fayes-fics

[fayes-fics]

Aww, I'm so pleased you enjoyed this. This is, to date, my only original Benophie piece. All the others are remixes of existing fics.

Until I have a sense of show-Sophie's character (I use the show as canon for my writing), it is difficult to write original pieces for her in Regency. Modern AU seems easier as it is more removed. Anyway, TYSM for reblogging this 😁🧡🧡

Could Be Worse [Benophie Drabble]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett, Modern AU

Summary: A bittersweet moment in a rainstorm

Warnings: None... just fluff and feelings

Word Count: 0.6k

Authors Note: This was written last night in a fun writing sprint on Discord, inspired by @bridgertontess lovely edit above. Im dedicating this to the biggest Benophie stan I know @silverhallow. I hope you enjoy this tiny fluffy snippet. My fellow talented writers @eleanor-bradstreet @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @thebabblingbrookenook and @colettebronte also wrote drabbles inspired by the same image. Be sure to check them out. Enjoy <3

The rain sluices down inside his jacket, but he barely registers it. The cold trickle seeping through under his shirt, onto his clammy skin, just adds to the pervading sense of melancholy. He kicks a stone and watches it skitter across the pavement before raising his head to stare listlessly out over the Thames. The river is a sludge grey in the downpour, somehow an apt backdrop. Standing on the Embankment across from the gallery. 

She observes him from afar under her red polka-dot umbrella. Not sure if she should encroach on his private moment, but her heart aching at seeing him so miserable. He has no idea she is standing there watching his solitary sadness. He has no idea of the torch she holds for him. 

He deserves better than this, she thinks to herself. Better than the woman who just stomped on his heart on what was supposed to be his big day. His gallery opening, his first exhibition as a solo artist. Instead, Tess chose this day, his special day, to break his heart and run to another man. She wants to make it better, make him see he deserves this and that woman shouldn't be allowed to ruin his achievement. 

“Ben,” she calls softly as the traffic light turns red, and she can cross the Embankment to him. 

He looks up at the sound of his name being called, but in the noise of the rain, he can’t discern the direction, looking either side but not behind. 

She runs across almost furtively and pulls up before she gets too close. 

“Ben,” she repeats, quieter this time. Hoping her tone is soft enough not to startle him. 

He turns around, and all he sees are polka dots. He can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at his lips, even at this moment of utter despondency. Only one person he knows would ever own such a cheery item. And he is inordinately glad she is there for some reason. 

“Soph,” he greets with a gentle smile as she pulls up next to him, attempting to raise her brolly high enough but almost taking his eye out in the process, the height difference too much to surmount. 

He jerks aside to avoid injury, but it just makes him huff a laugh rather than sigh in annoyance. 

“Give me that,” he grumbles good-naturedly, manhandles the brolly from her and holds it above them both. 

“You can do better, you know,” she says, huddling closer, looking out over the river. 

His heart skips a beat. He knows she’s right on some level. And a part of him aches, wishing she knew sometimes that he wants her, Sophie, to be his ‘could do better’. Still, friendship is better than nothing, and she is still smarting from the last idiot who didn't see her value. Didn't see her for the angel she is, at least to him. 

“Thanks, Soph,” he offers a quick smile as she glances up at him, and she checks him in the arm with her shoulder. 

“So are you coming back to your big gallery opening, Mr Big Shot,” she asks gently, “or are you going to stand out here doing your Hugh Grant impression for a little longer?” 

He chuckles at her genial ribbing. She always seems to know just what to say to make any of his burdens lighter, even though he's certain she has no idea of it. 

“Don't you fancy Hugh Grant?” he teases, feeling happier than he has all day. Hell, all week.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, pouting up at him in an utterly adorable way. 

Things could be worse.

Benophie Masterlist

Not tagging my usual list as it's not my usual content.

