it!”

“If you’re not this excited when we get married, I’m leaving you at the altar,” Sierra teased.

“You should leave him now,” everyone joked.

“Hey!”

“Oh! And Fletch! The flowers. Can you give this to Bryce down at the shop?”

“Yeah, I’ll give it to him next time I see him.”

“Good, good. And when is your family getting here?”

“Not til like the week of the wedding, wh- oh shit, Harry’s suit. Uh, I’ll tell him to go to a tailor to get his measurements and I’ll bring that with me when we all go get fitted.”

“Which you’re doing when?”

“When would you like us to do that, baby?”

Sam grinned, “You're so smart sometimes, Fletch. Can you guys go soon? Like next week?”

“You got it,” the boys saluted her. “Anything else?”

~~~

“Fletch!” Sam hollered from the backyard.

“What?!” Ashton asked, running to her, only to find her sitting beside the garden he’d been planting. “What are you doing?” he giggled.

“Trying to teach myself how to garden,” she stated.

“Mhm… why?”

“Because, Fletch!”

“Do you need help?”

“Yes! None of this makes sense!”

“What do you mean it doesn’t make sense?” he giggled again, coming to sit beside her.

“This!” She flashed the packet of flower seeds in her hand. “Plant in the warm season. What does that even mean? It’s California! It’s always warm season!”

“Why is this something you want to do?”

“Because it’s something you like doing, and I thought I would surprise you by doing it with you.”

“Aww! You don’t have to.”

“But I want to! It can be our thing!”

“So, if I take you to Home Depot right now, we can put some gardening stuff I’ve wanted on our wedding registry?” Ashton asked hopefully.

“Who needs fancy china anyway?”

“God, you’re the best! Okay, let’s go.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Call the guys. We might need help.”

A half hour later Sam was talking the ear off of a Home Depot employee. “So he wants to plant like real stuff. Like tomatoes, you know? But I think other stuff would look really good too. Like regular flowers and such. So, my question to you, is what would be the best things to plant if we were going to plant them, say, later this afternoon? What would we need?”

“Uh… I can show you what’s popular?” the clerk offered, either feeling completely out of their element or intimidated by the woman with all her questions and posse of 4 giant Aussie men.

“Lead the way!” Sam chirped.

“Oh, um, you wouldn’t happen to have those scanners for wedding registries, would you?” Ashton put in as they all started walking across the store to the garden section.

“You want to register for your wedding at Home Depot, sir?”

“Yes, please.”

“You don’t want to register at IKEA, or like a Target?”

“Nope! You guys got some great stuff here.”

“Okay…”

The wedding registry aspect of it proved to be useless as anything Ashton scanned, Calum, Luke, or Michael immediately grabbed with a “What? I want one too…”

“So, this is probably a crazy question, but c-can I be invited to your wedding? Like… nobody's going to believe me that this happened. That a couple registered here. I just… I gotta see what type of wedding would be thrown by people who register at Home frickin’ Depot,” the clerk asked as they rang everything up.

Sam hummed as she dug around in her purse, pulling out a small card and handing it over. “Yeah! Of course! I didn’t end up liking this design, but it’s got all the important information on it, so I hope this’ll do.”

“Holy crap, thank you!”

“Of course! Thanks for dealing with us.”

“You just carry invitations around in your purse?” Ashton asked Sam.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t have a purse… I have pockets.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Just help the bubs.”

~~~

“Okay, my bachelor party and your bachelorette party,” Ashton started. “How do you want to do this? Cuz I know I have groomswomen, but I want my boys there too. And I imagine you probably want the same thing of wanting your bubs and your girls. So… separate weekends or joint party?”

“Joint party would just be a regular hang out.”

“Yeah but like… in a cabin in the mountains. Away from everything. Or separate weekends. You get everyone to do your thing with. Then I get everyone to do my thing.”

“But then we don’t get each other. And with a joint party we do.”

“I think the point of bachelor and bachelorette parties is so that way we’re not around each other, baby.”

“Then why’d you suggest a joint party, Fletch?”

“I didn’t. I was just laying out all the options.”

“Mhm… sure. A likely story.”

“Okay, I might be hoping that you pick a joint party because I think that’d be fun. A nice getaway with my closest friends and future wife. What could be better than that?”

“You do make a pretty good case.”

“So, joint party?”

“Joint party!”

The end of the month found the eight friends and Harry standing around in a cabin. “First order of business!” Sam declared. “Room assignments. Ashton and I get the master room. The rest are up for grabs. Second order of business! Once you find your room, come back with all the blankets and pillows so we can make our fort.”

“A fort?” Harry snickered. “What are you, twelve?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Ashton nudged his kid brother. “You’ve seen the pictures of our forts, haven’t you?”

“Oh, that’s like a for real thing? Thought it was a joke.”

“Fort Luke Sucks Balls is most certainly real. And for this weekend, you are an honorary member,” Sam told him with a bright smile.

“Uh… thanks? I think?”

~~~

“Mike… you were right,” Luke breathed as Sam turned around in her dress. “You do look like a queen, sweetheart.”

Sam blushed. “Thanks, partner.”

“You saw her try it on in the store last week,” Michael told Luke. “Idiot…”

“Well, yeah! But not with her hair all done up, and make up.”

“You’re right. Still an idiot, but you’re right. Wanna make a bet for when Ash starts crying?”

“Hmm…” Luke thought. “Tears up when she walks down the aisle, full on sobbing through his vows.”

“Oh, definitely with you on him tearing up when she comes down the aisle. But I’m betting he just does that thing where he clears his throat a lot rather than the blubbering during the vows.”

“Alright. So if I win, we have to change Fort Luke Sucks Balls.”

“And when you lose, a name change can never be proposed again by you.”

“Deal.”

The blondes shook hands to cement the agreement, each one certain they’d win while Sam rolled her eyes. A bet the was rendered null and void when Ashton A.) teared up when Sam came down the aisle, and B.) cleared his throat a grand total of 107 times (Michael counted) before quietly breaking down during Sam’s vows.

“I now pronounce you Hubasaurus Fletch, and Wifeysaurus Babe,” Calum announced. “Now kiss your bride before you start crying again.”

Ashton gave a half sobbed laugh, before cupping Sam’s face in his hands and ducking his head down to give her the world’s most heartfelt kiss.

~~~

“Alright,” Calum said into a microphone, getting the toasts started. “Hi, everyone, I’m Calum Hood. The wedding officiant, and only guest speaker for this evening.”

“The sensation!” Michael called out loudly, his hands cupped around his mouth.

“The bodacious!” Luke joined in.

“Ccccccaaaaaalllllllluuuuummmmmmm Hhhhhooooooooooooodddddd!” the group of friends all whooped, drumming their hands on the table.

“Okay, thank you!” Calum said with a squishy cheeked grin. “So, as you can imagine we all love Ashton and Sam so much. And when deciding this part of the night, we all wanted a chance to say something. But, we ultimately decided that a lot of our stories would overlap and that it would be too long, so I’m doing it on behalf of all of us. So, it goes without saying Ash, that you’re like a big brother to us guys. I don’t think it’s a stretch of the imagination to say that we wouldn’t be the people we are without you in our lives. And we’ll never be able to thank you enough for accepting a random Facebook message from a kid you didn’t know and helping us become what we are. And then there’s Princess Sam. Sorry, Queen Sam. I have never been happier to be proved wrong in my entire life. I’ve never been happier to have been wrong about thinking you were just some girl that wouldn’t matter in a couple of months. And I deeply apologize for everything I did in those first few months. In these last 5 years I’ve gotten to know you, it’s very easy to see the woman that stole my best friend’s heart. Because you stole all of ours too. And if I say anything else, I’m gonna end up like Ash here, so I’ll just end this by saying that I’ll forever be grateful that you two found each other, because it’s been nothing short of incredible. Here’s to the best years.”

Calum raised his glass, everyone else following suit, while Luke and Michael hopped up on stage next to Calum. Michael grabbed the microphone out of Calum’s hands while Luke got situated with a guitar. “Perfect toast for a perfect couple, Cal. And perfect segway into the newly announced Mr. and Mrs. Ashton Irwin’s first dance! Hit it, Luke!”

While Luke started strumming the opening chords to Best Years, Ashton led Sam out to the dance floor, spinning her in a slow circle before pulling her close. “I love you so much, baby,” he whispered for only her to hear.

“I love you too, Fletch. So fuckin’ much.”

__

Tag List

@frontmanash​​ @goeatsomelife​​ @flameraine​​ @creator-appreciator​​ @cxddlyash​​ @1-irwin-94​​ @sparkling-calm​​ @tea4sykes​​ @youngblood199456​​ @5-seconds-of-obsession​​ @gosh-im-short​​ @aquarius-hood1996​​ @talkfastromance4​​ @itjustkindahappenedreally​​ @philthepegacorn​​ @ashtonlftv​ @miirandaaa​​ @karajaynetoday​ @myfavfanficsever​ @stormrider505​ @cashtonisruiningmylife​ @another-lonely-heart​

#BUB #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #calum hood #luke hemmings #michael clifford #5sos #galcal irwin

[speter-sparker]

Spideypool fic rec #2

ya boy is back at it again with the whole procrastination thing, and if I'm going down, ill bring all of you with me. 

other recs by me: X 

1) Peter Parker's Home for the Wayward Villain by BeanieBaby   [90k, complete]

summary: A really long redemption story.

my thoughts: you know how every ship has That One Fic? The one that every person who recs fic recs? This is it. In a world where Peter Parker was never bitten by a radioactive spider (but still lives in a world of heroes), he still has a chance to make a change. 

additional info: found family, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, POV peter

2) Said the Fly to the Spider by BC_Brynn   [20k, complete]

summary: Peter is being courted by Deadpool. With words. And life-saving.

my thoughts: so damn good. the story is character and relationship-focused, with witty banter and dumb jokes - in short, the perfect spideypool fic. Pacing is on point, side characters are in character, just... *chef kiss* beautiful. 

additional info: friends to lovers, slow burn, POV peter 

3) the kubler-ross theory by antivenom   [80k, complete]

summary: Peter loses Gwen in a split-second of motion. It takes much, much longer for him to find himself afterwards.

(In which Peter deals with a loss that immobilizes him and permeates through every drawn breath. In which his grief is a visceral abstraction that he can touch, that he can feel. And in which, with a little help, with time, with acceptance, with anger, with sadness, with Wade, he learns how to live in a world without her.)

my thoughts: if you read nothing else on this list, READ THIS. It deals with the aftermath of Gwen Stacy’ death, and how Peter copes (or doesn't) with the aftermath. This story is a love letter to everyone who has lost someone - the stages of grief, the anger and confusion and emotion are so real. Everything is brutally honest, the author doesn't hold back punches - in fact, it's because of this that I love how Wade and Peters's relationship is written. They are both shown as flawed characters who are trying so damn hard and their relationship feels real. The same can be said for every character in this fic - the relationships with aunt may and MJ and other supers are beautifully thought out and written. 

additional info: HOPEFUL ENDING, slow burn, pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, POV Peter 

4) I'll Tell No Lies by doctorestranged   [78k, complete]

summary: When a series of murders take place, Peter Parker goes undercover in Sister Margaret’s to get intel on Tony Stark’s prime suspect: Deadpool. Except, Peter is horrible at lying and this seems like a dreadful idea. Peter goes in hoping to get enough information so that Spider-Man can save the day, but like everything in Peter’s life, it becomes a bit more complicated than that.

my thoughts: The pacing is so fun - it’s a murder mystery with a heavy side of romance, featuring Tony not-angry-just-disappointed ok-a-little-angry Stark, a very done Weasle, and one taxi driver. 

additional info: strangers to friends to lovers, SMUT, POV Peter 

5) Without Ever Letting You Know by TimidTurnip   [8k, complete]

summary: So something weird is going on with Deadpool, that's nothing new. Spewing flower petals is hardly the strangest thing the merc has done. The part that is confusing Peter is that Deadpool doesn't want Spider-man around. WTH.

my thoughts: mmm, hurts so good. Love how they examine Peter’s personality and relationship to Wade in this one. 

additional info: Hopeful ending, PINING, friends to lovers, POV Peter

6) i know your secret by jilliancares   [8k, complete]

summary: “I’m your new neighbor,” Wade forged on, oblivious to Peter’s state of shock, and he stuck out a scarred hand. Peter gripped it, feeling numb, and gave it a shake. Did Wade realize who he was? No, clearly not. He was acting way too normally. Wade was one for dramatics.

my thoughts: Fluff CENTRAL. Wade and Peter are given a playful relationship that can only be described as puppy love. 

additional info: fluff, identity porn, friends to lovers, POV Peter

7) The Naked Truth by CAPSING   [20k, complete]

summary: Wade is not a cat person. But maybe he'll make an exception to get into some cute guy's pants.

my thoughts: CAT FIC! THERE'S A CAT!

additional info: pining, strangers to friends to lovers, vet!peter, Wade is still Deadpool, POV Wade

8) The Boys Wear Red... by Orcusnox (Cat9894)   [108k, complete]

summary: Wade is a hero, Peter is a merc. 

my thoughts: HOLY HECK??? if you thought Spider-man 3 was dark, Raimi ain't got nothing on this. My biggest worry going into this was that Peter and Wade would just swap places and character, but that could not be further from the truth. Peter is dark, but in a way that fits who he is, who he would be if he jumped off the deep end. Everything in this feels thought out and works well together - the character writing is smooth and logical, even for side characters. The plot is fun and exciting, the banter even more so. 

additional info: Hopeful ending, some smut later, gore/violence, past mentions of abuse, frenemies to friends to lovers, POV Peter

9) Allostasis by ruralfishingcat   [42k, complete]

summary: Peter had a tendency to put up walls to isolate himself; even as Spider-Man, he could only suffer through so much death and destruction. It was precautionary, really, and those he'd pushed away would thank him were they aware of the circumstances. Of course, Deadpool had his own tendencies, one of which was to break down said walls (fourth ones included). As grating as it was, a small sliver of Peter hoped the mercenary would be able to succeed.

my thoughts: fucking cute my dude. Identity porn to the max, and a butt crap of pining. 

additional info: friends to lovers, protective Wade, identity porn, POV Peter

10) what light through yonder window by hellornothing   [14k, complete]

summary: The figure moves quickly, but Peter’s faster. He’s still adjusting to the sudden brightness, so dark red is really the only thing he takes from this initial encounter, but it’s enough.

‘Deadpool?’

-aka the one where they get together via late night window visits

my thoughts: THESE TWO! *clenches fist* ya know? just them realizing they have massive heart boners for each other 

additional info: friends to lovers, fluffflufffluff, mama mia that's a lot of F’s, POV Peter 

11) Patron Saint by isaDanCurtisproduction   [58k, complete]

summary: Peter is desperate. Hungry and alone on the streets, he's ready and willing to do anything to change his situation, even if just for a night. And sharing a stranger's bed would be no hardship, especially when the alternatives include dumpster-diving for dinner and sleeping, arms wrapped around him, beneath a chilly and indifferent sky.

Then a man named Wade Wilson steps into his life.

my thoughts: The plot is simple and allows for GREAT character moments. I clutched my heart cause they were so cute and just GAAAHH! the chemistry is great, the banter is fun, the plot is on point. 10/10 would (and do) recommend 

additional info: strangers to friends to lovers, no actual smut, be prepared to clutch a titty, identity porn, pining, homeless Peter, POV Peter 

12) better than being alone by darkavengerz (darkavenger) [6k, complete]

summary: Peter's been asked to attend a children's birthday party as Spider-Man, and he's surprised to discover someone else masquerading as him when he turns up at the party.

my thoughts: this is so them. the story is character-focused and just so gosh darn fun. I love my boys just harassing each other for funzies 

additional info: friends to lovers, fluff, POV Peter

13) Nobody's Business by DittyWitty   [6k, complete]

summary: Peter really wasn't supposed to out himself to Deadpool.

my thoughts: insecure Peter, meet insecure Wade. Now go use big boy words and fucking COMMUNICATE

additional info: friends to lovers, POV Peter

14) you grow up and you lose touch by scarlett_starlett   [53k, complete]

summary: Peter always thought that when he had kids, there would be someone by his side.

