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[fayes-fics]

Fanfic writers are like crows. If you give them treats (comments) they will bring you shiny things (fanfic)

[fayes-fics]

ask game for fanfic writers

do you know how you want the story to end when you start, or are you just stumbling through the figurative wilderness hoping to find a road?

talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

on a scale of 1-10 how much do you enjoy incorporating romance into the average story?

what is the plot bunny you’ve been carrying for the longest? optional bonus question: do you ever wonder why you haven’t written it yet and experience deep existential dread?

have you ever made a playlist about something you were writing as an elaborate means to procrastinate when you could have been actually writing and if yes drop a link, son

do you have any kind of consistent writing schedule or just hoping for the best?

tell us about the plot of the first fanfic you ever wrote

what’s your relationship with constructive criticism and feedback like? do you seek it out? how well do you take it?

in an ideal world where you’re already super successful and published, would you want to see a tv or movie adaptation of your work? why or why not?

at what point in the process do you come up with titles, and how easy or hard is that for you?

what’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?

do you ever have trouble focusing on writing? how do you get around that? 

talk about a writing experience that has pleasantly surprised you.

what’s your worst writing habit? 

where do you share your writing?

where is your favorite place to write?

what is your favorite line you’ve ever written?

what is your most and least favorite part of writing?

what are some books or authors that influenced your style the most?

what is your favorite trope to write?

pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you’d write about.

describe your writing process from scratch to finish.

how do you deal with writers block?

on average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

what’s your revision or rewriting process like?

do you like to write one-shots or series, and why?

do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished? 28. And who do you share them with?

handwritten notes or typed notes?

give us a spoiler for one of your stories.

most inspirational quote you’ve ever read or heard that’s still important to you.

tell us about one of your characters who’s an absolute joy to write

do characters influence your writing style?

do you start with the characters or the plot when writing?

how do you name characters and places?

tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot

do you base your characters of real people or not? If so, tell us about one.

when creating characters, what comes first: appearance, backstory, motivation, personality, something else?

how many stories do you work on at one time?

are you an avid reader?

best piece of feedback you’ve ever gotten.

what is the weirdest story idea you’ve ever had.

describe the aesthetic of a story in 5 words.

how did writing change you?

any writing advice you want to share?

name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

what time are you the most productive when it comes to writing?

what story are you most proud of?

do you reread your own stories?

do you want to be published some day?

do you plan or do you write whatever comes to your mind?

share the synopsis of a story you work on that you haven’t published yet

how many unfinished ideas/stories are you working on at the same time?

when writing, do you have an outline? and do you stick to it?

what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were reading it?

what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were writing it?

where is the most dangerous place that you’ve read fic?

where is the most dangerous place that you’ve written fic?

what was the first commercial property (book/movie/tv show/etc) that you realized was actually professional fanfiction?

what’s the weirdest reason you’ve ever shipped something?

what’s the best insult you’ve read in a fic?

what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve read? 

what is your favourite title for a fic you’ve written? 

when have you felt the most confident in your writing? 

when have you felt the least confident?

how long will you spend on a story or scene before you give up?

how do you write emotional scenes? do you ever feel what the characters feel?

are you very critical of your own writing? how much do you find yourself editing (either during the writing or after the fact)?

how do you balance writing and life? do you ever feel overwhelmed by the amount of writing you have to do?

what do you do if a scene gets too serious?

how do you visualize scenes? do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow?

are you a planner, pantser, or planster?

do you know how your story ends before you start writing?

what is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain? 

how do you write kissing scenes?

how do you choose where to end a chapter?

are you an over-writer, under-writer, or just-right-er?

do you try to put themes, motifs, messages, morals, etc in your writing? if so, how do you go about it?

if you could go back in time and give your younger self a piece of writing advice specific to you, what would it be?

“proper” punctuation or all lowercase?

less is more or more is more?

said: overused or underused?

what would be on a moodboard for your current wip(s)?

which season best matches the mood of your wip(s)?

does your writing style change depending on the genre you write?

if you could have another author write your wip for you (bc we all dream of this occasionally), who would it be?

sarcastic narrators: entertaining or overdone?

do you notice your own voice in your writing style?

how has your writing style changed over the years?

first, second, or third person?

do you hear other people’s writing styles when they talk?

do you prefer dialogue or description?

do you describe a character’s appearance all right away or in pieces?

romantic/social sideplots: interesting or irritating?

abstract or detailed romance scenes?

what don’t you like about your writing style?

was being a writer a dream of yours when you were little? or did it spring up when your older? or is it just a hobby? 

open question to the writer.

a compiled list of asks for me to reference. they are not my own. just some of my favorite questions i’ve picked out from a couple different lists. feel free to reblog and use too!!

[fayes-fics]

Friday… classic work avoidance… I may post an ask the writer game thing.