[fayes-fics]

Hehehe your gif, you are too kind 🫶 TYSM for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

When The World Is Free: Il Fait Bon T'aimer

MASTERPOST

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Summary: Benedict teaches his new wife a new skill.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex teaching, blow job, masturbation, swallowing, orgasms. Romantic, I guess? idk.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author’s Note: One-shot (requested by🪴anon, see next post) set during Ch 12 of When The World Is Free. This scene is briefly referenced in the fic in a non-explicit manner. Hold onto your hats; here’s the detailed version lol. At this stage of their marriage of (in)convenience, they are already hopelessly in love but in denial. Fic title is another Edith Piaf song. Thanks to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta and for assuring me this is worthy of the WTWIF universe. Enjoy! 🫶

On your first night at Aubrey Hall, Benedict sneaks into your room in the early hours while everyone else is asleep. Crashing into each other, he hauls you off the ground into his arms, your legs winding around his hips as you kiss greedily, hungrily—stolen, secret moments together so very precious. 

Half an hour later, you are staring at the ceiling, panting, utterly sated as he once again used his mouth to bring you to a shaking pinnacle, your cries muffled into a pillow.

“We must find somewhere private,” he sighs, his face resting on your belly as you card your fingers through his thick hair. “I like to hear you scream…” His wistful, cheeky addition makes you gasp, and you swat him gently on the shoulder. He laughs heartily and crawls up over you on all fours. “We can steal away somewhere on the grounds where no one would find us,” he assures, eyes shining in the low lamplight.

“I shall keep you to that promise, Mr Bridgerton,” you threaten softly, pushing his shoulders until he lies on his back, you hovering over him now. “Do you think you are capable of being as quiet as I was?”

“Why do you ask?” a flicker of confusion over his face, until your hand slides down his flat stomach and lands upon the warm bulge in his pyjamas.

“I would like to return the favour…” you offer, as his breath hitches beautifully. “I have never used my mouth as such, but you will teach me, won’t you? Tell me what you like?”

His groan is like music as you shuffle lower over his reclining torso, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes as he stares down with utter devotion.

Pitching forward, you rub the tip of your nose over the warm bulge in his pyjamas. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat that is so enchanting. So you do it again, inhaling through the thin material. Your nostrils fill with that wonderful scent his skin has, but richer here, a little muskier. It makes your mouth water. 

You open your mouth and kiss the mass there, and he exhales shakily as you allow your tongue to run the length of his cock through the silk, enjoying its heat and solidity. With his uneven breathing, you know your instincts are right so far. 

Feeling bolder, you tap his hip and start to tug down on the waistband, signalling that you wish him to remove them. You sit up a little to allow him the room, and demurely, he yanks them down and tosses them aside. 

“I have seen you naked before,” you murmur soothingly as he lays flat again.

“Please don't feel you have to do this…” A sheepish mien as he touches your chin briefly, even as his demeanour screams that he very much desires you to.

“I want to,” you reassure. “I am already aroused by the mere thought.”

There is a light groan at your confession; you lower your face again, his cock radiating warmth as it arcs upright over his body, fully erect and slightly red at the tip. You nuzzle there timidly.

“Guide me, Benedict….”

With a shaky exhale, he whispers. “Anything is frankly wonderful… but umm, maybe use your tongue? Like you did before?”

This bashful version of your new husband is so very endearing. 

Starting at the very tip, you trail your tongue slowly down his length, as he suggested, just as you had through the silk, but this time mapping his flesh, its heat and contours. You don’t stop until you encounter his root, his taste strongest there, right by his balls. You swipe a lick over that flesh, fascinated by the different texture of his skin there, rougher, puckered, and he groans loudly.

“Shhh,” you chastise playfully, even as you glow with pride, already addicted to how powerful this feels. 

His hand flies to his mouth, expression both comedic and apologetic all at once. It’s so adorable you can’t help but share a giggle, his eyes shimmering with affection. Your smile slides into a smirk as you unfurl your tongue, slowly retracing the path back up his cock, glancing up to see his eyes now rolling as you use a hint of pressure.

“What else?’ you ask quietly, eager to learn so much more.