Instead, he has a mouthy mercenary acting as a chef every night for him and his newly adopted son and a narcissistic billionaire philanthropist paying child support on the sly. But Peter figures it isn’t all bad, especially when Miles loses that dullness in his eyes whenever Wade slips on the banana peels he ‘strategically’ places all over the apartment for Peter as a joke.

my thoughts: usually not one for kid fics - the kids aren't well written and characters tend to be OC. But this one, this one, just shattered my every expectation. The relationship between Peter and Miles, Peter and Wade, and Wade and Miles is phenomenal. The story and plot are wonderful, with themes that you can't help but sink your teeth into. The pining is off the walls. The characters are rounded and complex and grow so much with each other. I cannot recommend this one enough, please by GOD go read it

*** side note: go read everything by this author. go, get outta here! go! 

additional info: SLOW burn, friends to co-parents to lovers, PINING GALORE, POV alternating but mostly POV Peter 

15) A Vicious Cycle by DecimalDrones   [2k, complete]

summary: Peter can't remember the life he and Wade supposedly shared together. It's alright as long as he's happy, though, isn't it?

my thoughts: y’all. Y’ALL. okay, this one is short and sweet but when you finish, go back and read it a second time. The double meaning and context make this fic DELICIOUS. I also recommend checking out their other fics - they’re a bit longer but still easy to finish in a day. 

additional info: established relationship, POV Peter 

16) on staying around by WylderWolf   [4k, complete]

summary: Fourteen pages of loud fart noises.

(also there's some, like, emotions and stuff, and then they bump nasties. it's pretty rad.)

my thoughts: charming little thing with pining wade. Also, they’re both idiots (but what's new)

additional info: friends to lovers, pining, smut at the end, POV Wade 

#fic #fic rec #spideypool #spideypool fic rec #peter parker x wade wilson #Peter Parker/Wade Wilson #wade wilson x peter parker #wade wilson/peter parker #peterwade #wadepeter #im doing this instead of homework but whats new

[yoonia]

Mission Accomplished!

HOLY CRAP I DID IT!

After writing so much for the whole month, I am now truly lost for words. Honest to God, I was so close to giving up. With so many obstacles heading my way since the very beginning, from having to deal with my cat’s illness, having to deal with an early final graduation project submission at uni, then getting involved in two major projects from my workplace, and in the end, getting sick in the middle of it due to overworking and lack of sleep, I already lost any hope I had of succeeding.

But it was like things were meant to happen as it is. 

I knew that carrying my writing journal at all times would eventually do myself good. Because even when I found myself unable to sit in front of my laptop to write, I was still writing. Whether it was in the middle of a meeting, in the middle of project visitations, in the car, while commuting to downtown or to visit my big bro, at the vet, at the hospital, I was constantly scribbling all the ideas I had in my head and later found myself writing either a whole paragraph, a whole scene that helped me get out of a block, or long dialogues to add into a recurring scene I was working on. Then right when I was so close to getting strayed to focus on new WIPs that suddenly came to me, I got some sort of a revelation or an epiphany (idk what to call it) and words kept flowing out of me to allow me to finish Blood Moon Rising. Yes, I still strayed out of my initial plan, but since I got a lot of work done in the end, I really got nothing to complain about /cue nervous laugh here/

Anyway, I’m just so relieved that I decided not to quit and that I finally made my goal of 50k in 30 days. Here’s a little list of what I actually been working on:

About Time - revamped Pt. 1-10 - added around 12k to the original version (all have been posted, scene by scene, on Wattpad and Inkitt)

About Time - Pt. 11 - added around 12k (draft will complete at 15k. well, maybe)

About Time - Pt. 11.5 (Jungkook) - added around 2k

Blood Moon Rising - Pt. I - nearly 7k (completed)

Blood Moon Rising - Pt. II - somewhere around 8k (completed)

Blood Moon Rising - Pt. III - nearly 9k (completed)

Blood Moon Rising - Pt. IV - added nearly 1k

Tidal Waves - epilogue for Intertwine - added nearly 2k

Nocturne - Pt. 2 - added nearly 2k

Flux: Ripples - added around 2k

28 Days - Pt. 3 - added around 3k

If you’re wondering why it seems like I was working on a lot of stuff, then you are definitely not wrong T^T I have a problem with something called short attention span, which happens only because I am always dealing with a lot of things at the same time, so I always jump to other WIPs whenever I get stuck on one. You might be able to see how messy my whole writing process has been if you check out my progress tracker (totally not advised to, but you are welcome to do so lol)

I just want to send all the greatest and warmest thanks to everyone who has been supporting me and motivating me, and to all my writing buddies who I would occasionally check on just to get myself that little push to finish the whole thing. And to those of you who have been sending me love either here on Tumblr, on Twitter, or on any other platforms where I have been active on. I am truly, deeply grateful to have you guys by my side. 

A little note on publishing the writings I have finished: I will continue doing my posting process as to how I have been doing it for the last few months. I will start editing the completed drafts one at a time and will be posting them on either Wattpad or Inkitt first, scene by scene, before posting the completed versions on Tumblr. That being said, I will be focusing on editing the finished works alongside a few others all through December. I will be updating my WIP list along with my posting schedules pretty soon. Some spoilers will also be thrown out occasionally while I am working on them. 

As for now, I will celebrate my achievement by...catching up sleep. A lot. And most probably added by cuddling with my cats. I’ll be ending this post to show my best regards to this month’s muses ♡

#psa: nanowrimo #about time #blood moon rising #28 days #flux #nocturne #tidal waves #writing progress

[carry-on-my-pretty-weeper]

I Can’t Believe It

Author: carry-on-my-pretty-weeper

Character(s): Peter, Ned, MJ, and Reader

Word Count: 2.8k+

Warnings: cursing, a scarehouse, roller coasters, and fluff oml

Author’s Note: I needed a little pick me up because of a shitty day I had a couple days ago so here’s a thing. I started it off thinking it was going to be a blurb but it turned into 2k+ story so enjoy! Also tomorrow is an update to Catching Lighting!

You couldn’t believe it. You genuinely couldn’t believe it. She was late she had to be. You had been waiting at an amusement park for your friend for twenty minutes. When half an hour rolled around you wanted it to be a prank. You wanted her to jump out and scare you yelling “haha! I got you!” These were all things you wanted but they weren’t true. You called and texted her but none of your messages were answered. You could feel tears start to sting the corners of your eyes. You took deep breaths to try and keep them at bay. You know what? You weren’t going to waste a park ticket. So you got up and determinedly walked to the closest ride available. 

You stood in line when an attractive boy walked up behind you with his two friends. One was another boy and he had a unironically nerdy look. The other was a girl who looked about as interested in this place as you had friends. You went on your phone to not seem lonely when you all arrived at the front of the line.

“This is a two seater,” the guy running the roller coaster said to the group of three. They had a quiet conversation about who would break off when they practically shoved the attractive boy towards you.

“Would you mind if I rode with you?” he asked obviously nervous to be talking to you. He rubbed his neck as he awaited your answer.

“Of course! But I’m warning you I’m a yeller,” you joked trying to ease your own nervousness. He laughed as you both got in the cart.

“I’m Peter by the way,” he added as the ride got going.

“Y/n,” you replied as the cart was going up a tall slope. Oh no this was a bad idea you immediately regretted getting on. The whole reason you came was because your friend liked roller coasters not you. She kept talking about how fun it would be to watch you freak out. But the thing is she wouldn’t be there to watch you freak out but a complete stranger would. You gripped the bar in front of you as you started flying down the drop. A scream ripped through your chest as the attractive boy Peter started laughing.

“Oh my god holy fucking shit fuck crap,” cuss words spewed from your mouth as the ride continued for a couple more rises and drops. When the ride came to a stop Peter was practically cackling.

“I didn’t realize someone could curse so much,” he doubled over in his seat. 

Your cheeks were inflamed as the bar keeping you in your seat lifted up. You wobbled out of the cart as your legs turned into jelly.

“It’s a talent,” you remarked pulling out your phone to check for at least one last attempt to not be alone at an amusement park.

“Waiting for someone?” he asked while you checked your phone.

“I mean I was,” you trailed off.

“‘Was’ as in not anymore?” he pressed further. He didn’t know why he was asking you so many questions or even talking to you. Usually ride partners parted ways right about now but he wanted to get to know you.

“Yeah my friend was going to meet me here but never showed,” you mentioned as you guys reached his friends. He gave you a really sincerely sorry look.

“Damn that’s cold, would you uh” he hesitated a bit, “Would you like to hang with us?” Okay that’s not at all how you thought this conversation was going. You thought he would be like ‘oh that sucks welp see ya’. But this boy had other ideas.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” you tried to argue.

“We have an uneven number so in all honesty you’d be giving me a partner,” he countered. He really hoped that you would say yes. Unless you were seriously uninterested in him which he would totally understand. It also felt like if you weren’t interested than he was coming on like a creep. Fearing the worst he goes to ramble about how you don’t have to and such.

“Sure if it’s okay with your friends,” you said unintentionally cutting off his internal rambling. Peter’s smile widens threatening to crack his face.

“I’m totally cool with it, Ned you’re cool right?” MJ interjects trying to be an amazing wing woman. I mean she all but threw him at you for the ride. Ned nodded his head as you guys walked to the next ride. You made conversation and found out that you were all in your sophomore year of high school. Plus your school was only 15 minutes away from theirs. When you reached the next ride it was more of a scare house. MJ and Ned headed in before you and Peter. You waited for a bit before Peter brought you back to earth.

“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to,” he tried to un-freak you out. To him you looked completely terrified.

“No I can do it. I just have to hype myself up first,” you insisted while shaking your head as if the anxiety could fall off of you like that. Then Peter did something that not even he thought he would do. He reached for your hand and held it in his. You looked up at him oblivious to the wing man and woman that were freaking out at your interaction. 

“Shall we go?” he asked his eyes searching yours.

“We shall,” you responded with a playful smile on your lips. As you walked into the scarehouse you tried to brace yourself for whatever was to come. But when the first person dressed up like a zombie popped out at you you let out a little shriek as you leaned closer into Peter. He was becoming more aware of his heart rate and he swore that you could hear how hard it was beating. But it wasn’t because of the scary things popping out at you two. It was over the fact of how close you were to him. How you wanted him to protect you. So he released your tight fingers and wrapped his right arm around you almost as if shielding you from the scary things. You were so happy for the dim lighting because of how red your face would have seemed otherwise. Whenever something would jump out or yell you would cling to Peter. But you weren’t the only one red in the face. Peter’s internal dialogue consisted of ‘oh my god she’s so close to me’ ‘she’s so cute I can’t believe this is happening right now’ and other varieties of that. By the end of the scare house you were relieved and sad. Relieved because dear god you didn’t know if your heart could handle anymore adrenaline and sad because now you didn’t need a reason to hold onto Peter. Letting go of him you both walked to the exit.

“That was certainly exciting,” he mentioned with a wide smile.

“They’re lucky that I didn’t punch them out of fear,” you added putting up your hands in a mock boxer pose.

“Easy there Rocky we don’t need to be kicked out yet,” he joked. Wow this kid has seen Rocky? Rare-breed. You guys met up with Ned and MJ who seemed to be having a very intense conversation until you both caught up.

“How was the house?” MJ asked slyly. Thinking about how close you were to Peter you became flustered as you choked out a ‘good’. Peter seemed to be having the same reaction as you. So you guys both just stood there sputtering for a good couple minutes before Ned suggested another ride. Unknown to you and Peter they had planned out which rides that were just for two people.

“We are such good wing men/women,” MJ whispered to Ned as you two walked ahead. Peter had just said something to make you laugh.

“That’s the truest thing to ever been said,” he replied as they high fived. Peter was looking over at you a lot more than he knew he should. But by god you were just so pretty. When he made you laugh it was like he won the lottery. Your eyes lit up and you smiled so wide. If he could he would just live in that moment forever. He was just so smitten by you. So gathering up his courage from earlier he reached for your hand again. You looked at him before lacing your fingers with his. His hand was big and yours was small but it fit perfectly almost like a puzzle piece. You were smiling blushing like crazy and refused to look him in the eye. He was doing almost the exact same thing. Meanwhile Ned and MJ were fangirling like crazy.

“So what ride did you have in mind?” you asked Ned hoping to break the silence that fell.

“It’s a new ride that takes you around a good portion of the park but adds in some major drops and a slight upside down experience,” he explained while making hand gestures for you to get an idea of what it was like.

“Sounds like a plan let’s go,” you announced as you started walking in the direction of the ride with Peter in tow. To be completely honest you needed to scream to let out all of this pent up freaking out. You couldn’t believe that Peter was holding your hand. It might seem dumb and childish but you hadn’t ever really had a relationship with someone. So holding hands was sort of a big deal.

While you guys waited in line at the ride you’d ‘accidentally’ lightly bump into Peter. Your hands were still intertwined. You were talking about some old movie when you reached the front of the line. It was another two rider per line deal. So you and Peter sat next to each as you buckled your seat belts.

“Are you ready?” Peter asked as the overhead bars squished you into your seats.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you answered with a deep breath. The ride started off with a jolt of speed. It was reaching its first drop. You squeezed the handle bar and screamed. Peter was yelling too but it sounded a lot more joyful than your nervous one. On the next drop yours was more excited than before. Then you started to enjoy yourself on this ride. By the end you were ready to go again. You guys went on three more rides after that one. When the four of you got off the last ride MJ suggested that you could all go eat. Instinctively you reached for Peter’s hand and you all went off to find a restaurant. There was a Johnny Rockets so you guys went there. When you went to sit down Ned and MJ grouped to one side of the booth leaving you to sit with Peter. Not that you were complaining at all. MJ ordered a BLT, Ned ordered cheese fries + a steakhouse burger, Peter ordered an original burger with extra pickles, and you ordered a bacon cheddar burger. Ned’s cheese fries were the first thing to come out of the kitchen. He offered them to the table and they were gone in a matter of minutes. You guys were all talking about things you did during your childhood. You had gotten the table to laugh when you talked about getting into a fist fight in the third grade.

“I guess I wasn’t wrong when I called you Rocky,” Peter joked bumping your shoulder with his.

“Careful you don’t want third grade y/n to come out. She’s fierce!” you said playfully as he puts his hands up in mock surrender. When all the rest of your guys food came out you all dug in. There wasn’t a single thing left on anyone’s plate. You took a swig of water to wash down the now finished burger. Plus you hadn’t really drinken anything all day so you were thirsty. Downing the rest of your water you listened in to Ned talking about superheros.

“Do you have a favorite superhero y/n?” Ned asked you fully aware that Peter would be listening to your every word.

“Of course doesn’t everyone?” you said unknowingly speaking next to one yourself.

“Who is it?” Peter tried not to sound too interested. He took a sip of water to make it seem like he was barely listening.

“Spiderman,” you replied. Peter choked on his water when you said that.

“Shit Peter are you okay?” you asked worry evident in your voice. He just nodded while trying to cough out the fluid he inhaled.

“So Spiderman? What makes you like him so much?” he questioned as if he didn’t totally embarrass himself five seconds ago.

“Well he saved my mom one time when a cars brakes weren’t working and it almost ran her over. Plus he seems really humble,” you explained twisting your straw. The check came and you all paid for your food and left. The sun was starting to go down and the sky was painted with beautiful oranges, pinks and blues.

“Oh my goodness it’s so beautiful,” you exclaimed staring at the sky. Peter was watching you and couldn’t deny how absolutely stunning you looked right now. The sky was reflected in your eyes and the lights from the rides were caught in your hair.

“Yeah it really is,” he said without taking his eyes off of you. You didn’t notice that he wasn’t staring at the sky like you were. Once again MJ and Ned were freaking out because wow they’re the best at setting people up. Even though this was the first time but that’s besides the point.

“What if we all went on the Ferris Wheel?” Ned chimed in. Partially interrupting Peter’s heart eyes. You tore your eyes away from the sky and gave him a ‘sure’ before looking back at the explosion of color. You all started walking over to the giant ring full of people. Peter just couldn’t stop himself from looking at you. When you reached the Ferris Wheel you remembered what happens in movies on Ferris Wheels and your face caught fire.

“Are you okay?” Peter whispered to you to not catch the attention of the other members of your party. Him being this close to you while leaning into your ear made your face get even redder.