[fayes-fics]

Hello, I hope you're having a great start to your day so far. I just wanted to apologize for all the likes that are about to come through to your account. I just recently found your fics, and it is absolutely amazing, and I just can't seem to stop reading🫶🏻

Hi Nonny!

My day is indeed just starting, having some coffee. Hope yours is going well.

Oh my gosh, you weren’t kidding! I did have a lot of notifications overnight. 🫶

I’m so happy you found my fics and definitely seem to be enjoying them!

Thank you for your lovely message. 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Hello have you tried any of the bridgerton teas?

Hi Nonny!

No I have not. I’ll be honest, as a Brit, I am VERY snobby about my teas.

My mum flies over with my Twinings supplies. Cos yeah, I don’t even like American Twinings 😬

I don’t think I’d buy them myself, but if someone gave me a cuppa I’d try it. But I might bitch about the quality 😂🤦‍♀️

Thanks for your ask 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Sorry I think I forgot to turn anon for my last ask I like to be anonymous on the tl 🙈

Hi Nonny!

Oh no worries you were anon. I have no idea who you are, don’t worry there.

If you do want to pick an emoji so I know it’s your (without knowing your username), just lmk 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Hello lovely! Do you think you would ever want to write a book? I would totally read!! your writing is absolutely terrific 💛

HI Nonny!

Oh, you are so very kind. 🥹🥹🫶

I'm honestly not sure I'm good enough to do that. I also don't know that I have the patience, skill or the time to come up with a whole original world and a cast of characters.

If I were somehow able to, I think my bent would be more towards a script than a novel. I just love dialogue and the play between characters. I am a HUGE comedy nerd and my dream job would be writing for TV or radio comedy. I grew up going to BBC recordings and ngl, that is where my heart lives.

Anyway I wittered on there, sorry. Thank you for your lovely message, You are far too kind. 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Aaaaaaaand I’m dead

[fayes-fics]

Awww thank you for reblogging. So glad you enjoyed this 😁🧡🧡

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.” 

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 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep

[fayes-fics]

Heheh so glad you liked this. Thanks for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

Acting Up

Pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Your husband Benedict gives you a treat during a Bridgerton family dinner.

Warnings: smut, 18+, minors dni, possessive/dirty talk, d/s dynamics, fingering, exhibitionism.

Word Count: 1.4 k

Authors Note: requested by anonymous (Smut prompt: “you wanna act up? have it your way”. For Benedict. The filthier the better please. 🤤). I hope this is filthy enough lol. Thanks as ever to @makaylan for a read-through.

“Stop that,” Benedict hisses from the seat to your right.

“Why? No one’s looking at us,” you reason quietly, letting your hand trail further up his thigh. “Everyone’s listening to Anthony; no one is paying us any mind.”

Your knuckles brush his cock, teasing, and he growls.

“Wife” it’s a low warning.

“Husband,” you drawl under your breath, fingers splaying out but looking away as if enthralled by the same story as everyone else around the Bridgerton family dinner table.

He wraps his left arm around the back of your chair and leans over as if also intent on the tale at the other end of the room. 

“You want to act up? Fine. Have it your way,” his breath is hot in your ear as he moves your hand away from his lap. “Pull up your dress.”

“But… that’s too risky,” you protest through gritted teeth, faking a smile.

“You should have thought of that before you teased me. And now here we are. So just do as you are told.” 

Slowly you gather the length of your dress into your lap. Laughing at the appropriate moments, along with the others and trying to keep up the charade.

“Open your legs wider.” 

“But I…” you begin, mouth behind your napkin as you pretend to dab away a crumb of food from your face.

He grabs your right leg and hauls it over his left thigh. You drop the napkin into your lap.

“Disobedience will only make this worse,” he gruffs, even as his face is the picture of rapt attention towards his brother.

He leans closer, his right arm crossing to wrap around your waist, and he kisses your cheek—the picture of a sweet, devoted husband. Appearances can be deceiving. 

“Stay still. Don’t make a sound,” he orders against your face as you pick up your drink. 

His hand disappears under the napkin, and two of his talented fingers plunge into you without warning. You splutter into your wine glass.

“You don't play fair,” you protest, attempting to fake a cough to conceal your moan. 

Violet glances over from opposite you, concerned.

“Just a touch of seasonal allergies, mother,” he reassures with an easy smile. “Right, my darling?” his lips at your temple, giving a gentle kiss.

“Yes, sorry, no need for worry,” you confirm, coughing again as he pushes deeper.  Violet nods and returns her attention to Anthony.

“Is this why I was forbidden from wearing underwear today?” you murmur.

He shrugs. “This, any other reason I might want. Who does this belong to?” he breathes, moving the fingers inside you back and forth.

“You.” 

The hand around your chair curls heavy against the back of your neck, “Who?”

“You, sir,” you correct.