“Kiss the tip,” he rushes out, reaching to brush your cheek. “Then take me into your mouth a little…. Please…” he quickly appends.

You follow his direction, wrapping your lips around the end of his cock, letting him slip into your mouth a fraction, smooth and hot.

“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that…”

Following his guidance, you spend a few moments sucking lightly on the end, your tongue running over the slit there, which has him inhaling sharply. The only other man you have been intimate with, Stanley, well, his cock was very different. Not that you ever did this for him; you only used your hands. But he was circumcised, whereas Benedict is not. There is a thin, moveable layer of skin enclosing his cock head, and you are keen to learn how to treat it.

“What do I do here?” You question, running your fingers over the ring of flesh.

“You can roll it down gently,” he advises, nodding when you wrap a hand around his shaft.

Delicately, you roll down his foreskin so all of his tip is exposed. It is flushed a very dark pink, especially where it tapers. Wrapping your lips around him again, making them into a tight ring and sinking, taking the whole of his head into your mouth, running your tongue around the exposed groove, him emitting a quiet moan as you do.

“Perfect…” he sighs.

You glance up at his face to see his lower lip caught between his upper teeth; he looks so handsome. So you keep exploring little licks and flicks of your tongue here and there. Experimentally, you kiss his exposed frenulum, then suck lightly upon it. He mutters a curse under his breath as a bead of liquid pools at his slit. You swipe it with your tongue, pausing at its salty, bitter taste. 

“Sorry. I know it's not very pleasant…” he blurts out, looking contrite. 

You make a noise of reassurance that it’s okay, not a delicious taste, but not terrible and continue to suckle on his head, moving up and down slowly. More familiar now, you glance up at him, wanting to see him in the full flush of arousal, his lips stained darker, a vein in his neck pulsing.

“Use some suction…please…” he entreats softly.

So you suckle harder, closing your eyes to concentrate, using your lips as a tight seal, your cheeks hollowing as you take rhythmic draws—his breathing changes, shallow and staccato. A hand landing in your hair, and you find you enjoy the weight. It’s not pressure, just guidance, his blunt nails mildly grazing your scalp. Above you, he makes little huffing noises.

After a few moments, you take a breath, seeking reassurance: “Is this okay?” 

“More than…” he gushes. “Are you certain you have never done this before?”

“No. I’ve never even wanted to… Until you…”

Something about those words lights a fire in his gaze. 

“Please take more of me,” he pleads, a tinge of urgency in his tone, “whatever you can manage.”

You hunger to give him everything, to try to take all of him into your mouth, but you will need time and more practice for that. Still, a large part of you burns to do so. A yen to be the best he has ever had, to make him addicted to you, his new wife, and what only you can do for him.

So this time, you sink a little lower, swirling your tongue once around his head, then pressing it to his underside as you take more of him into your mouth, a fullness that has you hollowing your cheek around him, suckling deeply.

A surge of victory in your core as his hips jolt, his fingers clutch your hair, the coolness of his wedding ring dragging against your scalp. His touch is merely a discreet guidance; you respond intuitively to the flex of his digits. Mirroring the pace he provides: following when to draw up, when to sink down. Guiding you like a conductor as he stifles his moans.

Your own arousal is slick between your legs, throbbing for him, yearning to crawl up and sit upon his cock, ride him until you are both screaming into each other's palms…. but you also want him to come from this alone. Excited by the prospect of him unravelling in your mouth, ideally breathless and needy, clinging to you.

Seeking more range of motion, you pause and softly pump him in your grip. “May we rearrange?”

His eyes fly open. “Yes… Anything…. What do you need?” He chatters, constantly so accommodating.

Instead of explaining, you drop off the side of the bed onto your knees, still pumping his cock loosely as you signal for him to twist and sit up; place his legs on either side of you.