“Yes! Yep, of course why wouldn’t I be,” you stumbled over your words. He wasn’t so convinced. So he reached down for your hand for what felt like the millionth time today.

“We don’t have to go if you’re afraid of heights,” he tried to reassure you by squeezing your hand. Could this guy be even more perfect?

“It’s not that at all! I really want to go on the ride,” you exclaimed. I mean that wasn’t a lie you did but you were also nervous about what was going to happen when you reached the top. 

So when it was time for you to climb in the seat you tried to take inconspicuous deep breaths. When he climbed in you realized just how small the seat was. You were practically on his lap. The rotation started up as the next people climbed on. The higher you got to the top the colder it got. You shivered alerting Peter that you were cold. He wasn’t wearing a jacket that he could offer you so he wrapped his arm around you. You looked up at him to offer a thanks but he was already looking down at you. You were thankful for the smallness of the seat because that made your faces so much closer than they had been all day. You quickly studied his face while his eyes slipped to your lips. There wasn’t much leaning in that had to be done as you kissed him. He was taken by surprise but kissed you back. His arm that was wrapped around you pulled you closer if that was possible. While your hand rested on his surprisingly toned chest. When you broke away for air you realized that you were at the top of the wheel. How cliche you thought. You both looked at each other and started to laugh.

“So uh, wow, that was” you trailed off trying to find the words.

“Yeah it was,” he chuckled.

“I can’t believe we just kissed,” you confessed hiding your face in your hands to hide it’s redness.

“I can’t believe I’m going to do it again,” he said taking your hands from your face kissing you again. You were amazed that you didn’t melt into a puddle right then and there. His lips were soft and lightly chapped but they were perfect. He was perfect. Your hands escaped his as you placed one at the nape of his neck and the other rested on his shoulder. Since his hands were now free he wrapped one around your waist while the other cradled your face. All you thought was how this was perfect ending to a rough beginning.

#peter x reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #spiderman x y/n #spider-man: homecoming #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel imagine #marvel comics imagines #marvel comics imagine

[allmyloveavery]

wherever you are ~ c.b

A/N: The first part of this is gonna be your point of view and then it switches to Corbyn. The italic parts are song lyrics. anyway, I love this song so much and I hope I did it justice with the story. this is almost 2k words so i put a read more lmao. quick disclaimer this is just fiction and based on song lyrics don’t come at me pls 

ps: I’m so sorry this took so long holy crap this request has been sitting in my inbox for ages.

Requested: yes

Summary: basically the plot of the song wherever you are by 5sos but if you don’t know what that’s about I’m gonna give a quick summary anyway. You and Corbyn break up and he leaves you heartbroken. You fly back home and time passes but he can’t seem to stop thinking about you.

You drove into the airport parking lot, with tears burning in your eyes you parked your car and sat there for a minute staring through the window. You couldn’t take it any longer, the feeling of tears burning behind your eyes turned into a complete waterfall of tears streaming down your cheeks. Usually, you weren’t one to cry but today, your spirit, hope, and dreams had been shattered in just a matter of seconds. You lay your head on your arms that were crossed over the steering wheel and you felt the tears stain your sleeve.

 On the backseat of your car, there’s a faint buzzing sound, it’s your phone, but you can’t even hear it over your violent sobbing. In between sobs you manage to let out your anger and scream as you slam the steering wheel with both of your hands. “It was a mistake coming here” you say as you look through your bag for some tissues to clean up the mess that this sobbing session had created.  You check yourself out in your mirror and rub your eyes one last time before grabbing your stuff and walking inside the airport. One more glance over your shoulder at the sun setting in L.A before you step foot inside the airport and you leave forever. As you walk towards your gate you grab your phone and dial your mom’s number. “Hi mom” you almost break down after this and you hear the voice of your concerned mom on the other side of the line, asking you if you’re okay. “I’m coming home.” It stays silent on your mom’s side of the line. It’s like you can’t even react to anything and like everything is moving in slow-motion. You hear your mom say that she’ll pick you up at the airport in your hometown if you text her the time you land and that you’ll be alright and she loves you. All you manage to get out in response is an almost muted “okay” as you stare at your gate before boarding. 

You got on the plane and looked for your spot. When you finally found it and sat down you saw the missed calls from your now ex-boyfriend. As much as it pains you to do it, you decide it’s for the best. You open your contacts on your phone and scroll to his name. “delete contact” you hesitate for a second but end up clicking it. Tears well up in your eyes as you shut down your phone looking out the window, waiting for the plane to take you back home.

“For a while we pretended That we never had to end it But we knew we’d have to say goodbye You were crying at the airport When they finally closed the plane door I could barely hold it all inside”

He was driving on the freeway, one hand on the steering wheel, the other to his ear trying to call you for the fourth time. “come on y/n, pick up the phone…please” The boy makes his way to the airport as fast as possible. It’s a race against the clock to make it there before you board and you’re gone forever. Jonah is sitting in the passenger side and gives Corbyn a sympathetic look as he watches him dial your number once again muttering “please pick up, babe, this was a mistake” to himself. “Dude it’s no use, she’s not gonna pick up. You broke her heart, she probably doesn’t even want to talk to you right now.“ When you don’t pick up the sixth time he throws his phone on the backseat. “I have to talk to her, Jonah. I have to.”

They pull up in the parking lot and Corbyn doesn’t even bother to lock the car. He jumps out of the car sprinting towards the doors of the main entrance. Once he’s inside he frantically looks for your flight on the boards, but he can’t find it. As he’s running towards the service desk to ask where you’re boarding there’s an announcement over the intercom. “Boarding for the flight KL601 is closed.”  Corbyn’s heart sinks into his chest and his eyes fall down as he stops running. “I’m too late.”

His entire body got washed over by defeat as he slowly made his way back to the car. His chest felt heavy and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or scream. As he walked up to his car he saw Jonah sitting in the passenger’s seat, patiently waiting for him. Once Jonah spots his friend he gets out of the car. “You didn’t make it in time?” he asks as he walks up to his friend to give him a hug. Corbyn can’t even bring himself to answer because he knows he’ll break down, so he just shakes his head. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

Exactly three months had passed since you left L.A and went back home.  It was about 3 am but he couldn’t sleep. He’d been up all night thinking of you. He tried so hard to fall asleep but he just missed you too much. He grabbed his phone searching through his contacts until he got to your name. His finger hovered over the number and the calling button for a few seconds. “I shouldn’t. It’s better this way.” He sighs and shuts off his phone.

“Torn in two And I know I shouldn’t tell you But I just can’t stop thinking of you Wherever you are You Wherever you are Every night I almost call you Just to say it always will be you Wherever you are”

He looked at the bulletin board on his desk. You may have been gone but the memories weren’t. The board was filled with Polaroid’s of the two of you, little notes and postcards you had given him throughout the relationship. He knew he should probably get rid of them or at least put them away somewhere he wasn’t reminded of the painful fact that half of his heart was missing. He grabbed his favorite polaroid picture from the board. It was a picture he took of you when you were out on a date for Valentine’s Day because he thought you looked so pretty and he was a lucky guy. He felt tears well up in the back of his eyes and fought the urge to cry. He holds the picture up, looking at it for a while. “I miss you.”

“I could fly a thousand oceans But there’s nothing that compares to What we had, and so I walk alone”

The thought of booking a plane ticket and just flying to you to say he’s sorry and ask you to come back home, to him, in L.A, had crossed his mind almost every night. Yesterday he almost did, but he refrained. You’d probably turn him down anyway.  He sighed at the thought. He missed everything about you, your touch, playing with your hair, your laugh, the way you would do a little dance if you were excited about something, the back and forth quoting of your favorite vines, you sending him memes in the middle of the night saying “this reminded me of you”. He’d give anything to just hold you in his arms one more time.

The next morning he scrolled through his Instagram and saw that you had posted something.  You hadn’t posted anything ever since you left L.A, except for a picture with your two best friends hugging them, captioned: “I missed my girls.” The picture you had posted was a selfie of you and some guy at a club with drinks in your hands both smiling and looking happy. The picture was captioned: “@ScottH the man, the myth, the legend.”

“I wish I didn’t have to be gone Maybe you’ve already moved on But the truth is I don’t want to know”

Corbyn clicked the tag in the picture you gave Scott and went to his account. He found the same pic you had posted and saw that you had commented a heart under the picture. He wondered if you had moved on but couldn’t bring himself to think about it any longer. The thought of you being over him and with someone else pained him deep in his soul.

He went to his Spotify playlist and found the playlists you had made him over the course of the relationship. “Mixtape I for my sunshine’, ‘songs that remind me of you II’, ‘mixtape for the bean III” He looked at the titles with a soft smile on his face. From time to time he would still listen to them, like reading an old love letter. Almost as if in a desperate attempt to cling to you, hoping that one day you would come back.

It was one of those days on which he lied awake until four in the morning thinking about you, so he plugged in his earphones and played the very first mixtape you made him in an attempt to feel something and fill the void in his heart.

“You can say we’ll be together Someday Nothing lasts forever Nothing stays the same So why can’t I stop feeling this way Torn in two And I know I shouldn’t tell you But I just can’t stop thinking of you Wherever you are You Wherever you are”

What he didn’t know was that you still listened to his mixtapes every once in a while too. Even though you deleted his number, you had it memorized and you thought about calling him every now and then, but just like Corbyn, you thought it was probably better this way.

“Every night I almost call you Just to say it always will be you Wherever you are”

#corbyn besson #corbyn besson imagine #why don't we #why don't we band #why don't we music #why don't we boys #jack avery #jonah marais #zach herron #daniel seavey #corbyn besson angst #angst

[fayes-fics]

Awakening

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: You experience an awakening a few days into your arranged marriage with the Viscount.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, female masturbation, slightly dom/sub (use of little one/my lord), innocence, corruption kink, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f).

Word Count: 3.4k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Request fill for Anon, HERE, about Anthony being arranged married to an innocent reader. Sorry it's taken me so long to write this, Nonny, but I hope you still enjoy it, even though I changed the parameters of the request slightly. Enjoy <3

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is most perplexing. 

He is all at once both the best and the worst person you know. A providing husband, but an absent one. A polite, undisputable gentleman, but one who has barely said more than a handful of words to you, his supposed wife. An arrangement was brokered with your father, and now, merely weeks later, you are walking the halls of Aubrey Hall as the new Viscountess Bridgerton but barely feel as if you know your husband.

The night before your wedding, you had received a very vague talk from your mother about how you should expect your new husband to enter your bedchamber and perform his “spousal rights” and that, as his wife, you must allow whatever he decides to do. You still have no earthly idea what that might mean; your room has never once yet seen his presence—on that night or, indeed, any of the four nights since. Part of you worries you have somehow failed to be the wife he needs; part of you is relieved he has not done anything to you that you must endure in some way.  

There is one thing you are certain of, though. While Anthony may be distant, almost an absence from your life, always busy with some business or other, there is no doubt you find his countenance pleasing. He is so very dashing and handsome. Earlier today, he swept in from a hunt wearing very tight tan breeches, and the sight caused a funny, warm tingling low in your gut. Between your legs, really.  He nodded politely as he swept past you in the hallway, continuing his discussion with his brother as he did so. You twist to watch his retreating figure, wishing you could have the opportunity to speak with him, but the view of his shapely bottom in those tight trousers is at least partial compensation. 

So as you lay under the covers on your fifth night alone, your ladies' maids having brushed your hair and taken their leave, you sigh deeply and snuggle into the crispy white sheets. Your thoughts turn to your husband again and that outfit he was wearing. The way those trousers clung to him, the movement of muscle as he strode purposefully. And that sensation rears again—the pulsing between your legs. It seems like your body needs something, but you do not know what. Flushed for some reason, you push away the covers. Before you know it, curiosity has the better of you. While you replay the image of him walking in your mind, your legs fall apart, your hand reflexively falling between them to provide a remedy—almost like an itch you need to scratch.

Your fingers slide through folds of flesh there, and strangely, there is unfamiliar sticky dampness. When you pass your fingers over a particular spot where your two lips meet, you get a pleasurable spike that makes your mouth slack.

Oh.

Almost without meaning to, you keep touching that spot, a call and response that is impossible to resist. The more you rub right there, your body swelling slightly under your movements, the better you feel. A languid buzz in your brain that feels both stimulating and relaxing. When your husband's image pops into your head again, everything suddenly gets sharper and more urgent. And so you do. You think of him. His handsome face, the way his forearms flex when you sit across from him at dinner, and he eats with his sleeves rolled up and again those legs and bottom in those tight trousers. Tumbling images that speed up in your mind as your fingers do the same, powerless to resist. 

You are soon gasping and writhing, yet you do not stop; it feels too good. Something almost violent happens in your body, your lungs restricting, your brain buzzing, and suddenly, with a crest of physical delight, you are experiencing something completely novel. There is a squeezing, rippling inside, and you cry out as a remarkable ecstasy takes your body. When eventually the feeling subsides, you collapse back down, panting and bewildered; your whole body flushed, your fingers, still resting between your legs, wettened with a slick substance that could only have come from within you. 

Whatever just happened, it's nothing you have been told about before. Not fully understanding, all you know is you want to experience it again. It's addictive, powerful, and so very relaxing once over. You instantly fall into a deep, sated slumber and wake up the most refreshed you have felt in many months.

And so it becomes a habit. 

Whenever you feel the need and have a private moment, you retire to your room and touch your body until you feel that pinnacle—often thinking upon the Viscount as you do so. His name even falls from your lips, breathy, almost a tasty morsel, as you find your peak. It is no longer something you only do when you retire to bed for the night. You find yourself doing so any time of day, whenever the mood strikes you, an addictive, fun, illicit thrill. You wonder idly if such a thing is taboo, but you struggle to believe something that feels so good could ever be unacceptable behaviour as long as you are in private, alone.

One week after your wedding, on an uneventful afternoon, you put down your needlework and huff a sigh, your eyes drawn by movement outside. There, riding towards the house at speed across the lawn is Anthony. It's a sunny summer day; he wears only a shirt billowing in the breeze with sleeves pushed up around his elbows. And again, those tan breeches flexing around his legs as the horse gallops, him moving with the beast in a rhythmic motion. Time seems to stand still as you are inexorably drawn to the window to watch the sight coming closer and closer. The whole time your breath becomes more rapid, that telltale throbbing between your legs flares. You decide there is only one course of action.

When he veers off to the left towards the stables to the side of the house, you turn heel and run up the stairs. Keen to have that incredible high. This new, enthralling image will be the star of your thoughts this time. You pass his valet on the stairs and politely nod before scurrying and closing your bedroom door behind you.

You drop your underwear onto the floor, hitching up your dress and chemise around your hips as you throw yourself onto your bed, not even bothering to pull back the bedspread, so very keen to touch yourself.

It doesn't take much, that familiar slick already there, painting your fingers as you slide them against your nub, one hand reaching behind to grasp the headboard as you writhe on your fingers, all thoughts of Anthony and that repetitive bouncing motion of him upon his steed. So wrapped up in pleasure, his name on your lips, you do not hear the knob turning and the door opening.

“My valet told me you were here….” his loud baritone voice rings out around the room but grinds to a halt mid-sentence.

You squeal in surprise; the star of your fantasies standing right before you, skin sunkissed and his hair tousled from his ride, a look of utter shock painting his face.

Instinctively, you clamp your knees together and attempt to push down your dress, but it’s too little, too late. He has seen exactly what you were doing, and now he looks distressed, hIs breathing uneven.

“Did you…. Did you say my name?” The tone is not one you have heard from him before, rough but straining.

You sit up slightly and avert your gaze downwards, abashed he has interrupted your private moment.

“Yes,” you confess quietly.

He takes a hesitant step forward towards the bed and swallows heavily.

“You were touching yourself? And... and saying my name?” he looks almost winded.

“Yes,” again, it's soft, and you chew your lower lip, thinking perhaps you are about to be chastised. He certainly looks very… agitated.

“Do you know what you are doing to yourself?” he blurts out, a vein in his forehead prominent as he locks his jaw.

“Not really,” you admit, “only that when I think of you, I get an ache between my legs, and it feels wonderful when I touch it.”

He makes a strangled noise and closes his eyes, his head tipping back slightly.