“That's right,” releasing his grip. “Now the only thing I think we need to worry about, provided you can keep your pretty mouth shut, is all the delicious noises this drenched cunt is making.” his voice almost silent but the tone conversational. 

He drags his fingers in and out languidly; you can hear the suction, the cling of your lips around his knuckles.

“I want to see it,” your hushed confession surprises even yourself.

“Oh darling, you are truly so filthy,” his whisper full of admiration. “You are a marvel. Now I don't think that's wise in front of my whole family, but do you want a taste, hmm?”

Without waiting for your reply, he pulls out of you and grabs a petit four biscuit from the snack plate, using it as a convenient disguise and feeding it directly into your mouth. The sugary biscuit crumbles on your tongue as the tart flavour of yourself follows from his fingertips. 

“Oh, I bet that is delicious,” his voice covetous. 

You nod and turn your head towards him, kissing him. “Taste for yourself, sir,” He licks his lips and hums in agreement with his assessment.

“Now, if the two lovebirds over there don't mind,” Anthony raises his voice, standing and looking pointedly at you both, “I think a toast is in order.”

You both look at Anthony with innocent smiles, grabbing your glasses to join the toast. You notice Benedict does so with his left hand. Unusual.

“To a future of happiness and fulfilment!” Anthony declares with a flourish.

“Fulfillment here-here.” Benedict echoes brightly, the fingers of his right hand stealing under your napkin and sinking into you again.

“Feeling fulfilled, darling wife?” he leans in, his voice dusky. 

Your glass is frozen against your lips in a vice-like grip while he smirks at you.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be,” he challenges, a little bolder as people break out into louder small talk around the table. His fingers start stroking in earnest on that spot inside you, his thumb swiping side to side over your clit.

Fuck.

“Y/n,” Eloise calls out animatedly, “what was that book you were talking about last week?”

“Hmm, yes, whatever was that book, darling?” Benedict asks enthusiastically, the arm on your chair wrapping around your shoulder, his face dancing with amusement while his fingers bear down harder, unseen.

You close your eyes briefly, curse him under your breath and clear your throat.

“Pride and Prejudice?” Your voice is still squeaky. Dammit.

“That’s the one!” Eloise nods. “I can’t wait to read it. Are you ok? You look a little flushed?”

“She looks fine to me,” Benedict counters, turning his face to you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “positively ecstatic.” 

You pull a face at him and turn to Eloise “A little too much wine probably,” you jest, waggling the glass still in your hand, winking. She laughs at that and goes back to her chat with Kate.

Benedict changes motion, his thumb pressing in harsh clockwise circles.

“Nice girls don’t pull faces at the man giving them pleasure,” he chides.

“Nice girls don’t let themselves get debauched at the family dinner table,” you sass, gripping the side of your chair seat as you start to see stars, “luckily for you, I’m not a nice girl.”

“Very lucky for me indeed,” he concurs. “I do so love my filthy wife.”

“Then make her come,” you challenge, raising an eyebrow as you fight the urge to moan. 

“Oh, I enjoy it when you are feisty with me,” he rumbles. His ministrations are hard and fast now.

You exhale forcefully, putting down your glass, afraid it could almost snap in your grip. The inevitable is racing towards you; you stay silent, screams trapped in your throat, your breathing uneven and shallow. You feel every muscle in your body tighten, then it hits you. Waves pulsing in your cunt, squeezing his fingers hard, you exhale breathily, feeling a flush from your face creeping down into your gown.

“Well done, so silent but so beautiful,” Benedict praises, looking away as if eagerly listening to Colin regale his latest travel adventures.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright?” Your mother-in-law cuts in again from across the table, “you look a little out of breath, my dear”.

“Do you know Lady Bridgerton, you may just be correct,” you reply, so proud of yourself for keeping your voice even. “Benedict darling, please will you see me up to bed? I’ve had a little too much wine, and I fear it’s made me all aflutter.”

“Certainly, darling,” he replies dotingly, the very model of a perfect husband, all while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and smears them on your thighs. He pushes your dress down, then stands quickly behind your chair, pulling it out and helping you to your feet.

He pulls you flush against him, “Oh dear, definitely a little uncoordinated, darling,” he lies, pressing his stiff cock into your lower back. “I’ll just have to walk you upstairs, I suppose,” his arms banding around your waist.

You smirk over your shoulder, then join the chorus of good nights as he walks you to the door.

Once in the hallway, you snake a hand behind you and grab his cock through his trousers, squeezing hard. 

“Get on your knees right here,” He snarls against your ear.

“I'll do it if you can stay silent,” you bite back. 

He grunts at that. 

“Didn't think so,” you tease. “But our room is just upstairs…” your voice trails off, sauntering on ahead. 

“...Husband,” you add seductively over your shoulder.

“Wife,” he purrs, picking you up and sprinting up the stairs.