He groans when you draw his head back into your mouth while holding his gaze, your eyes wide and unblinking, needing him to see you like this: naked on your knees, your lips stretched around him. Deducing it as a fantasy come true for him.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful….” he praises breathily, him brushing a strand of hair that has fallen over your face, tucking it behind your ear.

That little act of tenderness has you suddenly feverish for this, for him, a craving to have him utterly at your mercy and writhing with pleasure. Maintaining eye contact, you pulsate your tongue against his shaft, teasing him more. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, his lower lip snagging under his incisor as he quells another curse. 

Shuffling closer so your knees are under the bed, you break the heated stare, grasping his slender hips and rocking yourself further onto his cock. At this angle, you are more comfortable experimenting with taking him deeper into your mouth. Each pass takes a little more, sucking and swirling, letting your saliva drip down his shaft, lubricating your path lower; something so primal about the thought of him glistening with your fluids. 

You sink to the lowest you've ever been, his tip nudging your soft palate. His touch is gone from your hair, grasping the sheets around him in his fists, emitting a guttural groan.

“Shhh!” You pull up quickly to chastise him again, your fist taking over with a slow pumping action.

“I cannot…” he whines, almost sounding defeated, his fuzzy, muscular thighs rippling slightly from the curl of his toes into the rug on either side of your hips.

”I want you to come in my mouth, but we risk being interrupted if you are too loud…” you remonstrate logically.

His cock pulses heavily in your hand as he stares down at you slack-jawed, having seemingly lost the power of speech.

“What?” You shrug, feigning innocence.

“Y-y-you want that?” He finally stutters, disbelieving.

“Of course I do,” you answer, twisting your wrist slightly, maintaining a light tease with your palm. “I have done so upon your tongue, haven't I?” 

“Yes… but…” 

Another bead of pre cum leaks over your knuckles as he flounders; you squeeze him gently in an upwards sweep. Instinct takes over; you dip down to lick your fingers. A strangled moan from him as your tongue swipes through the slightly viscous drop. That tartness blooming on your tastebuds is somehow sweeter than before. 

You return suckling upon him, a new determination in your movements, more courageous with each passing moment. Using your grip at the base of his cock to add extra sensation. That thrumming dampness between your legs makes you want to frottage something, your hips flexing without you cognisant of such.

“Are you okay?:” he huffs out, perhaps concerned that your movements are borne out of discomfort.

“More than,” you assure, garbled around him.

“You are squirming….” 

His sweet concern has you reluctantly release his cock with a wet pop and looking up at him, beguiled by his flushed cheeks.

“This arouses me, Benedict, very much,” you confess quietly, unable to be anything but truthful with him.

His nostrils flare; his face a picture of desire, his blown pupils glittering. “Touch yourself, please, y/n… fuck… touch yourself…” he stumbles, looking at you so intensely you could blister.

Almost under a spell, you do as he tutors, burrowing between your legs, fingertips sliding into a pool of wetness as you return to your ministrations, your lips sealed tight upon him.

The friction against your engorged clit has you moaning, him stuttering a curse at the responding vibration around his cock. You discern he is holding back, a tremor in him that is both excitement and muzzled restraint, a simmering urge to thrust a little, to buck into you. 

You are sucking him earnestly now, moving up and down his shaft in determined draws, running your tongue tip into his slit as you reach the head. In your peripheral vision, you watch him scramble and grab his discarded pyjama top, wadding a bunch of navy silk into his mouth and gagging himself. He swears and babbles into the silk, the sounds now muffled, his moans louder and more insistent, his hand in your hair again. The twitching in his being and his heaving breaths - all his tells from when you rode him before - give you the sense he is approaching his peak.

You plead for him to break, your words unintelligible as you drool around him, your mouth full, your lips tingling, a slight ache in your jaw. You don’t want to stop, craving for the moment he breaks, utterly undone by you. Fingers sliding over your clit urgently, spiralling yourself high too.

“Look at me…” 

It’s a ragged, almost frantic plea, slightly hoarse, as he yanks the material from his mouth. 

