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whatcjdidnext · 1 day ago

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Oh my..

I’ll be glad of a sequel to this

Maybe some day in the future but for now I need to lay down and recover from this

An Indecent Proposal

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

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

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

Word Count: 6.3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A reputation for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I will be forever chaste, you lament silently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Viscount Bridgerton, would you be willing to…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For starters… here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am burning between my legs, Anthony…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you aware of what happens next?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anthony…” you croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something dangerously feral ripples over his handsome features.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x female reader #bravo Faye

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whatcjdidnext · 3 days ago

Text

I keep coming back to this Headcanon time and time again

Gotta love some Ragnar x Reader x Lagertha

𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size or race. Mentions reader being younger then them but age is up to you. My requests are open.

🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹 💜🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹 II

𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀:

Ragnar and Lagertha are relentless in their pursuit. They are both intense, dominant personalities who know what they want—and what they want is you. Once they decide you should be part of their relationship, they make it obvious.

They flaunt their relationship openly. Ragnar will press kisses to Lagertha's throat while staring at you, or Lagertha will run her fingers through his hair while smirking in your direction. They aren't subtle. They want you to see how passionate they are—and imagine yourself between them.

Lagertha is the more direct of the two. She's bold, confident, and unafraid to flirt shamelessly. She will whisper suggestive things in your ear, brush her fingers along your arm, and let her gaze linger on you with unmistakable interest.

Ragnar is playful and teasing. He likes to test boundaries, offering honeyed words in that deep, knowing voice, always pushing just enough to see your reaction. He'll casually mention how good you'd look in his furs or how Lagertha has taken a liking to you.

You are treated like a prize to be won, but they don't pressure you, but they seduce you in a way that feels inevitable. Every interaction is a battle of willpower, and they have an unfair advantage—they work as a team.

Their protectiveness is intense. Even before you agree to anything, they treat you as theirs. If anyone dares look at you with disrespect, Ragnar's hand is already on his axe, and Lagertha is seconds away from throwing a dagger.

They are patient. Ragnar and Lagertha know you're younger than them, so they don't rush you. They enjoy the chase, savoring every moment of tension and desire. You are their obsession, and they are willing to wait until you come to them.

𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀:

Thinks He's In Charge (Ragnar) x Is Actually In Charge (Lagertha) x Knows They're Not In Charge (You)

Power Couple + Their Soft Obsession – Ragnar and Lagertha are the ultimate Viking power couple: strong, deadly, and deeply in love. But when it comes to you, they are patient, devoted, and willing to play the long game.

Hunted by Love – They relentlessly pursue you, drawing you further into their web with heated glances, suggestive words, and overwhelming presence. You're not just being courted—you're being claimed.

𝗥𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝘀:

The Reluctant Third Who Falls Harder Than Either Expected Slow Burn with Unbearable Tension Inevitable Destiny

𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲 𝗦𝗼𝗻𝗴:

Monster – Starset Come with Me Now – KONGOS Animals - Maroon 5 (slowed) & Reverb

🔞𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪🔞:

They want to overwhelm you. Once you finally give in, expect no escape from their attention. Every touch, every glance, every word is designed to ruin you. They want you to crave them as much as they crave you.

Ragnar is an instigator; Lagertha is in control. Ragnar loves to provoke reactions, whispering filthy promises, making sure you see exactly how much they enjoy each other. Lagertha, on the other hand, decides when and how you are finally theirs.

They love to watch each other with you. There is something deeply possessive in the way they share—both completely devoted to one another but equally devoted to you.

Lagertha takes her time with you. She's the one who will pin you down, whispering against your lips, testing your limits while Ragnar watches, amusement and desire gleaming in his eyes.

Ragnar is primal and relentless. He lives for pleasure—yours, Lagertha's, his own. He loves seeing you surrender under their hands, knowing it was inevitable from the start.

They make you feel like a goddess. Every single time, you are worshiped and revered as something sacred.

They have wanted you for so long, and once you give in, they will ensure you never regret it. Ragnar is passionate and overwhelming, Lagertha is slow and deliberate—but together? Utterly devastating.

They enjoy drawing out your pleasure—Ragnar loves to watch you squirm, while Lagertha enjoys the slow, intimate moments, ensuring you feel completely adored.

If you are shy or inexperienced, they will be patient and encouraging, letting you take your time. They want you comfortable and willing.

𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀:

𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Lagertha is protective, sometimes to the point of possessiveness. She ensures you are safe, strong, and independent—but also that you know you belong with her.

Lagertha is soft yet firm—she knows what she wants, and she does not hesitate to tell you.

She will teach you to fight if you are not a warrior, her hands guiding yours over the hilt of a blade.

Lagertha adores worshipping you—she will take her time in every intimate moment, making sure you know just how treasured you are.

She is the one who comforts you when you are unsure, reassuring you that you are not just an addition—you are a part of them.

She is intense and deliberate, taking her time to map out every inch of your body. She enjoys seeing you undone beneath her.

Romantic Gestures:

Teaching you how to fight, braiding your hair with flowers, and giving you small but meaningful gifts.

𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Ragnar is playful and enigmatic. He makes you laugh but also challenges your mind. He sees your potential and will push you to embrace it.

Ragnar enjoys the chase—he will smirk, taunt, and push you until you break and admit you want him too.

He will test your resolve, seeing if you can match his sharp tongue and quick wit.

When he finally claims you, there is no question—you are his, and he will not let you go.

Ragnar loves seeing you between him and Lagertha, knowing that together, you are unstoppable.

He is a mix of dominance and worship—he can be rough, but always in a way that makes you feel adored. He loves teasing and watching you struggle to hold back.

Romantic Gestures:

Long philosophical talks by the fire, small pranks, overwhelming and sudden displays of passion.

#vikings #vikings fanfiction #vikings fic #ragnar lothbrok #lagertha #ragnar x lagertha #ragnar lothbrok x reader #lagertha x reader #ragnar x lagertha x reader #vikings imagine #Headcanons

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