“I… I did not expect to consummate yet,” he mutters heavily, “I thought I had more time.” He seems to be talking to himself as much as you.

“What does that mean? Consummate?” you inquire, your mother's words coming to the forefront. Perhaps this is what she was referring to.

“As your husband, I have perhaps been neglectful of my spousal duties,” he says slowly, his head tipping back down to look at you, his eyes intense.

“Duties?” you frown.

“What you were doing to yourself…” he begins, moving closer now so he stands by the bed, “it is because you desire me. I had not considered that may be the case.” He twists his mouth into a thoughtful pout, but you do not miss how he seems to stare at your breasts as they rise and fall inside your stays. “But now that I know it is true… it… changes things.”

“How?” you look up at him, wanting to understand.

A smirk tugs at the left corner of his mouth. “It means there are things I can teach you, things you should know that can happen between a man and a woman. Things you will find pleasurable, just like when you touch yourself. It is my responsibility, as your husband, to show you such things now.” His hand reaches out, and you inhale sharply as it lands upon your raised knee.

“You make it sound more like an obligation than something you want to do,” you respond, voice wavering at the distraction his hand is causing, the viscous throbbing between your legs even heavier now.

“Oh, nothing could be further from the truth; I want to, now that I know you desire it too.” His voice is a soft thrum that makes your nipples peak and a shiver run down your spine.

“Why have you not come to me before, husband?” it sounds breathy even to your ears.

“I thought you disliked me. That this was an arrangement you were enduring. That I should be polite and respectful. Keep my distance, at the least, until you adjust to your new life as Viscountess. Until an heir is needed. But now I know that is not the case…” 

His voice is a pleasant low rumble as his hand starts to move, slightly calloused fingertips skirting the soft skin of your inner thigh, your dress and chemise bunching around his toned forearm as he does so.

“What are you…?” your breath quickening now.

“Shhhh, Viscountess, let me help you,” he hushes, and you stare at him with wide eyes as his warm fingers reach your folds. He hisses at the heat and wetness he finds there. “Oh, you really do like me,” he purrs, and something in you makes you lean slowly back onto the padded plush headboard, unable to look away from his face.

“Yes…” you whimper as his thumb, much broader than yours, makes a sideways swipe over your swollen nub.

“How often?” he murmurs, shifting to take a seat on the bed next to you, his thumb never wavering in its slow, intoxicating rhythm,

“How often wh-what?” You stutter, rapidly losing the ability to form words as your body riots, grasping the bedspread on either side of you, scarcely believing how amazing it feels when someone else touches you, especially him.

“How often do you touch yourself and think of me?” his voice gravelly.

“Everyday… so-sometimes m-more than once,” you pant out, your lips tingling, holding his fiery gaze.

“Oh, you naughty little thing,” he growls, and it sets your face aflame. “Touching yourself multiple times a day and thinking of me. Do you reach a peak every time?”

“Y-yes, my lord….”

His eyes flash; he leans in closer so you can smell spiced cologne and traces of his natural body scent, heightened from his riding exertions.

“Please call me that when I'm touching you,” he asks, but it almost sounds like an order, one you are happy to obey.

“Yes, my lord,” you respond instantly.

“Good little one,” he compliments, and the praise makes something bloom inside you, an urgent want to please him.

He changes his thumb’s motion to a circular pattern and presses more insistently. You gasp loud, glancing down at the slight of his toned arm flexing as he moves, his fingers obscured by your dress rucked up around his wrist.

“Tell me, have you put your fingers inside yourself?” his tone still velvety.

“No? What do you mean? I just,” you pause to whimper, “do as you are right now.”

His face turns into a handsome smirk you can't look away from.

“Would you like to find out how it feels to have someone inside your body, little one?” The question is molten, and you swear your entire skin feels too heated and tight.

You just nod, snagging your lower lip with your tooth, and then your eyes bulge as a finger slips lower and presses into a fleshy barrier that resists his touch.

“I can feel you are still intact, a chaste maiden indeed,” he rumbles, and part of you wonders what that means, but you do not ask. “Luckily, there is just enough of an opening for me to do this…” 

You moan as a single finger pushes a fraction into your body, something completely novel and profound. You stare at him open-mouthed

“Oh, my dear little thing, I have barely even put the tip of my finger inside and look at you. Wait until it's my cock,” he warns darkly.

“Your what?” 

He grabs your hand off the bedding and guides it to the junction of his thighs. Something is hot and hard under there, and you cannot hide your shock even as your hand curls around it and squeezes instinctually.

He growls. “That’s it, feel it. My cock is going to go inside you, right here….” he lectures, and his finger that was teasing pushes deeper into your pussy, aided by the pool of wetness leaking from within.

Again you moan at the invasion, and he looks so proud, pumping the digit slowly as his thumb restarts its movements on your clit.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim in a harsh whisper, the feeling so utterly mindblowing.

“No, your lord,” he corrects, preening from what he can do to your body.

“My l-lord….” you amend stutteringly.

He nods his approval and leans over you, his breath warm on your face as he observes your expressions, gauging your response to each move he makes. It's so overwhelming that he is touching you inside and outside your body.

You are rapidly losing the ability to do anything besides make noises and chase sensation; your knees falling further apart, your hand still on his cock, pressing unconsciously with the same rhythm his fingers play your body. He glances down at his lap, his other hand moving from its grip on your wrist to cover yours, his hips tilting a fraction, pressing more insistently into your palm. 

“Would you like to come right now?” his breath almost as ragged as yours.

“W-what is that?” you stumble.

He huffs a bemused sound. “When you reach your peak, little one. It is called coming.”

“Yes, please, my lord,” you answer the instant you understand, spiralling fast now, your lungs heaving, your slit hot and slippery, where he teases you.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and you obey instantly. 

He gently removes your hand from his cock, and his fingers slip out of your body. You sense movement on the bed, and he manhandles your feet outwards and upwards towards your hips. Cotton brushing the back of your thighs, and a wave of warm air across your inner thighs, so open and exposed now. A few seconds later, you feel something entirely new— a wet, hot, thick mass sliding through your folds unlike anything else. Your eyes fly open, and you startle to see that Anthony has crawled between your legs and his head is now buried at the apex of your thighs. Then you cry out as he does the same thing again, realising he is using his tongue.

“What the….?” you can't even complete the sentence.

“It is not just my fingers I can use, little one,” he tutors, his tone dusky, his breath hot on the patch of hair between your legs as he pulls up slightly to talk, his eyes burning into yours.

You watch, mesmerised, as he flattens his tongue wide and lowers his face to lick a long strip through your entire slit, morphing into a spear as he maps your clit, swirling around all sides. It's so intense your channel flutters, wishing his fingers were still inside you. 

“Yes, that is it, you like that, do you not? Come on,” he coaxes as he takes a deep breath, inhaling your body scent. The way he is handling you, so absorbed in you, a euphoric feeling burns behind your ribs at the idea he wants your pleasure.

He envelopes your clitoral hood and sucks hard. His eyes flashing with pride as he has to grab your hips and hold you down, your back arching off the bed, crying out without caring if anyone can hear. The way he growls as you do so tells you exactly how much he wants to hear it, his pride that he can do this to you.

Something primal washes over you as he bites gently on your swollen clit, holding it between his teeth as you feel two fingers at your entrance pushing in, making you cry as you stretch around him, your body accommodating them even as you feel so filled.

“Anthony… Anthony, my lord,” you chant repeatedly as he holds you down with one strong arm and rocks his fingers shallowly into your body, his tongue swirling. It’s a sight that you can’t look away from. His hips flex into the bed almost involuntarily, as if his cock needs friction, too.

You feel that tide rising somehow more potent when orchestrated by him, a white-hot burning where he plays you and a tension in all your muscles.

“Give it to me,” he snarls, muffled, feeling the ripples around your clit and pussy against his face and fingers.

He redoubles his efforts, almost mercilessly lashing you with his tongue, varying pressure and speed. Entirely without meaning to, your hands fly into his hair, loving the sensation of thick curls sinking between your fingers as you grasp his strands, making him cry out right into your body. And it’s precisely what you need.

Every fibre of your being held taut and shaking now snaps, the pressure inside you like a dam breaking, so much more intense than you have ever experienced from just your fingers. Something almost inexplicable, ephemeral, your body experiencing a hundred different things firing at once. Your world contracting and exploding. You can feel your own heartbeat in your extremities, a rush of blood in your ears, eyes screwed shut as you shudder under him, and yet he moves with you as your hips roll in waves, his mouth never leaving your body. You know you are leaking onto his face, your inside clenching powerfully around his fingers. Dimly, you are aware the noises you make are loud, but you find yourself unable to prevent it and don't even want to.

As you recover, he crawls over your prone body as you lay there panting, fundamentally changed in the sharing of this experience with him, of him to be the one to make your body reach its peak. A true awakening of your senses.

It’s then he kisses you for the first time since a cursory brush of lips at the altar on your wedding day. His face musky with your juices, his lips hot, soft and damp as they press to yours. This is so different to that kiss. It's lingering and hot, his lips plush on yours.

His handsome face breaks into a dazzling smile as he looms over you, the back of his hand gently brushing down your cheekbone as you stare up at him dazed, the taste of yourself seeping through your lips. “Rest for now, my dear wife.” His tone is softer now, the use of wife instead of little one making your breath catch.  “I shall return tonight, and you shall become a woman,” his voice laden with untold promise.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #1k notes omg you guys! #2k notes holy crap you guys! #2k notes

[mustardcustardworks]

Tag game holy crap the last time i did one of these it saved as a draft and i didn't realize until a month later OOPSIES. thank you to @hello-yue-here for tagging me.

1.) why did you choose your url?

Its actually just so that people from archive can not be confused when they come to find me, and that was inspired by the following

i was just thinking of some one day and i wanted it to be atla related... so i thought of Aang's egg custard... so we got this disgusting monstrosity that is nowhere close to avatar.

2) any sideblogs?

nope! im a multi fandom gal, but i keep everything on here.

3) how long have you been on tumblr?

i remember it was chapter three of "oh my bubbles" that i got here bc i was proud and wanted to share it (it sucks) so i think February... i can't go look because my dumbass orphaned the work and then had to copy and paste that shit back in.

4) do you have a queue tag?

nah. its all spontaneity.

5) why did you start your blog in the first place?

i wanted to reach a wider audience for my fics, because archive tags are shit at sharing things and then i was knocked by the amount of people in the zukka community on here like holy shit

6) why did you choose your icon/pfp?

its catra. its fucking catra being excited to blow something up. how can i not put her in?

7) why did you choose your header?

its leaves from the vine I think (i should prob change it) and i was just being a basic bitch but i honestly have no clue what else to change it to its bad

8) whats your post with the most notes?

the "when we get married ill be firelord" zukka one. which i typed out at like 3 AM how does it have 2k notes

9) how many mutuals do you have?

like.. two ;-;

like people if you chat with me I WILL FOLLOW YOU. COME TALK TO ME.

10) how many followers do you have?

90!

11)how many people do you follow?

14... I know I said theres so many in this community i just get so overwhelmed with posts on my dash. Like i said if you chat with me ill follow you, but im embarrassed to say i mainly follow the "famous" people of the Zukka community... if any smaller creators were to reach out to me, even just to say "hey i think you'd enjoy my fic and id appreciate if you'd check it out" I WILL FOLLOW THEM

12)have you ever made a shitpost

half my posts are shitposts that i delete in a minute

13) how often do you use tumblr in a day?

i have strict parents who control my phone (yes im in hs and they do this) so i work out of an incog window on my laptop. Whenever I have free time and have the patience to log in, i come on here. That can either be all day, or in between weeks at a time. Its not the best, but im working with what ive got

14) did you ever have a fight/argument with another blog?

never. I am very focused on a positive and healthy environment with everyone. If i were to instigate a fight it would be for comedic purposes, and i would put /j at the end to make sure the creator knows i mean no harm or malice

15) how do you feel about ‘you need to reblog’ posts?

to support a cause, love them. for example it was "reblog this post to make non-binary people aware that they are safe on your blog" and i did it, because thats positive and empowering. but others like "mary anne will die tonight if you dont rb" i hate with a burning passion

16) how do you feel about tag games?

love them! even if we dont chat, feel free to tag me!

17)how do you feel about ask games?

ive done like one and no one gave me an ask. please guys. they give me sm serotonin. my only ask was abt what picrew i used for the atla characters. thats it...

18) which of your tumblr mutuals do you think are famous?

@hello-yue-here

im sorry but she has like double my following and so many good fic ideas and fics if you arent following her go do that rn.

19) do you have a crush on a mutual?

platonically? absolutely.

Im tagging @betrothedzukka bc she's my only other moot, and if she doesn't ant to do it, thats perfectly fin

so many of my ys arnt oring rn snd hp

#tag games #not atla #what do i tag this #why does w wor no #but not then! #and heres e #oh god

[fayes-fics]

Second Son

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

Warnings: none really... mild angst, family dynamics, love at first sight.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Request fill for anon here, about Benedict being the second choice for everything.... until his love turns up. Thanks for this request; I hope this is angsty enough for you anon. Im not sure about it tbh. Sorry that it's taken more than three months to get to it on my WIP list. Unbetaed. Enjoy <3

Benedict Bridgerton was born into privilege and can have few complaints. Except perhaps that he is always second. The spare. The just-in-case option. Being a familial insurance policy lends one more freedom than the burden of being the titled first son, perhaps, but it also feels like your whole existence, in some respects, can seem like a contingency plan.

____

His stomach swoops with excitement as the arrow pierces the target dead on the bullseye. And on his first ever archery lesson, just after his twelfth birthday.

He turns around to see if anyone is there to witness his triumph, but it goes unmarked. All his young siblings gathered around Anthony, patting him on the back for his achievements in doing the same moments before. Being a good shot is an essential skill for the next Viscount indeed. The fact that he has been receiving instruction for months already and this is Benedict’s first lesson hurts a little.

But he doesn't bother to bring attention to his arguably more impressive feat. It seems pointless now. Wordlessly he shrugs and walks towards the target, plucking out his arrow and starting again. Perhaps next time, they will notice.

____

“Is that the new Viscount Bridgerton?” Benedict hears a young girl murmur as he sweeps into the first societal event of the season, the spring following his father's death. 

“Oh no, my dear, sadly not; I believe that is one of the brothers,” her mother replies, acting as if he has no sense of hearing, even trying to ignore it as he is, surveying the crowd.

“Such a shame,” the young girl huffs, “he is so very handsome.”

“Yes, dear, but sadly not titled. We can do better,” her mother chides, moving them along out of earshot.

He will never get over how cutthroat the Ton can be, a part of his tender seventeen-year-old heart sinking. Not that he had a potential interest in that girl, more the principle that he will somehow be rendered as an also-ran, at best a consolation prize, for the rest of his life.

What is most galling, perhaps, is that, when his mother needs their presence the most on a night like tonight, the new VIscount is nowhere to be seen. Has not even bothered to show his face, running off to some spurious gambling den and brothel, spending the night indulging himself rather than facing society. 

So here Benedict is, stepping up to play the dutiful son that his elder brother should be. Being the support their mother so desperately needs at her first event as a widow, her arm looped heavily through his, her whole bodyweight seeming to use him as her literal pillar of support. As he escorts her around the room, he is filled with admiration at her brave face. He can see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes every time the word dowager is invoked, and his heart cracks a little at the loneliness he can feel emanating from his mother’s very soul. 

“Tis a shame the Viscount did not deign the first event of the season worthy of his patronage,” she states pointedly as she sips champagne.

“I am sure he has very good reasons for his absence,” Benedict replies soothingly, covering for his errant brother, attempting to shield their mother from the truth of his philandering ways. Benedict knows it is Anthony’s way of dealing with the responsibility of the title of Viscount being thrust upon him so young. But sometimes, just sometimes, Benedict wishes he could escape his grief in such a manner, Anthony taking his turn attending a stuffy ball and playing guardian to a grieving woman. Their burdens may be different, but the wish to escape them is often not, Benedict realises.

____

She catches his eye at a garden party at Aubrey Hall. She is a pretty young lady, maybe eighteen to his twenty-three, with bright eyes and a sweet, happy face. She makes his palms slightly sweaty. He watches her from a distance, uncertain how to approach or what to say, feeling a little tongue-tied, even. 