Every fibre of his being is on a precipice while you gaze up at him. His skin flushed a deep pink, his neck corded, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple from his hairline, his pupils blown, encased in a cerulean ring, panting hard. That captivating sight is what catalyses your second orgasm, your pussy clenching in waves, craving his cock as you redouble your efforts to bring him to completion with you. Even fuzzy with the pleasure races around your body, you fight to keep going, allowing your moans of completion to reverberate loudly around his cock. And it works that carnal call and response too strong for him to resist.

“I…I am coming,” Benedict warns staccato, eyes screwed shut, his face contorting in rapture, all his little motions ceasing, his thighs constricting either side of your body.

His hand falls from your hair, likely expecting you to pull your mouth away, but it just spurs you on. Sinking, taking more of him, a strong pulse up his length, he nearly howls, hunching forwards over you and stuttering your name and so many words, some not even English, as he floods your mouth. All while you stay still, fighting the urge to cough, to take a breath. His taste is so much more than the preview. Salty, bitter, sweet, acidic. And copious. So much so that the reflex to swallow much of it kicks in before you even realise it. 

His fingers lace with yours as you unwrap your grip from around his cock. With a gentle kiss to his tip, you withdraw, resting your head on his thigh to gather your breath, his taste strong in your mouth, and a lightness bubbling inside that you were able to give him this.

“Did you…?” He stumbles, and you instantly know what he is asking, so you just nod.

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” you assert, letting him haul you back up onto the bed.

He surrounds you in an embrace, his body flushed warm, a little dewy.

“That was…” he trails off, again lost for words, his lips hot on your temple as he crushes a fervent kiss there. “Thank you,” his inflection so sincere it makes your heart melt.

“It was wonderful for me too, Benedict,” you assure, nuzzling into him. “I came too,” you add quietly, that reflex to always be honest with him kicking in as ever.

He grabs your chin, staring deep into your eyes with an intensity that seems to strip your soul as bare as your body. He may not even realise it, but the fingers of his other hand trace over your wedding ring as he keeps scrutinising you, as if reading all your layers. Unspoken words seemingly dancing on the tip of his tongue. He finally draws you into an earnest kiss that telegraphs what he cannot voice—tingles down to your toes. Even as you squeak in surprise when he is unphased by the taste of his release, perhaps even enjoying such.

Settling together, you lay entwined for untold moments, the ticking of a mantel clock and your shared breaths syncopating the only sounds, lulling you into drowsiness.

“I may need to be gone before anyone awakens,” he points out reluctantly after you stifle a yawn. “But that doesn't mean I don't wish for you to fall asleep in my arms…”

With a sated smile, you wordlessly burrow into him, your nose lodged into his neck, his heartbeat strong under your skin, his fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your flank, and his breath warm in your hair.

That, indeed, is how you fall asleep: in the arms of your new husband, already knowing this new dynamic will be impossible to resist.

WTWIF masterpost •  masterlist • wips • taglist

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

[fayes-fics]

Oh wow, what a compliment 🫶🥹 To hear people re-read my fics is the ultimate honour. TY for reblogging and your kind words. It means so much. Especially this story, which will always be close to my heart 😁🧡🧡

When The World Is Free ✨Masterpost✨

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Rating: General audiences, except chapters 10 (which can be skipped) and 15 both of which are 18+/minors DNI.

Status: COMPLETE (40k words)

Synopsis

It is late summer 1939, when you arrive in Paris from New York to begin a year of adventure. A deal struck with your parents to see a little of the world before settling down and marrying your ‘childhood sweetheart’ Stanley.

You soon find yourself with a spirited young English housemate Eloise, enjoying all that the cosmopolitan European city has to offer…. Until a few weeks later when war is declared. In this newly uncertain world, Eloise’s mother dispatches her brother to bring her home. Your plan is to board a ship back to America… but circumstances conspire to leave you possibly trapped in France with no way home. Eloise refuses to leave the country without you, even as you secretly grow attached to her beguiling brother, Benedict, who is everything Stanley is not.