Tagged: @foreverlonginguniverse

[fayes-fics]

So glad you enjoyed. Thanks for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

Anthony (either modern or regency as you seem fit) as a Dom and is in a punishment scene with the reader and he isn't holding anything back

If it's possible it would be great if not no issues your work is awesome ❤️

Kinktober: Anthony + Punishment / Impact Play

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Paring: Anthony Bridgeton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub, dom!Anthony, sub!reader, light bondage, impact play (riding crop) incl breast and pussy cropping, subspace, vaginal sex.

Author’s note: hi nonny! Well, errr, this one ran away with me! I should probably cut it down, but oh well. Thank you for your kind words. I set this in Regency. I hope Anthony is as you wish here, and I hope you enjoy! 🧡

You pant softly, kneeling naked at the fireside, knees splayed lewdly wide at his command, your wrists bound to your sides by your stockings looping around your thighs. Anthony circles you, fully clothed, his riding boots clomping loudly even on the thick wool rug. A thrill zipping down your spine and prickling over your scalp at the anticipation of the next stroke.

He lands a stinging swat on your right breast, and you hiss, the pleasure in the pain melting your core into liquid fire. With each strike, your clit swells, pulsing in tandem with your racing heart. He quickly does the same on your left breast but catches an edge of your nipple; you can’t school the noisy mewling moan that escapes you, the pang acute. 

“Stop whining!” he snaps, so you bite your lip and bow your head, knowing you will have to keep your responses to little whimpers and heavy breaths.

The next hit is on the flesh of your left inner thigh, and you merely exhale harshly out of your nose to counter the sting, feeling so utterly aroused, certain you are spoiling the luxury rug beneath you. As Anthony circles, another flick of the crop on your left shoulder blade and your right bicep in quick succession, each making you whimper quietly, aching for him to just fuck you. He stops still in front of you. 

The soft leather tongue of the riding crop trails over your skin, starting at your breastbone and then a straight line down your centre until it reaches the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs and your stomach knots. You inhale sharply as he slides the crop into your slit, a cool drag over your soaked, burning folds.

“Look at me!” He commands, and instantly your head snaps up, meeting his fiery gaze as he teases your clit with a back-and-forth motion.

You shudder and whimper as he flicks a light blow squarely on your engorged clit. Not harsh like those elsewhere on your body. You crave more, a word falling from your lips in an almost ashamed murmur.

“What was that?” he clips, the crop teasing you maddeningly.

“Harder, my lord,” you repeat louder, teeth clenched.

His smirk is triumphant, and his eyes glitter with danger as he flicks his wrist and strikes a fraction harsher three times, making you exhale raggedly, swallowing your decadent moans, rocketed so close to orgasm your thighs tremble. 

You whine as he withdraws the crop, desperate for him to hold it still so you can frig yourself upon its stalk to orgasm—no such luck. Instead, his other hand cups your jaw and hinges your mouth open with his thumb.

“Clean up the mess you made,” he orders, shoving the tip onto your tongue. It tastes tart with your arousal alongside the meaty flavour of the cowhide.

You dutifully suckle until it’s clean, eyes wide and beseeching, not looking away as he observes you with an expression of thunderous lust. Suddenly, he pulls it from your mouth and disappears from view.

“Please, my lord…” you implore shakily, so overwrought, your entire being quivering with need.

The crop, coated with your saliva, smacks hard on your bum cheek, the wetness amplifying the pain. You squeal and jump involuntarily. But he doesn’t stop. Grabbing your hair, pushing you face first down to the rug, and pulling your hips up high, he reigns blow after blow onto your bottom as you cry out and drip down your shaking thighs, hands flexing in their bindings. He doesn't stop. Not until you enter a space where you just live for this and him, a creature of complete submission and unbridled lust.

When he finally kneels behind you, unbuttoning just enough to release his cock and drive into you, you are only capable of inhuman noises as you orgasm, rippling and clenching tight around him before he has so much as moved.

No taglist as these drabbles are short

[fayes-fics]

New Bridgerton brothers poster for s3

[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

[fayes-fics]

I, uhhhh, might be writing a Lessons-verse fic based on this moment in the s3 trailer...

Yup it’s a threesome in a carriage.

Oops 😬🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Hey guys

If you’re having problems clicking the links in my blog header or masterpost… sorry! 🫶

It appears latest version of iOS tumblr app at least, does not recognise/open links within tumblr.

🤦‍♀️🤷‍♀️

Let’s hope they fix it soon.

[fayes-fics]

I know some fic writers get stressed about writing tropes they think are too popular or overdone, and I need you all to know that I just spent 4 hours reading every iteration of the same exact fic plot I could find, and they all brought me an indescribable amount of joy. Listen. Listen. Sometimes you want cakes of many flavours and sometimes you want Nine Carrot Cakes