Just then, Anthony materialises at his shoulder.

“Who is that pretty young thing?” Anthony asks, tracing Benedict’s line of sight.

“Miss Bradstreet,” he replies, watching as she turns to face the sun, closing her eyes, basking in its warmth. The light captures her cheekbones perfectly, and he itches to have his sketchbook and capture her likeness. He would very much like to get to know her better.

“Let's go provide a warm welcome,” Anthony smirks, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and practically dragging him across the lawn.

Benedict reluctantly follows, a flutter of excitement as her eyes land upon them as they approach. 

“Miss Bradstreet,” Anthony swaggers. “Viscount Bridgerton at your service; I am so very pleased to be your host today,” he bows.

Benedict's stomach plunges as he watches her practically melt into the lawn right there, virtually swooning at Anthony’s feet.

“Oh, and this is my brother, Benedict,” Anthony adds, almost as an afterthought. 

She flicks her head to the side briefly to politely acknowledge Benedict before returning to Anthony. All of her undivided adoring attention on him as he regales the story of his latest hunting triumphs upon her insistence. Benedict heaves a sigh and watches as yet another young lady he likes chooses his brother over him. He is almost used to it now, but it doesn't stop the sting every time.

____

Your world grinds to a halt as you see him. He is descending the stairs with what you assume is the rest of his family. He is very much in the middle of a tight circle, walking behind what appears to be his mother and perhaps older brother. Quite the most beautiful man you have ever seen, your heart pounding in your ears, your throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade in your hand. You assume they must be the hosts, seeing as they are the very last to enter the ballroom here at Bridgerton House, and there is no announcement of their name.

“Who is that?” you whisper, leaning towards your elder sister. She has been out among society for a year and knows the Ton better than you.

“That is the Bridgerton family, of course,” she replies. “Illustrious in the extreme. Our hosts for this evening. The Viscount there is the most eligible bachelor of every season… and every season, he has resisted a match. So I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she sniffs.

“Which is the Viscount?” you check, your eyes unable to leave the beautiful man with a cravat tied in the most unconventional fashion.

“The one with his arm looped with their mother, the dowager Viscountess, naturally,” your sister rolls her eyes as if patently obvious.

“And what of the others?” you inquire keenly, realising the man you admire cannot be the one your sister is referring to. “Do you know their names?”

“I do not,” she admits, “such things are not really important when one is looking for a titled husband,” she points out airily. 

You nod, knowing the responsibility your sister must carry as firstborn to find a suitable match that can provide for your widowed mother and, indeed, perhaps yourself and your younger sister should neither of you be able to find a husband. You don’t envy her position one little bit. 

You are, however, desperate to get closer to the most beautiful man you have ever seen. And so you spend your evening working towards them, in as polite of a fashion as you can, your stomach in knots of excitement to know him.

“Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, it is an honour and a pleasure to meet you,” you curtsy, heart pounding as he now stands a few feet away, unable to look at him so close by.

“Hello, my dear and you are?” she asks politely.

“Miss y/n y/l/n, it is my very first season; I am so honoured to be here,” you explain. “I must provide the apologies of my mother, Mrs y/l/n, who could not attend tonight due to a cold, but she is so very thankful for the invitation.”

“Oh, of course,” the viscountess smiles. “I am so sorry to hear of her illness; please pass on my best regards… Anthony!” she turns to her side to grab the attention of a man. The viscount’s head whips around from where he is in discussion with another. “Come meet Miss y/l/n,” she needles pointedly. “Miss y/l/n, this is the Viscount Anthony Brdgerton, and he is so pleased not only to make your acquaintance but also for your presence here tonight,” she welcomes on his behalf, and you do not miss the subtle nudge in the ribs she gives him.

Then his regard is drawn to you. He is handsome certainly, and you appreciate his polite but absent-minded greeting. His attentions are obviously elsewhere, but then you cannot fault him as yours are the same. Your gaze strays over his shoulder to the man who first captures your attention. And your breath is stolen by how his hazy blue eyes stare intently at you.

____

Benedict is twenty-six years old when he is struck by lightning. Not literally. But that is the sensation that runs through his body when he first lays eyes on you—politely introducing yourself to his mother and thanking her for your invitation to this ball. 

He thought he knew what attraction was until this point. He thought he knew the depths to which one could fall in love in an instant. He was an utter fool. He looks at you, and at once, everything is so quiet and loud all at once. He is desperate to know you in a way he has never felt. To grab your hand, take you somewhere, and ask you a million questions to get to know your soul. He also wants to kiss you so much that his lips tingle. And inside, his lungs want to scream as his mother does the natural thing and introduces the beautiful, polite young lady to her most eligible son… Anthony. 

Then his heart jolts as your eyes stray from Anthony and meets his, your pupils dilating in a way that makes his lungs too small to inhale air. It is the first and only time a young woman has had Anthony’s full attention and has looked away from it. And to him, no less. The tidal flood of chemicals in his system makes it feel like he is vibrating in his very shoes.

____

You try your best to be polite and look at Anthony as he speaks, but your sight is drawn to this other man like a moth to a flame. From appearance, the second son, as you are the second daughter. A flare of understanding and sympathy in your chest as to how that is. You want to grab his hand and run away with him.

“My lord,” you find your voice and snap your eyes back to the Viscount, “would you do me the honour of introducing me to the rest of your wonderful family?” your ask, almost timid.

He looks temporarily taken aback, as if mystified why anyone in the Ton would care about the status of anyone beyond his mother and himself. You smile at him expectantly and do not miss, from the corner of your eye, how the beautiful man’s face is awash with surprise at your request.

“Oh, most certainly,” Anthony seems to snap out of his temporary stupor and turns to introduce his siblings in attendance. A tall, baby-faced young man stands to attention as Anthony moves from left to right. “This is Colin; he has just returned from his travels in Greece,” you nod and smile politely, knowing nothing of the subject. “And this is my sister, Eloise; it is her first season, and she is not in the slightest bit happy about that,” he adds dryly, and you can't help but giggle and feel a kinship with the spirited young lady who returns your wry smile. “My eldest sister, the Duchess of Hastings, who is visiting us,”

You curtsy and bow your head. “It is an honour, your Grace,” you add, and she smiles sweetly at you, her arm looped in her mother's.

“Obviously, you have met my mother,” he continues, and suddenly he is the last in the line. You feel your palms clench, sweaty in anticipation of learning his name “... and this is my brother, Benedict; he hopes to be an artist.”

You are finally brave enough to meet his eyes again. He is so achingly beautiful that the rest of his family, indeed the whole ballroom, melt away from your view—he is all you can see.

“Oh, I adore art,” you stutter, mesmerised, offering your hand to him, the first and only person in the family you do so to. Unseen by you, your gaze only on one man, Anthony’s mouth drops open in surprise.

Nothing can prepare you for when Benedict’s gloved hand gently touches yours, him bowing to kiss the back of your hand. You catch a woody citrus scent that makes your mouth water as he does so. And then you feel the warmth of his lips through your glove, and you are utterly undone.

“Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles quietly, the sound making your insides melt even more; it's deep and resonant and makes every inch of your body tingle.

“Please call me y/n,” you murmur, moving closer, knowing how scandalous that might be, but seemingly unable to stop yourself. He has a hypnotic hold over you that you don't want to fight.

“Only if you shall call me Benedict,” he breathes, and it takes Anthony clearing his throat to make you spring apart, suddenly remembering where you are.

____

His lips touch the silk of your glove, and he is gone. 

Already planning a future, his mind supplying images of you at his cottage out in the country, the lady of the house. Tending to the herb garden, reading happily curled up in front of the fire in the drawing room, fearlessly plucking a bow as you stand in front of joint archery targets gently teasing him for losing to a girl, and finally, the image that truly knocks the wind out of him, you naked under him, desperately moaning his name as you move together, entwined in ecstasy.

He hears your sharp inhale, and his heart skips at the idea you feel it too. That you are the first woman ever that sees him and not Anthony. Really sees him. Not as the second son. Not as a consolation prize. 

And when your body seems to sway towards him, he is already mentally asking his mother for a betrothal ring from her grandmother, which she said she is keeping just for him.

____

“Benedict,” his name feels wonderful in your mouth, like a gift from the heavens. “Please, may we take a turn around the gardens?” you implore, the boldest you have ever been in your whole life. 

“It would be my very greatest pleasure,” he responds.

And you know with absolute certainty you have met your husband, the father of your children, your very future. 

____

“It is not as if this is my show….” he sighs.

“You should not do that, darling,” you say affectionately, ruffling his hair as you move to fix his cravat; it definitely needs to be more jaunty, in your opinion.

“Do what?” he breathes, his wedding ring catching the light as he places his hands gently over yours and stills your motions.

“Think of yourself as second,” you argue, running your hand over his cheek. “This gallery opening may feature others' work too, but you are the star of the exhibit,” you reassure, tilting his forehead down so it rests upon yours.

There it is again. That look that always floors you. Even now, a year later. Like you are the most wondrous creature, and he can scarcely believe you are his.

“Never forget, you will always be first to me,” you utter fiercely, watching his eyes soften with devotion. “And not just me….” you guide his sizeable warm hand onto the swell of your belly, “to us. We love you so much, Benedict,” your tone is ardent, wanting him to believe he deserves this recognition, that he should believe in himself the way that you do.

“I love you, too,” he responds quietly, reverentially. “So very much. Both of you are my whole world,” his voice choked with emotion, and you throw your arms around him and squeeze hard, wanting to telegraph just how much he is the very centre of your universe.

An hour later, you clutch your hands over your chest as you watch him being brought onto the raised stage and introduced to the crowd as they applaud him and his work rapturously, awaiting to hear him talk of his art. As he does so, you stroke your belly unseen under your cloak, beaming with pride for your wonderful husband.

____

He sees your face in the crowd, and as ever, it calms him, especially at this landmark moment. So as he finishes the speech that he has rehearsed for days now, he decides to do something perhaps unconventional but something he seems unable to resist.

“Lastly, before I allow you back to your champagne,” he jests, finally at ease with the attention and recognition. “I want to thank my life’s inspiration, the very reason I stand before you today. My wonderful wife. Thank you, my love, for being the light of my life; for always making this second son your first choice. You will always, always be my first choice. I love you.” 

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[fayes-fics]

(Be)Longing

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Mutual rescue, mutual jealousy, longing and belonging.

Warnings: None, really. Angst, jealousy, fluff. Shyness and insecurities. Minor character injuries. Time jumps.

Word Count: 5.2k

Authors Note: This is an anon request fill here (request: Benedict x shy!insecure reader, with some angst, jealousy fluff, and all the good stuff. Happy ending, of course.). Sorry it took so long to get to this Nonny; I have no idea if this is what you wanted, and I'm really not sure about it, but I hope you enjoy <3

I: Saved

“Unhand her at once!” 

The smooth, confident, older voice rings out across the village green, and suddenly the pack of nasty bullies who have your arms in a grip seem to melt away from around you.

You don’t even think to pause and thank the person who broke up the mob. No, your fight-or-flight response is in full-on flight mode. The minute your arms are released, and you see the break in the circle, you run. Run as fast as your legs will carry you. Bolting down the road and into the safety of the churchyard near your house. You do not want to run home upset and worry your mother, so you do the next best thing, the thing you are becoming increasingly good at, hiding. You climb a crabapple tree. And then you let the tears flow—just flooding down your cheeks.

You hate this new village your parents have moved you to. Your father, a doctor, had been offered the position as village physician, and now here you are, moved from Surrey to Kent, but it might as well be the other side of the world. You miss your friends. You miss your old village. You are not the most outgoing of people, and the upheaval in your life has been immense. You yearn to be back in your old, familiar, comfortable home.

You are sniffling, taking deep breaths, angrily wiping tears, and preparing to face your family when he appears. 

“Are you alright?” 

You startle. Beneath you, squinting up into the tree, is the owner of the voice who rescued you. Seeing him now, you feel an odd warmth in your ribs. He looks older, maybe fifteen, if you had to guess. He seems benign with a calm face, and his expression is one of sympathy and concern.

“Yes,” you squeak quietly.

“It is safe for you to come down,” he says gently, “should you wish.”

“Are they gone?” you query, wishing you could hide the tremble in your voice.

“They will not bother you again; I can assure you,” he states with absolute certainty.

Your eyes go wide, “What did you do? I don't want to make it worse for my brother,” you fret.

“I told them if they mess with you again, they will have the Bridgerton brothers to contend with,” he nods, with an air that suggests the name is of some local import.

“Is that you?” you ask timidly, not wanting to get down from the tree just yet.

He chuckles. “You must be new here?”

“Yes… we just moved here two weeks ago. Those boys have been tormenting my brother since his first day at school. They appear to have chosen me to pick on as he is not around,” you frown, dusting a twig from your skirt.

“Well, that ends now. Now, do you need help down?” he asks.

“No,” you sniffle, “I am capable.”

“I wouldn't doubt it,” he nods politely and steps aside to allow you space to jump down.

With a quick swing, you do so, landing neatly on your little brown boots. You unfurl to your full standing height, but even then, you have to crane your neck to look up at him.

“Very impressive,” he smiles warmly. “I am Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton. Welcome to Kent.” he thrusts out a hand to shake and, bemused at the formality, you take it and shake as if a businessman, not a ten-year-old girl.

“Thank you, Benedict. I am y/n y/l/n. My father is the new physician,” you gesture vaguely over the church wall towards your home next to the rectory.

“Ahhh,” he nods in understanding.

“And thank you,” you curtsy.

“Whatever for?” he frowns.

“For rescuing me,” you clarify.

“Oh please, that was nothing,” he waves dismissively. “I cannot abide bullies. Or any injustice really,” his eyes appear briefly unfixed, and he looks thoughtful, as if what he said just occurred to him as truth. Then he shakes his head and brings his attention back to you. “You are alright, though, correct? Able to get home?”

“Yes,” you confirm shyly.

“Then I shall be on my way” he tips an imaginary cap at you that makes you giggle, and he smiles goofily before turning away and walking out of the churchyard.

A little part of your heart yearns to follow him, the boy with the hazy, kind eyes and the pleasing smile, who just made your transition into life in the area much more bearable. 

You and your brother are never bothered by that gang of boys again.

II: Envy

“Y/n, this is Miss Clarissa Worthing.” 

Benedict introduces you to the willowy blonde whose hand is looped through the crook of his arm.

“Clarissa, this is Miss y/n y/l/n. She will beat half of my family at Pall Mall once you can coax her out of her shell,” he teases delicately with a friendly glint in his eye that makes your heart flutter against your ribcage.

Clarissa nods in cool acknowledgement, then cranes her neck to whisper something, her lips brushing his earlobe, her regard for you already gone. You curtsy politely, smile weakly and scurry away, feeling clumsy and out of place, unsure of what else to say to this swan-like beauty. 

It's the summer after your fifteenth birthday, and he is back from his second year of university. It doesn't take much to deduce that this is the lady he is currently courting, accompanying him as she is to a garden party at Aubrey Hall. Jealousy clings to your skin like an invisible oily substance and taints your every thought.

Ever since that fateful day when he chased away your bullies, you have carried a torch for Benedict. The year after that incident, you sadly have to attend his father's funeral. Your own father unable to save the Viscount’s life. The forlornness on Benedict’s face as he stood there in the chilly church made your chest ache. You didn’t fully understand why at the time, but your impulse was to go up and wordlessly hold his hand. He looked so utterly unmoored and sad. You didn't, of course; you would never be so bold, but the impulse was so strong, a tingle on your palm that needed to touch him. It was all you could think about for days.

Over the intervening years, your soft spot for him grew with every encounter, the childish admiration morphing into something stronger, a deep-rooted longing. He always seemed to be the one who cared the most—about his siblings, his mum, and even the problems of the wider world. And as your body started to change and you began to feel differently about boys, your feelings for him had another layer of confusing complexity. His was the first face that popped into your head when your friends giggled about boys and talked of marriage. 

Even now, it seems ridiculous to entertain that he would ever pursue you… you are stuck in small village life, the daughter of a doctor, not from a noble family, and he is off in the world, experiencing things you have no notion of. And yet he is the only man you have ever met who intrigues you that way. The idea of marriage not being entirely abhorrent, provided it is to him.