There appears to be only one solution to your dilemma to ensure safe passage out of the country as invasion seems imminent…  but it will mean your life is forever changed, even when the world is free again.

Built from a story outlined and requested by @amillcitygirl

Chapter Links

Chapter 1 : Sous le ciel de Paris

Chapter 2: La Valse de Paris

Chapter 3: C'est Un Gars

Chapter 4: Le Rideau Tombe Avant La Fin

Chapter 5: Sans Y Penser

Chapter 6: J'ai Dansé Avec L'Amour

Chapter 7: Mon Ami M'a Donné

Chapter 8: Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin

Chapter 9: Partance

Chapter 10: Hymne à L'amour (18+ rating, minors DNI)

Chapter 11: Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

Chapter 12: Je T'ai Dans La Peau

Chapter 13: С'est Lui Que Mon Cœur A Choisi

Chapter 14: Un Coin Tout Bleu

Chapter 15: La Vie En Rose (18+ rating, minors DNI)

Epilogue: Peace Ever After

Titles: Fic title taken from the song ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ By Vera Lynn (1942). Chapter titles will likely all be Edith Piaf songs.

Disclaimer: While I have tried my best to research the time period and the history of events, ultimately, this is a work of fiction and may have some factual inaccuracies. This may be due to the nature of the requested storyline and/or the author's unintended errors. Credits: dividers by @/saradika [x], gif by @/captainbucky-yt [x]

[fayes-fics]

I'm delighted you enjoyed this! It's always fun to write humour (it's the genre of writing I most wish I could do for a job, lol). Thank you for reblogging this 😁🧡🧡

Coitus Mahemium

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Crack fic. Sex can result in injury, but you keep going anyway...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, inebriation, vaginal sex, minor injury with blood, substance high, crack content.

Word Count: 0.8k

Author's Note: This is an anon request fill (from HERE) I got during Kinktober but held onto as it's pure crack. I'm dedicating this to a lovely friend, @chaoticcalzoneranchsports, who enjoys a bit of silly crack content as much as I do. <3

“Oh god, this feels so good…” you shudder, dragging yourself up and down in his lap forcefully, climbing towards orgasm.

“Fuck, I know….” he moans in your ear, hands wrapped around your bum cheeks, encouraging your bouncing, the vein in his neck pulsing hard as he, too, skates close to coming.

You didn't even make it off his sofa tonight; you both just tugged off your trousers, perhaps a touch inelegantly in your tipsy state, deciding to ride him right here.

You look down to watch his cock disappear between your legs, and he growls when he realises what you are doing. Unfortunately, the noise he makes has you snapping your head up just as he leans in….  And your noggin smacks hard into his face.

Benedict cries out and collapses back into the sofa cushions, his hands flying up to his face as he hisses.

“Shiiitttt! I'm so sorry!  Are you alright?!?” you fret, stilling your movements, unsure what to do. 

What is the correct etiquette here? Is it impolite for one to climb off a cock mid-fuck? Or is it more impolite to keep going after such a faux pas?

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he assures, muffled behind his hands cupped over his mouth and nose.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.. please don't stop,” he implores, surging his hips up to indicate he wants you to keep going, even as he doesn’t remove his hands.

You start to move slowly, holding his shoulders, your brow knitted in concern.

“Show me,” you request quietly when his face looks oddly contorted, slowing your moves to a stop.

“Please, please don't stop. I really want this. So much,” Benedict campaigns again, almost whiny.

“I want this too, but…” you reach forward and pull away his hands, shrieking slightly in surprise.

His lip is spilt, and his nose is bleeding, his hands are covered in blood.

“Fuck Benedict! We need to get that seen to! You might need stitches!” you fret and start to climb off.

“No!!” he gruffs, grabbing your hips. “I'm fine, just please, please. We can go to A&E… later,” he pulls you back down onto his cock, still impressively rock hard.

“Later?!” you echo in disbelief.

“Yes, look… fuck I want to come so bad, please…. just please…” he beseeches, pouting in a way that would look adorable, were it not the cause of another pulse of blood to appear.

“Benedict… I can't fuck a bleeding man…” you sigh, even as he attempts to do it himself, rocking his hips.

“Yes, you can!” he cries desperately, “just okay, look, wait….” He twists and reaches to the side table and grabs a box of tissues, quickly stuffing one up each nostril and jamming one between his lips. “There, all better…” he argues, muffled, even as they turn pink. 

“Ben…” he looks utterly ridiculous, and you can't help the tipsy giggle that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation.

“Ha! See?! You can see the funny side,” he contends, waggling a finger at you even as he rocks into you. You just stare at him with fond exasperation. “Please, y/n, pretty pretty please. I can't go to A&E with an erection and a bloodied face. That will just cause all sorts of questions. I don't want to be a doctor's anecdote. Think about it; you are actually doing me a favour here…” he wheedles, pulling that puppy-dog expression.

He has a point.

You shake your head affectionately, then start to move. He crows triumphantly, and his hands grab your bottom, smearing traces of blood onto your shirt where it hangs low.

“You don't think they will have questions that I have bloody handprints over my bum?” you point out sardonically with a groan, his cock so good, you are already right back to pleasure.

“You have a great arse; they will just assume I grabbed it to deal with the anxiety of my injuries,” he ripostes with panted breath.

“My arse is not a stress toy, Bridgerton!” you dispute, gusting each word as you climb towards ecstasy.

“It's a bloody fantastic one,” he lobbies back cheekily, “quite literally tonight…” he adds drolly, raising a comedic eyebrow.

You can’t help another giggle even as you ride harder, both of you groaning loudly now as you slam onto his cock, both so eager to come.

—

Half an hour later, the triage nurse raises an eyebrow as she clocks the large bloody handprints on the shirt-tails hanging over your bum and the blissed-out look on Benedict’s face. In hindsight, perhaps giving him some leftover codeine you found in his bathroom cabinet before you ordered the taxi to come here was not such a good idea after all. 

He’s now high as a damn kite.

“I use her arse as a stress toy,” he offers sincerely by way of explanation to the nurse, then lolls his head and shoots you a goofy grin.

“Clearly…” she deadpans.

“She’s so lovely; she made sure I didn’t have an erection, too,” he continues, confessional on the mix of alcohol and painkillers.

You slump your head into your hands as he reaches out and pats your shoulder haphazardly.

Yeah… Great way to avoid being an anecdote, Bridgerton.

No taglist as this is goofy silliness.

[fayes-fics]

If you’re looking for inspiration in the kink sphere, have you considered going deeper into the smoking rabbit hole? Like the sharing smoke, playing with fire, put your cigar/cigarette out on me realm?

Hi Nonny!

This is an interesting area I haven't previously written much about, beyond sharing a cigar or joint here and there.

I have done two wax play fics, which could be considered playing with fire, I suppose, as they involved lit candles, but I've not done anything with, say, lighters or matches.

I tend not to write too much about pain infliction, or at least nothing that could leave a permanent scar, and as a non-smoker, I'd need to do a little research before I could write it, but it's an interesting avenue to consider.

Thanks for your message! 😁🧡🧡

Question for you: Anything you'd like to see me write?

[fayes-fics]

This Benace of a Benedict... well, I swear he could fix anything hehehe. 🫶 TYSM for reblogging this, my dear. Sorry, I'm so behind on my thank-yous. 😁🧡🧡

Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?” 

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night. 

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?” 

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it. 

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own. 

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..” 

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly. 

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside. 

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips. 

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…” 

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?” 

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh. 

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.” 

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it. 

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand. 

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric. 

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought. 

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there. 

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point, 

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…” 

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward. 

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane. 

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised. 

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face. 

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue. 

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts. 

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..” 

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to. 

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you. 

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”  

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart. 