And so you just watch—the perpetual wallflower. Watch as Benedict and Clarissa make the circuit of the party. Effortlessly chatting among various members of the Ton, looking like the picture-perfect young couple.

“Makes you sick, doesn't it?” Eloise’s dry tone pops over your shoulder. 

You smile at Benedict's little sister, just a couple of years younger than you and a kindred spirit at these events, mostly wanting nothing to do with them.

“She is very beautiful,” you offer politely, sipping your lemonade.

“She steals,” Eloise states plainly, making you splutter your drink all over your face and dress, the little immediate crowd of attention it draws to you mortifying. Luckily Benefict is far enough away and otherwise engaged that he does not see it. You are not sure you could live that down.

“That's a scandalous thing to say,” you hiss softly as you blush under the attention of a few strangers and furtively clean yourself with a serviette as best you can.

“Tell that to mother’s silk gloves,” Eloise volleys back, her disgust evident. Apparently oblivious to your embarrassing predicament or perhaps just uncaring of what others think. “She will be gone before the weekend is out, mark my words.”

You don't doubt it, knowing how spirited Eloise is. And how well she has her brother's ear. You know he will instinctively trust what she says as truth. As she marches up to grab his arm and pull him away, mostly, you wish you had more of her bravado, her fearlessness. While you agree with her outlook on many things, you are not built of the mettle she is—not one who draws attention. Still, you watch with a twisted, guilty, but victorious smile as Eloise pulls Benedict aside and has words with him. 

You never hear of Miss Clarissa Worthing again.

III: Jealousy

“Lord Boswell would be a wonderful match, my dear,” your mother smiles encouragingly, handing you a slice of lemon drizzle cake. 

You can't hide the curl of your lip at the mere thought. 

It's the morning after the first ball of the season, just after your twentieth birthday, and you are in the London townhouse your parents have rented for the season, awaiting any suitors to call. Less than three days into your first season, you want the merry-go-round to stop. A dizzying whirl of social engagements you feel unequipped to deal with, wanting nothing more than to be back in Kent, stealing into the grounds of Aubrey Hall with a good book. Perhaps even spend time with Benedict.

Just the very thought of him causes a flare in your belly. Since his return from his studies in Cambridge, he has seemingly moved to Aubrey Hall full-time, spending his days painting the Kentish countryside with hopes of establishing himself as an artist. You have spent more time together in the last year or so than ever before, often finding yourself reading quietly in the shade with Eloise as he paints nearby, his company always somehow a balm as much as a thrill. And it feels as if there has been a subtle shift in how he regards you, giving you the unbearable lightness of hope. Perhaps he sees you in a different light now that you have come of age, no longer the child you were. There have been some moments where he has looked at you and felt it, like a weight on your skin; even as you doubt many other things about yourself, you don't doubt there is something there—a most wondrous and perplexing development.

Your butler bustles in and announces something that makes your heart leap into your throat.

“Mr Benedict Bridgerton has arrived.”

Your mother's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, giving you a sideways glance. A Bridgerton, even if not the Viscount, would be more than sufficient in her eyes. Especially one known so well to your family.

“To call on Miss y/l/n?” your mother asks, excitement evident in the breathy question.

“Oh no, ma’am, apologies. To see your husband. His brother, the Viscount, has dispatched him here to talk about some business in Kent,” your butler explains, somewhat apologetic as he realises the misconstrued intent.

Your mother’s disappointed face is only a match for your roiling stomach. 

Your father folds his newspaper and jumps up. “I shall meet with him in my study, Jenkins. Please show him there,” and with a nod to you both, he leaves.

It has been just two days since your presentation to the Queen. That had been a waking nightmare. Parading down a long hallway at the Palace to be presented to her majesty filled you with utter dread. All eyes upon you, your every move and inch of appearance judged, and you are certain you were found lacking. Your status is unknown in the Ton; your parents pushing you into the season, hoping for an advantageous match. But you feel they could tell from one look where you belonged—almost invisible, on the periphery, a wallflower. Quiet, reserved, bookish, watching more than participating.

“Lord Boswell is here,” your butler reenters the room moments later.

Your stomach clenches. Your mother can barely contain her glee. You are so confused; you barely spoke two words to the man as you danced the previous night. Your conversation skills were utterly lacking, and he seemingly could not find an engaging topic to broach. You were keen for the music to end so you could return to standing and observing. You cannot believe that awkward interaction would be enough to propel the man to call on you, having said so little to each other just a few hours earlier. And yet here he is, a bunch of flowers in hand and a slightly vacant smile. The fleeting thought of marrying such a dull person makes you mildly nauseated.

Your mother hurries to the other side of the parlour and leaves you to converse, wearing a happy, hopeful expression that you hate to dash. And so you stumble the best you can through small talk. He talks of the weather, his property, and his interests but never asks anything about you—as if he is a candidate for a job you are interviewing for. In some ways, that is perhaps accurate, but part of you yearns for him to show interest in you, not just talk incessantly of himself.

Just as you give up hope of escaping anytime soon, you startle as he lays a hand on yours on the sofa between you. You don't even hear what he is saying anymore, just staring at where his glove covers yours, not liking the sensation, wanting to claw yourself away and withdraw. 

Motion in the doorway makes you look up; Benedict is with your father. And suddenly, your heart is racing. Benedict looks taken aback; something sour in his expression you have never seen before makes you want to run to him and ask what is wrong. But you don't. You do the polite, reserved thing and smile.

“Mrs y/l/n, Lord Boswell,” he greets politely. “Miss y/l/n,” he adds, and you could swear he uses a different, lower register. Something inside you turns pulpy and ripe, blossoming just for him. 

Before you know it, he has taken a seat on the sofa facing yours, shooting you the tiniest of winks that could be an eye twitch, but you know him better than that—seeing the sparkle of mischief in his eye. Your parents seem to exchange nonplussed glances, uncertain why he has chosen to stay.

“Boswell,” Benedict begins, shooting the man his most impervious glance. “What of your qualities make you an ideal suitor for Miss y/l/n here?” he questions.

Boswell splutters and seems taken aback, clearly not expecting such an interrogation, especially from a man who isn't your father or brother. Benedict’s eyes are back on you as the man stumbles through an inadequate and entirely uninteresting response that you do not even listen to. Your whole focus is on Benedict, feeling unable to breathe.

“Hmmm,” Benedict hums as he ends, “and what have you to say about Miss y/l/n’s interests? Are they perhaps complimentary to yours?”

“I… I did not think to ask,” Boswell falters, his cheeks reddening at the faux pas.

Benedict looks almost disgusted. 

“You claim to be interested in providing your suit but ask nothing of what makes her the wonderful person she is?” he scolds, and your mouth opens into a little O of surprise. “Have you not asked her about her excellent marksmanship? How she can shoot an archery target better than anyone else within ten miles of Aubrey Hall? Have you not asked after her artistic skills? You see that cushion you sit next to? That is the work of her fair hand.”

You barely register as Boswell twists to look at the item and then at you; you have eyes for no one but Benedict as he continues, his voice loud and clear even over the sound of your heart pounding hard in your ears.

“Have you asked her about her love for literature and poetry? How she will correct you that it was, in fact, Guildenstern, not Rosencrantz, who enters first in the first folio version of Hamlet?” 

You duck your head and blush. That is precisely what you did to him last year, surprising even yourself with your boldness. And he remembers. 

He continues. “Have you asked about her love of animals? Perhaps you need to hear the tale of Mr Whiskers and how she was able to nurse the beloved cat of my sister Hyacinth back to health. You have not asked her of any such things?!?” his tone incredulous.

Even from the corner of your eye, you can tell that your parents’ faces are as shocked as Boswell’s. And suddenly, you recognise this as a Benedict Bridgerton you have seen before. It’s the one that comes out when defending those he loves against injustice or an unworthy opponent—the staunch guardian. 

“If you cannot find it in yourself to show such interest, I would hope she will entertain better suitors,” Benedict sniffs dismissively. “As a long-term friend, I cannot in all good conscience allow this young woman to be pursued by anyone unworthy of her,” he concludes cuttingly, his nostrils flare, and his lip curls just a fraction as his eyes flit to where Boswell’s hand still rests upon yours.

Even as you struggle through your jumble of thoughts about everything he has said, one question so singular strikes you. Is this is Benedict….. jealous?? Jealous of your suitor? Finding ways to cut into him with his precise knowledge about you? The thought seems so fanciful that you want to dismiss it, but the sliver of possibility it offers is exhilarating. Just the chance of it being true has you utterly undone.

You barely even listen as your father jumps up and, with some belated sense of defence, agrees with Mr Bridgerton and asks Boswell if perhaps he should take his leave and return another day when he has thought of more engaging things to ask of you. Every fibre of your being yearns to talk to Benedict somewhere private, but he gives excuses to leave as quickly as your chastised suitor is dispatched.

Boswell never darkens your door again.

IV:  Rescue

“Penny, for your thoughts,” Eloise smirks as she catches you staring into space on the terrace. Your cheeks blush, and you do not admit to where your thoughts had wandered—to her older brother.

“Will you come with me for a walk?” you ask, feeling the need to get away before you cross paths with the man who has occupied your thoughts more often than not of late.

It’s the week of the midsummer Hearts & Flowers ball at Aubrey Hall, and you are glad to have escaped the hubbub of the London scene and to be back in Kent for a few days' respite.

“No, I would prefer the company of Mary Shelley this afternoon,” she states airily, waving a book she holds.

So you set off alone, walking the grounds you now know so well. You are half an hour into your stroll, admiring the wildflowers along the eastern fringes of the grounds, not far from the village, when you see him approaching in the distance.

Benedict is riding his trusty horse and looks so majestic your chest constricts. Clothed in just a billowing white shirt and beige britches, you have rarely seen him look so informal. Or so very, very attractive. Your palms feel sweaty, and something stirs deep inside your body as you slink slightly into the treeline, hoping to remain unseen. A chance to merely observe this beautiful man, even knowing it is wrong to do so. To spy on him as such. Just as he draws close enough that you can see the flex of his leg muscles under the material, which causes all sorts of sensations in your body, a startled deer darts across the path and spooks his horse.

Time seems to slow as you watch his horse rear up and make the most terrible whinny of fear. 

And then your heart is in your throat as you watch horrified as Benedict loses his grip on the reins in surprise and is thrown violently backwards to the ground.

Bile rises in your throat as you see how his body hits the dirt path, unable to brace for impact. The air fills with a blood-curdling scream that you belatedly realise is your own, and before you know it, you are sprinting. Sprinting towards him. Your whole focus narrows to his body splayed on the ground, worryingly still, as his horse bolts away. Heart pumping wildly and adrenaline coursing through your veins, you pull up to him and skid to your knees.

He is still conscious but barely. Moaning slightly. 

“Do not move!” You bark, and even in his woozy state, he appears taken aback by your ferocity. “I mean it, Benedict!” you bite out as he attempts to move his arm.

He seems to mumble a noise of ascent as you try your best to assess any injuries, having learned some things from observing your father over the years, but you realise he needs proper medical attention. Where you are on the grounds, it’s closer to your home than Aubrey Hall.

“I am going to get my father,” you explain as calmly as you can, “for the love of God, Benedict, do NOT attempt to move until he gets here.”

A wan smile spreads across his face even as he winces in pain. “Hmm, fine. I promise to stay still,” he sighs, “....prefer to do it for the love of you…,” he mutters slurringly before he appears to pass out.

Knowing he has likely struck his head, you try your darndest to put what he said out of your mind. A head injury would be the only way to explain such a comment, even as you are praying he doesn't have one. 

Heart still beating out of control, and not knowing what possesses you, you lean over and press the quickest shyest of kisses onto his lips—pulling back a few inches before he can even acknowledge it happened.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere on me, Benedict Bridgerton,” you whisper fiercely, just in time to see his eyes pop open, hazy and clouded with something you have never seen before. It’s not the pain he is in, though. And it’s not confusion, amusement or even irritation. It’s something else, so blisteringly intense your legs want to turn to jelly.

“I won’t, I promise,” he attests, his tone rough, ragged.

There are a couple of seconds where all you do is stare wildly at each other, and then, with a reassuring squeeze of his hand, you take off running. You have never run so far and so fast in your life; fear makes your muscles work harder than they ever have before. It’s probably only a few minutes, but it feels like a lifetime.

Your parents almost burst out of their skins in shock as you barrel into the house, panting wildly, wordlessly grabbing your father's medicine bag, and he reflexively springs into action. 

You run to the stables and hurriedly hook up the long cart he uses when he needs to transport patients, and the look he shoots you is filled with concern.

“Who is it?” he asks as you climb aboard and direct him.

“Benedict,” you tremble, and there is a world of understanding in your father's eyes as he cracks the whip, and the horse jolts faster. 

Perhaps your adoration is less concealed than you like to believe, but at this moment, you only care about getting him the help he needs. You are grateful your father doesn’t ask questions as you speed along. 

And it becomes a blur as you reach the site, grateful Benedict laid still as you requested. Your father examines him and fires questions that are answered lucidly, tending to some immediate wounds and bandaging in places. Before you know it, you are helping your father with a canvas stretcher and insisting on sitting with Benedict in the back of the cart as your father takes the patient back to Aubrey Hall. 

Never addressing the fact that you grip each other's hands so tight that both of your knuckles go white.

V: Belonging

“You can come in.”

Benedict’s voice calls out, bemused as you vacillate in the doorway, not realising that he can see you in a mirror reflection. 

So at his invitation, you blush and scuttle into his room. Awkward, unsure what to do after your bold, daring, downright impertinent behaviour when he sustained his injuries. Part of you is hopeful he does not remember it.

It’s been two days, and he has made excellent progress under your father's watchful eye. The minute your father had pulled up at the house, you dropped your hold on his hand. And as word spread, it was a frenzy of activity that you found yourself superfluous to. The last you had seen was Benedict being carried inside for a more thorough examination.

Luckily, it turns out he has no lasting damage; his head was uninjured beyond a mild concussion. He is bruised all over, likely has some cracked ribs and has a sprained wrist, but he will be fine after some rest.

“H.. how are you?” your ask quietly, stilted, fiddling with your dress nervously.

“Much better,” his tone soft, “only because of you.”

You look up and meet his gentle gaze. “I merely did what anyone would have done,” you demure.

“Nonsense,” he counters, “you ordered me to stay still and await the doctor. If you weren’t there, I likely would have done myself additional injury being stubborn,” he points out dryly.

You don’t know what to say in response, so you change tack. “Is your horse alright?”

“Yes. Colin found him wandering around the wildflower meadow, munching on all manner of grasses. Never happier, completely uninjured,” he assures.

You nod, glad to hear the news. Then you allow the room to lapse into silence, unsure how to commence your profuse apology.

“I am very sor….”

He stops you with a bandaged hand held up.

“If you even begin to apologise for saving me, well then I shall be most vexed,” he chides, but there is no heat there, a lopsided grin tugging at his handsome features. “Besides, the more pertinent point of discussion is the fearless woman you can be when needed. The person you are becoming, when you allow yourself to, is quite something,” you bow your head as your cheeks heat at his praise. “I would have injured myself months before now had I known I would meet the creature who sits behind that cloud of shyness. Just look at what you did, taking change so very effectively,” he flatters then there is a pause. “Hell, even being brave enough to kiss me.” 

Your head shoots up, and your mouth falls open.

“Oh yes,” he chuckles, “don’t think I forgot that part,” His voice has lowered to a pitch that buzzes right through your being.

“I… I was worried I… I was going to lose you,” you stutter, “and I-I’m sorry that was terrible of me to take liberties like that. Please, please forgive me?” you beseech.

“It was not in any sense of the word terrible,” he disputes, “the exact opposite. There is nothing to forgive. But there is one way you can make it up to me…?” he hedges.

“Anything, please,” you beg, so hopeful of absolution.

He holds out his hands and gestures for you to perch on the bed beside him. Almost without thought, you do so, even as you feel your pulse speeding up. You have rarely been this close, and now you are transfixed by all the tiny flecks of colour in his iris and the hints of stubble around his jaw.

“Kiss me again,” he requests; a finger trails lightly over the back of your hand. “But properly this time. Give me a chance to kiss you back.”

You just gawp at him in utter shock, heart pounding again, just like it was that day. You don't move away. You can't. Rooted to the spot. Unable to stop staring at his plush bottom lip.

“You cannot mean it…” you stutter when you finally find your tongue, disbelieving.

“Does this seem like I do not mean it?” he argues ardently, and before you know it, he is sitting up and leaning in.

And then warm lips touch yours, and fireworks explode inside your chest. 

You feel like you are drowning in the very best way as your lips move together gently. Everything about the moment is sweet and light, but promising more, something tart that makes you want to climb atop him and crush yourself against him. Just as you feel the instinct to open your mouth to him, he pulls back, looking lost and found all at once.

“I need you to know something,” he begins, grabbing both your hands and placing them between his. “It pains me to see you ever doubting yourself or if you belong. You belong. Everywhere you go. You have so much to give to the world,” he states passionately.

“I… “ you falter, wanting to believe him, the version of you he sees.

“You do. Hell, you give me a reason to get up every day. To try. To be better. I would not be the artist I am now were it not for your words of encouragement as I painted all those afternoons.”

You are dumbstruck. You honestly didn't believe he was taking on board what you said. Mostly just encouraging him to follow his instincts when he seemed to doubt them.

“And now it’s time someone did the same for you. Be the encouragement you need. You deserve everything, y/n. And it would be my greatest honour to try to give it to you?” he adds, a gently loving smile lighting up his face. 

Your heart sings as you realise this is the declaration you have been waiting half of your life to hear. Before you can stop yourself, you launch yourself at him, this time being the one to demand a kiss that he happily obliges. 

“I have a question,” you state as your lips part, your boldness growing with every moment. “Mr Bridgerton, were you jealous when I had a suitor?” you tease, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. “My god, you have no idea.”  You cant help the victorious giggle, basking in the fizz in your veins.

“I suppose it was payback for Ms Worthing. She of the ironic name. She was never worthy of you,” you state passionately.

He laughs with a headshake. “Perhaps it is our ability to rescue each other that makes us so best suited,” he opines. “I do believe we may belong together,” he adds.

And you couldn't agree more.

In fact, you are never alone again from that day on.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @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 @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton angst #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton angst #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #1k notes #1k notes omg you guys! #2k notes holy crap you guys! #2k notes

[fayes-fics]

Rescue and Ruin

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Anthony rescues something for you... and it will likely lead to your ruin.

Warnings: None really. Flirting, sexual tension, banter, and the promise of more. A lot of teasing, soaking wet Viscount.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author's Note: Unbetaed. Very belated request fill for @daisfordaysstuff (request:  I’m rewatching season 2 again, and I think I need one on this scene [lake Anthony]). I just had to post an Anthony story today to commemorate the birthday of Jonathan Bailey, the man who plays this titan of a fictional character. This is actually my oldest request fill, lingering in my inbox since Sept 2022. Sorry, my lovely; I hope late is better than never. I just got an idea of how I wanted this to play out. I hope you enjoy <3

“I’ll get it!”

A chivalrous call comes as you watch in dismay as your favourite bonnet take off in a gust of wind and flies over the lake, landing almost gracefully about twenty feet out into the gently rippling water.

You had just stolen down to the water's edge to get away from the crowds for a few moments of solitude, drawn to the beauty of the water as the sun danced on the little peaks caused by the gusty breeze. It had looked like a shimmering mirage from the terrace.

You are shocked when the one and only Viscount Anthony Bridgerton gives you a brief, polite nod as he passes you, then dives off a little jetty, still fully clothed, making you gasp loudly.

What on earth?!?

This is his garden party. Well, strictly his mother's, but he is Viscount, and this is the Bridgerton family country estate, Aubrey Hall. You are still awestruck to be here, a guest of your maternal aunt you are staying with here in Kent. Why on earth he would dive into his lake to rescue something as trivial as a hat seems mystifying. You are certain he has staff that could assist rather than take it upon himself and quite clearly ruin his outfit.

He re-emerges to the surface from his dive and swims with awe-inspiring speed towards your hat as it skates across the surface, propelling along not unlike some toy boat. When he finally reaches it, he holds it aloft triumphant and twists to swim back one-handed as he keeps it above the water.

You find yourself drawn down to the jetty he jumped off of. To give your thanks, express your surprise, and take back your hat and hope it is salvageable. You twist around to check, but all the other party guests seem oblivious to the incident or his actions, the string quartet playing so loudly closer to the house and the buffet table so laden everyone's eyes and ears are preoccupied.

“Thank you, my lord,” you demure as he pulls up to the jetty and places your bonnet on the wooden slats by your feet. “That was completely unnecessary, but I am, of course, so very grateful,” you curtsy and pick up the bonnet.

Luckily, thanks to his swift actions, it will be fine. Just the brim and lower edge touched the water. You wring out the soaked ribbons as best you can, then wrap them around your neck and tie them in a secure bow. It may be too wet to wear on your head for now, but at least it should dry while tied securely and draped down over your back. You curtsy again as you feel him watching you, unsure what else to do to convey your gratitude.

He laughs, and you see him fighting with the buttons on his jacket, still standing in the lake, the water around waist height. “There is no need to curtsy or to be so formal Miss…?” he squints up at you expectantly.

“Oh, it's Miss y/l/n,” you rush out and, for some reason, curtsy again.

“I mean it; please stop curtsying, especially to a man in such a state as me,” he says drolly, fighting off his jacket and tossing it, sodden and heavy, onto the jetty.

You are blatantly staring as he peels away his waistcoat and fights with his cravat. His thin cotton white shirt has turned entirely transparent in the water; it is barely there. Under it, you can see so much skin, toned and rippling muscle as his jerking movements strip off his clothing. Over his chest is a patch of dark hair clinging to the material you cannot look away from. You have never even so much as seen how a man looks without a shirt on before, and this sight makes your heart pound and your body tingle.

Glancing up from his actions, the corner of his mouth quirks up, and you know he has caught you—openly ogling him. Your cheeks are aflame, and you cut your eyes away.

“You may look, Miss y/l/n,” his pitch has dropped to something low and velvety, and it buzzes right into your core. Hesitantly your eyes dart back to his handsome face; the lip quirk spreads into a devastating, stunning smile. “It is alright; no one has marked us,” he assures, his gaze cutting to your right towards the house, then back to your face. “You shall not have broken any rules of propriety by talking with me. Or staring at me as you are,” he teases, an eyebrow arching appealingly.

“My lord, that is not what….” You begin to protest, knowing it's a lie even as you voice it; your reflex to appear chaste is so crucial to your need to find a match that your aunt and parents are so desperate for you to make.

But your words die out as he places both hands firmly on the dock and propels himself up and out of the water in one swift, athletic move. Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth as he unfurls upwards from the kneeling position, drawing up to his full height. Water sluices down his body and makes his clothing cling to every single contour of his toned, defined torso. He looms closer; you tilt backwards, entranced by the tracks of droplets over the lines of his handsome face, his burned umber eyes catching the sunlight and boring into you as he crowds closer.

“Do not lie to yourself or to me, Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles, “we both know you were and, indeed, continue to stare”.

His words make your body riot; your stays feel too tight for your lungs to breathe, your skin pricking hot. He’s so close now you can smell the vaguely mossy lake smell on his skin, on what little clothing he has left on; it’s dancing there on the breeze alongside something spicier and amber that you can only assume is his cologne. You want to stutter an apology, to offer your thanks again, to ask him to leave, to ask him to stay, to ask him to touch you—so many jumbled, contradictory thoughts.

“The more pertinent question is, do you like what you see?” he murmurs and leans in, his words ghosting warm on the shell of your ear.

This is the sort of thing your aunt has warned you about. Rakes. Handsome, wealthy, titled men who will tease and take what they can from young, innocent ladies such as yourself. You want to be affronted, tell him to desist, and give him a scathing remark about appropriate behaviour. But once again, you don't. Your body drawn to him, you want to trace your fingers over the swell of his chest muscles, to feel those strong arms grab your waist and haul you against his sodden form.

“No answer is, in some ways, an answer,” he chuckles with a lilt that is both arrogant and devastatingly attractive.

“My lord, we may be seen at any moment…” Your protest is weak and breathy, not moving away as he continues to stand far too close to you, as lake water drips onto your shoes.

Suddenly a clammy hand wraps around your elbow, and you are being pulled towards the nearby cluster of thick trees and bushes that abut the lake. You almost stumble and smack into him face-first as he pulls up short and releases your arm. The air feels cooler here, with dappled shade, verdant and alive with the scent of flowering bushes and leaves. The view of the house and, indeed, the party guests is wholly obscured. No one would ever know you are here.

“Do you have an answer now that we cannot be seen?” he breathes inches from you, towering over you.

“My lord… I,” you cannot find words, hanging your head. You know this is wrong. Very wrong. Your aunt would kill you for being this wanton, for allowing him to do this to you. And yet…. Every fibre of your being wants this. To see what he will do. To see what you will let him do. You suspect it's more than you even understand.

“Say it after me….” he intones, a finger tilting your chin up to look into his fiery gaze.

“I…” he begins.

“I…” you parrot.

“Like…”

“Like,” you repeat, and the grin on his face grows wider.

“What….”

“What,” your breath quickening with each word.

“I…”

“I,” that finger still lingers under your chin, caressing gently.

“See.”

“See,” you exhale shakily.

“There. Now was that so hard…hmmm?” he teases, that finger now joined by his thumb stroking over the point of your chin, the lake water running down his forearm to the point of material bunched under his elbow that now drips down the front of your dress. The dampness seeps through the material and into your heated skin.

The cord of tension in the air is palpable. You don't know what to say or what to do.

“I have another question for you,” he buzzes, and the fingers on your chin slip lower, over your throat, lighting a line of fire as they trail over your delicate skin. Your pulse pounding in your veins. You swallow hard and feel the calloused fingertips trace into your suprasternal notch. “Maybe this one you can answer,” he huffs a sarcastic laugh as your body spirals and you fight to keep your breath even.

“What is it, my lord?” your voice barely a whisper.

“Would you be willing to help me, your gracious host today, get dry?” he practically purrs.

“How…. how on earth could I do that?” you stumble.

He smiles predatory and so handsome you give up and let your chest heave, ragged breathing.

“Under your dress, you wear a chemise, do you not?” he continues, those fingers tracing over the wet bow of your bonnet strings tied over your clavicle.

“Yes, my lord,” you answer shakily.

“Well did you know such items can be an excellent towel in a pinch,” he shrugs one shoulder and lifts an eyebrow as his fingers slip lower over your breastbone until they reach the neckline of your dress, at the swell of your breast.

There is no point in pretending he is not utterly destroying you now. You can’t school anything—the blush darkening over your skin, creeping up from your chest, the tingle in your lips, the hot flush you feel all over. A viscous pulse in your underwear that feels entirely alien and where your decision-making seems to be centred at right this very moment.

“So I suppose my last question, for now, is, are you willing to give it to me?” you gasp at his turn of phrase as those fingers swirl patterns over the neckline of your dress. “Your chemise, of course,” he amends with a wink.

Utter, utter rake.

“H-how can I give you my chemise without removing my dress too?” you wonder aloud.

“Well, that is the challenge, isn't it?” he smirks. “Now I can see two options here. I can do the gentlemanly thing, turn my back and allow you to undress and then you may hand me your chemise once decent again. I will dry myself the best I can and return to the house to change.”

“And the second option?” you cannot resist querying.

“Ahh, that,” he seems to pull even closer, and the fingers slip over the neckline and onto the silk ruching that covers your breasts; even through the material layers, you can feel his fingers lingering over your nipple and the throbbing between your legs turns almost painful. “The second option is that I am not a gentleman. Not in the slightest,” his answer cryptic but dripping with a dark, forbidden promise.

“What does that involve…?” you pant.

You watch, enthralled, as his tongue pokes out of his mouth and licks his bottom lip, and in seeming slow-motion, his mouth begins to form a shape to speak words…

“ANTHONY!!”

The yell is from a few feet away, on the other side of the bushes. Both of you jump apart as if burned.

“ANTHONY?!” the male voice calls again, “ARE YOU AROUND?”

It's obvious the person has no idea you are merely a few feet away, only that they are looking for him.

Stay here, Anthony mouths silently, and you nod, your heart beating wildly at the whiplash of experiences.

With one rueful glance at you, at the interrupted moment, he turns around and fights through the mass of foliage back out to the lawn.

“Oh, there you are!” the voice exclaims. “We wondered what the devil had happened to you!!”

“Colin…” you hear him respond.

“Hell and the devil. Why are you soaked through?? Did you decide to go for a swim fully clothed? Did you find my special tea??” his voice ramping up in incredulity as he likely clocks Anthony's bedraggled appearance.

“I have no idea what you are referring to,” Anthony’s reply seems clipped. “I rescued a small beautiful creature, if you must know,” he obfuscates.

“Ahh, hero antics,” Colin laughs. “Well, you had better go change right away. Mother expects you to make a toast for our esteemed guests in a few minutes.”

You hear Anthony’s frustrated noise of derision and have to stifle your giggle behind the back of your hand between deep breaths, trying to bring yourself back to a state of normality after the rollercoaster of experiences you just had.

“Urghhh, alright,” Anthony sighs, embattled, “I think I dropped my pocket watch back in the bushes. Give me one moment to find it, and I will accompany you back to the house.”

“Side entrance,” Colin responds dryly.

“Indeed,” you hear Anthony call.

You tense as the bushes before you start to rustle as he fights through them to reach you. He stalks up to you, and you gasp audibly.

“Shhh,” he warns quietly, his lips right at your ear, gusting hot, “it looks as if I must sadly depart. Your chemise is safe for today, Miss y/l/n.”

With a boldness you didn’t know yourself capable of, you grab the shirt's sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

“I would never want not to be helpful to you, my lord,” you whisper tremulant, fingers twisting in the soaked fabric. “If removing my chemise can ever be of assistance to you in future, please be sure to let me know.”

You cannot believe you allow yourself to say something so scandalous.

He pulls back slightly, and it's his turn to exhale unsteadily, his pupils dilated; his expression wild. You can see a vein hammering in his throat.

“Oh goddd,” he moans, closing his eyes as if pained.

“What?” concern suddenly flooding your tone.

His eyes reopen, and they pin you with their intensity.

“Mark my words,” his tone is low, gravelly, “if you continue to talk so brazenly, it will only encourage me.”

It is the sexiest warning bell you have ever heard.

“And if you continue to tease and defy me, I will pursue you. Relentlessly,” he growls, and once again, your body is rioting.

“Good god. How long does it take to find a pocket watch, man?” Colin calls impatiently, once again breaking the moment between you as it threatens to bubble over.

“I've found it!” Anthony twists to call over his shoulder. “I’ll be there presently!”

“Hurry up!” Colin grouses.

Anthony turns back, and his breath is hot over your cheek. He seems to stare at your lips for an inordinate amount of time as you stare back. Transfixed.

“Today, I shall be a gentleman,” he states reluctantly and draws away slightly. “However…” and your heart spikes in victory, “once that clock strikes midnight. I make no promises. And I shall be standing right here,” his tone decisive, his finger pointing to the spot right by his feet. “Just so you and your chemise will know where to find me,” he rumbles, then gives you a polite bow and is gone.

You have to grab onto a tree to stop yourself from swooning. Already knowing you will be stealing away from your room as the clock strikes midnight. Uncaring of consequences.

You want him to ruin you.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k notes #1k notes omg you guys! #2k notes #2k notes holy crap you guys!

[fayes-fics]

Sonnet #29

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: Your husband Benedict and you have a late night tryst in the billiards room of Bridgerton House.

warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, vaginal sex, oral sex (m to f), fingering, d/s dynamics, possessive/dirty talk, light bondage, drinking, dangerous use of Shakespeare, Anthony’s gonna need to rebaize that billiards table.

word count: 3.6k

author note: Not betaed. I haven’t written anything in years and this may be riddled with anachronisms, sorry. It also turned out less explicit and more romantic than I thought it would *shrugs*. The swaggering, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking Benedict from Anthony’s stag night, is the inspiration for this fic. Especially that cravat. The title of ‘my lord’ used here is part of their d/s play.

Benedict Bridgerton is missing. It has to be after 1 AM, probably later. You’ve woken to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Throwing on a robe and lighting a candle, you head down the backstairs of Bridgerton House. Keen not to disturb anyone but eager to find your errant husband. You’re visiting his family for the week, and tonight the brothers were celebrating their reunion.

You round a corner into the main hallway, then stop short. A drunken Colin is staggering slowly up the grand staircase, falling back almost as many steps as he advances. You bite back a giggle as he eventually stumbles onto his hands and knees, crawling the remainder of the steps. It must’ve been one hell of a Bridgerton boys' night.

Passing Anthony’s study, you’re surprised to see the door wide open. A quick peek reveals the Viscount passed out, head down on his desk. Light snores puffing condensation onto an empty tumbler in front of his nose, his hand still loosely wrapped around it - another casualty of the night's celebrations.

Still no sign of the one brother you are seeking. 

You slip silently down the hallway and into the billiards room you know they had been carousing in. The room is quiet, dimly lit by only a handful of candles. There is a lingering scent of cigars and expensive alcohol. Billiard cues lean haphazardly against disarranged chairs. Quite a party, it would appear.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice makes you gasp.

Benedict.

You hadn’t seen him in the shadows. He leans forward in a chair, the low candlelight now catching his face, a bemused expression tugging at his handsome features. He looks alluring with his sleeves rolled up, a glass held casually in one large hand.

“The bed is cold without you, darling husband”, you chide affectionately, snuffing out your candle and placing it aside.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I was about to come up. Can you believe my brothers don’t have the stamina to celebrate properly?“ he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Care to join me for a nightcap?” He adds, nodding at the decanter on the side table next to him. 

Without waiting for an answer, Benedict pours a glass for you and tops up his own. He knows you enjoy a quality whiskey when it’s on offer. And the Bridgertons always have excellent whiskey. 

He holds out the glass expectantly, beckoning you over. You move forward and take the drink, straddling his legs and lowering yourself onto his knees with a gentle smile. Benedict responds with his crooked smile, which always catches your breath. His free hand rests lightly on your robe-covered thigh as you take a sip. Smokey, almost caramel notes glide over your tongue. Oh yes, this is the good stuff. You can’t help the hum of satisfaction at the taste.

He raises his eyebrow before taking a slow, deliberate draw himself. He’s slightly inebriated but only enough to be playful. You wonder how he has held his liquor so much better than his brothers. Surely some strategy. You finish your drink lazily, feeling content just perched in his lap.

“We have never spent time here alone”, he rumbles quietly, glancing at the door. His hand becomes a firmer touch. From the slight glint in his eye, you can tell that his thoughts are turning intimate. It’s still surprising that just a few suggestive words have you wanting him. The feeling is so sharp and sudden. 

“Indeed we have not”, you murmur, leaning to place your empty glass aside and take his glass to do the same. Your mind flashes an image of you stripping bare for him in this very room. It’s the catalyst to push further into his lap and grab his face, locking your lips onto his. He tastes like cigars and the smoky sweetness of the drink - a delicious combination. You can’t help but deepen the kiss, running your tongue into his mouth and swallowing his slight groan. His hands move to grip your hips and pull you closer.

“Remind me to buy a whole case of this whiskey”, he smirks, trailing his lips down the side of your neck. You reach up into his hair and tug gently; it never fails to make him a little rougher in his ministrations.

“Clearly, I have been neglectful this evening”, he mutters against your collarbone using a slight edge of teeth. Oh yes.

“Please”, you whisper hotly, bringing his face back to yours for a bruising kiss. You hope he can read what you’re asking for.

His hands move, and you feel his thighs flex as he stands. You wrap your legs around him as he carries you a few steps across the room. It seems like no effort for him; the power in his athletic body never fails to impress you.

“Please, what?” He teases as he gently sets you down on the end of the billiards table.

“Talk to me”, you demure, not meeting his eye. Your hands move to release the buttons on his waistcoat. 

Benedict lets out a chuckle. “I rather think I’ve said more than you tonight”, his fingers gently tugging the ties of your robe.

“No, I mean… talk to me…. the way you did last week” you feel your cheeks burn as you finally dare to look him in the eye. You see them grow darker, and his nostrils flare. Now he’s catching on. He yanks off the waistcoat you have unbuttoned, then cups your face with both his hands.

“Oh, what did I do to deserve you?” He wonders with a hint of awe, giving you a brief gentle kiss. 

Before his whole demeanour changes. 

You feel a ripple of excitement in your belly as he sweeps a thumb up to your lips. His grip on your jaw becomes a little tighter.

“Tell me,” he drawls, “just how lonely were you up in that bed, wife?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Did you touch yourself?” 

You shake your head as best you can, with his hands around your face.

“Good girl” He looms closer, and you have to brace your hands onto the smooth felt of the billiards table behind you. 

“Although, clearly not that good”, he tuts, “coming to me so wantonly. And in my brother's house. Anyone could walk in right now. There’s no lock on that door. Is that what you want? To have my brothers watch as I take you right here?” You whimper at the images he concocts.

His thumb hooks into your mouth, and instinctively you pulse your tongue against it. He growls as you catch it gently with your teeth. He releases his grip and takes a half step back.

“Show me yourself. All of you,” he commands.

This. This is why you crave him so much. He can intuit your deepest desires. 

You scramble off the table and quickly wrestle off your robe and nightgown, letting them fall to the floor. You love the sharp intake of breath he takes as you obey. He drops his eyes covetously to take in the sight of you completely nude before him, flexing his fingers. The sinful gaze has you throbbing already. 

“Get back up on the table” his words are a harsh staccato. You do as ordered, sitting in the same position as before, perching on the raised edge of the billiards table. He pulls your knees up and apart, stepping between your legs. His kiss is urgent and deep, his tongue pushing and rolling into your mouth. One of his hands is in your hair, guiding your head to angles he wants. The other kneads at your breasts, snagging your nipples between his fingers. It’s possessive; the excitement buzzes right down into your core.

He grabs both your wrists, running his nose over your pulse points before bringing them together in front of you like you’re in prayer. “Hold right there, don’t move.”

You watch as he pulls roughly on the knot of his cravat. He hastily unwinds the material until it slips away from his neck — the golden silk glinting in the low light. You gasp as he loops the long strip of fabric around your wrists. Loose at first, then pulls tighter as he ties the ends in a bow. The material is soft but unyielding. 

This is something new. You peek up at his expression; there is a hunger but also a questioning vulnerability.

“My lord“, you exhale. It’s your permission for his silent request to continue.

“You are so perfect”, he groans, diving in for another hard kiss before pulling your tied hands above your head. He lowers you gently until your shoulder blades are resting against the green felt of Anthony’s billiards table. If only he knew what his younger brother was doing right now.

“Stay there. Do not move until I allow it; keep your arms above your head”, Benedict warns.

He hovers over your prone body. The material of his britches brushing lightly against your open thighs is the only contact you have. You squirm, needing him to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. Instead, he uses his words.

“Look at you, Mrs Bridgerton. I can see how desperate you are for me to touch you.” He inhales deeply, “I can smell your need for me. This is how I want you. Always.” His voice seems impossibly low.

“Benedict…” you pant. 

“I want to keep you like this for hours. Naked, at my mercy. Bound in my silks. My muse, my masterpiece.” His speech ghosts air over your skin; this is a special kind of torture.

Finally, he leans down the last few inches separating you and captures your right nipple between his teeth. Your cry is guttural, and he holds your hip bones down harshly as you try to cant up, seeking friction. He soothes the bite with his tongue. He attacks your other nipple with the same fervency. You are so aroused there’s an ache tugging like a hook deep inside. 

“Please, please, fuck me, please,” you chant, knowing that crude word he taught you will rile him. You need him now.

He groans at your curse but says nothing in response. He drags his mouth slowly and sinfully over your rib cage and stomach. Pausing to swirl his tongue around your belly button, he continues down. You hear his knees sink to the floor as his nose trails into your pubic hair. He breathes deep, animalistic, and so so wanted. He drops lower and licks a sharp line through your folds. You cry out, closing your eyes and tilting your head back to bite at the binding on your wrists. 

“Don’t,” he growls. You snap your head back, looking down your body to his face between your thighs. “Don’t you dare look away,” he lightly bites the meat of your thigh, “watch me do this.”

He hauls your legs over his shoulders. One strong arm wraps around your left hip, his hand resting low on your belly. He holds your gaze fiercely as he swirls his tongue slowly around your clit and then applies gentle suction with his whole mouth. By god, he is so good at this. He languidly takes his time, running his tongue all over, varying pressure, pulses, kisses and even little nips against your heated flesh. He never lets you break eye contact. If you try, he stops, and you whine for more. He sucks hard and takes you to the edge, then backs off to gentle kisses, not letting you over. Your whole body burns with anticipation.

“Have mercy,” you breathe.

Two of his long artistic fingers plunge into you. You cry out at the invasion, clenching down on them. He quickly locates that spot which makes you lose all sense. He rapidly strokes, his other hand bearing pressure on the same area from the outside, curled around your public bone. He glows with primal satisfaction as you scream open-mouthed with every stroke.

“Yes, my love, scream for me” his voice is ragged and muffled against your skin “you are so beautiful like this. Wake the whole house; I don’t care. My good girl, mine .” 

He runs his teeth against your clit, and it sends you over the edge, calling his name. He holds your hips firmly open as your body spasms, his strength fighting against your bodily urge to close your legs and curl up against the convulsions. He gently kisses your overheated soaked folds as you slowly come down.  

Benedict stands up smugly, peeling down his braces, watching your body shiver with mini aftershocks, admiring the whimpering soaked mess he has made of you. He quickly removes his shirt while rounding the other end of the furniture. Just as you come back to yourself, strong hands grab under your shoulders. You gasp loudly as he hauls you bodily to the centre of the billiards table. He can be so strong and overpowering when he wants to be. He leans down and kisses you softly to calm your surprise, stopping to marvel at the view down your body, sprawled naked across the green felt, your hands still bound above your head. 

Wanting nothing more than to wrap yourself around his body, you stay lying obediently, just as he had ordered you to. Your eyes track his movement as he stalks back around the table, admiring the flex of his now shirtless torso. It's probably considered scandalous for a lady of good society to be so enamoured with their husband’s body, but you revel in it. He is a beautiful man you have coveted since the day you first saw him. Whenever you have no social commitments to fulfil, at your sanctuary out in the country, your home, you will spend hours wrapped naked around each other, just luxuriating in the pursuit of sensual pleasures and mutual satisfaction. Those are your favourite days. 

A hand encircles your ankle, shaking you from your brief reverie. 

“I hope you were thinking of me,” he smiles indulgently, the sweet husband breaking past the dominating mask you love that he wears for you sometimes, like tonight.

“Always,” you reply, as easy and truthful as breathing.

After a shared moment, his expression turns sinful as he starts to flick open the buttons of his britches one-handed. You watch covetously, wishing you had permission to get up, to use your hands. To reach out and touch him, help him disrobe. 

“I want to touch you”, you whisper plaintively, voicing your thoughts as you watch.

“I know you do, my love”, he smirks, “but not tonight. Tonight you do as I say. You watch me.” You moan as he drops that last piece of clothing from his body. His cock is so perfect and beautiful, standing proud against his body. You want nothing more than to fall on your knees before him and take him into your mouth. He knows he is denying you one of your favourite things by making you lay passively waiting for him. He effortlessly mounts the billiards table, stalking slowly over you on all fours, like a big cat rounds on its prey.

“If only the world could see you now,” he purrs, “my demure wife begging to touch me. You are doing so well, my good girl, not moving those hands, even though I know how much you burn to,” he teases hotly, making sure you look down and watch as he grabs and strokes his hard cock to prove his point. Your breath is so uneven now you can barely make a sound except a pitiful whine. He bows down and kisses your breasts, running his tongue up to your throat, softly biting your earlobe. 

“Please, please….” for what seems like the hundredth time, he has you pleading.

Slowly he lowers his body onto yours. The feeling of his weight, the woodsy masculine scent, all his heated skin finally upon yours overwhelms. Your hands itch to move, grab, hold him in place, but you fight it and obey.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in your submission? It’s like poetry.” he breathes into your neck.

He reaches down to push your legs wider apart. You press your hips and breasts up hard against him, chasing all the touch you can. You feel him nudging at you and almost want to weep in relief. The moment he pushes into your body is everything—the solid weight stretching you, curling your toes. You let out a long keening sound, shutting your eyes to concentrate on the heavy sensation.

“Look at me”, he orders as he inches in further. Your eyes flutter open to meet his. They are blown wide with lust and devotion. One hand cups your jaw.

“Haply I think on thee…” his voice cadence changes; it’s a gentle lilting sound. His eyes don't leave yours as he bottoms out inside you. 

“…and then my state, like to the lark at break of day….” he slowly withdraws almost all the way. You realise faintly he is reciting actual poetry. A sonnet….? 

“From sullen earth sings hymns…,” His beautiful words settle over you, sinking into your thoughts, heightening every feeling. He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as you feel every inch of him slowly push back into you, dragging along all the right spots.

“At heaven’s gate….” he slowly increases the pace and strength of his thrusts, peppering your face with kisses. You moan threadily, pushing your body up against his, kissing wherever you can, twisting your hands against their binding, snagging in your hair.

“Oh god, Benedict”, it’s a plea for more, everything. The hand on your jaw moves, and he traces your lips with his thumb. As he looks down on you, a sheen forming on his brow, you fiercely wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking hard on the fleshy pad. He growls and thrusts into you harder, deeper. You feel yourself climbing as he hits that spot repeatedly, the one that makes you feel electric, a live wire of pure lust. You desperately want to grab his hips, impale him so deep he can't leave your body. 

“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings….” His voice is wavering now. He hooks both arms under your shoulders and rests his forehead on yours, never breaking eye contact as you both pants heavily into each other's open mouths. He’s taking you so hard, hitting that place where it hurts so good with every stroke. You beg for more, wanting to feel this ache lingering tomorrow, a physical reminder of this, of him, you will carry secretly. 

“That then I scorn to change my state with kings.” His voice breaks into a long groan as he finishes his sonnet. Without stopping his movements, he reaches one hand up and, with an expert tug, releases the knot binding your wrists. You sob a relief and instantly move, wrapping your arms tight around him, clinging to him, digging your nails into his back muscles, cresting your legs high around his hips. Your desire coiled tight.

“Please, my love,” he implores needily, “please come for me; I need to feel it.” The brash character he played for you earlier slipping away; it's just Benedict. Your husband, the love of your life. He moves one hand down to your clit and rubs tight circles. You know you are crying out loudly now, uncaring of anyone overhearing you. 

Your orgasm hits you hard like a blinding light, fracturing and reassembling. Liquid hot and throbbing everywhere, from the static on the back of your head, through the fingers you are scraping over your husband's back, to the waves of wet warmth where you pulsate with a vice grip around his cock. You hear Benedict roar your name, losing all sense of finesse in his movements, and in your heightened state, you hiss encouragements, a litany of things you would never admit to saying, sucking the fingers he had between your legs. He snaps, stilling suddenly, his slack mouth hooked onto your chin. The feeling of him coming is visceral. He curls his body in and around you, still pulsing hard inside you, its warmth spreading.

“Fuckkk, I love you”, he curses, panting hard, not wanting to pull out.

“I fucking love you too,” you counter lightheartedly, revelling in the use of taboo vulgarities, still intoxicated by your high. You bask in his responding laughter, feeling it inside too as he slowly pulls out of your body. He plants a kiss on your forehead, still chuckling deeply.

You lay limbs tangled for more than a few minutes, getting your breath back and enjoying the afterglow. Gently Benedict helps you climb off the billiards table and assists you into your nightgown and robe. Unseen by him, you pocket his cravat, your souvenir. He pulls up his britches, looping the braces over his shoulders, barechested, grabbing the rest of his clothing and bundling them over his arm. He grabs your hand, gives it a tender kiss and guides you out of the room into the hallway.

Straight into the path of Anthony. Arms crossed, looking foreboding and much soberer than last time you saw him. However, there is an intense blush on his cheeks. He scowls at Benedict, but he won't look you in the eye.

“Brother, I suggest next time you feel the need to exercise your… spousal duties, kindly consider exactly where the secret door from my office leads to”, he hisses. “And check it’s actually closed.” 

tagged by request: @mothdruid @foreverlonginguniverse

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