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

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

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

[fayes-fics]

I'm curious: Is there anything I haven't yet written that people might like to see me write? Genre or otherwise?

I'm one of those writers who doesn't write for themselves particularly; it's for you, so I'm always curious about your thoughts. 🫶

I will say, my weakest genre is definitely angst. It just doesn't appeal to me much personally, either as a writer or a reader.

Kink-wise, I think I have already covered a lot of ground, especially after three years of Kinktober drabbles lol. But I'm always open to hearing if there is a kink people are interested in reading that I have not yet tackled.

This is not a call for fic requests, but rather a general pondering about whether there are types of stories or scenes that I have not written, which I could consider exploring, perhaps even within the requests I still have to fulfil.

Anyway, let me know if anything comes to mind. 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

I saw your tags:

They made me giggle heheh. You are so kind 🫶🥹 TYSM for reading

sometimes reading fanfic is like enjoying a gourmet tasting menu from a team of expert chefs who all have different styles and approaches to a favorite cuisine

and sometimes reading fanfic is like standing in front of the open fridge at three in the morning shoving handfuls of shredded cheese into your mouth

[fayes-fics]

Hehe, it's the GIF of yay I made good smut, lol. TYSM for reccing and reblogging this. It means the world to have you as a friend, and moreover, a very patient and supportive beta. I'm so happy you enjoyed this sequel! 😁🧡🧡

Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?” 

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night. 

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?” 

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it. 

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own. 

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..” 

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly. 

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside. 

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips. 

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…” 

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?” 

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh. 

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.” 

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it. 

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand. 

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric. 

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought. 

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there. 

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point, 

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…” 

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward. 

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane. 

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised. 

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face. 

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue. 

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts. 

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..” 

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to. 

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you. 

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”  

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart. 

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

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[fayes-fics]

if you don’t like something, you know it’s absolutely free and very easy to just scroll past it and go about your day, right? RIGHT????

[fayes-fics]

I now have a possible title for this.

It should be with you later this week, I hope. 6.3k of Regency Anthony smut 🧡🧡

WIP Sneak Peek: As Yet Untitled

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

So far today, 3.5k of smut has fallen out of my brain. A long-awaited request fill for Regency Anthony. I would love to finish it within the next few days 🤞

Snippet below:

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

“Of?” 

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

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

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

“I have not heard them say quite that,” you gasp, pushing yourself into his attentions, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Then they have not been with the right man,” Anthony asserts in that low register. Something so arrogant in his tone, but 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…”

Coming soon, hehehe, I hope 😁🧡🧡

[fayes-fics]

Sorry, I'm so late in catching up with my thank-yous, but thank you so much for reading my fics and for your kind words! 🫶🥹 I hope you enjoyed reading this when you got the chance! I'm so pleased you found my account. I write for people like you, and it means the world to hear from you. 😁🧡🧡

Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?” 

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night. 

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?” 

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it. 

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own. 

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..” 

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly. 

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside. 

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips. 

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…” 

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?” 

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh. 

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.” 

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it. 

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand. 

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric. 

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought. 

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there. 

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point, 

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…” 

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward. 

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane. 

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised. 

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face. 

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue. 

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts. 

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..” 

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to. 

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you. 

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”  

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart. 

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

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

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

[fayes-fics]

Heheh right?! Who wouldn't enjoy riling up a modern AU Anthony?! TY for reblogging this 😁🧡🧡

Kinktober Drabble: #2 Stockings

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader (Modern AU)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, stockings/lingerie kink, brief oral sex (m to f), vaginal sex.

Authors Note: Here's drabble #2. Modern AU. Unbetaed. Gonna use the same gif for all Modern Anthony Kinktober posts.

“No, no, keep those on,” he pleads.

You stop your movements, quirking your lip. “You asked me to get naked, Anthony?” hands hovering over the garter belt. 

You're in his office late at night, the dazzling lights of London a beautiful backdrop to this somewhat surprising development. You had dressed to impress a new lover tonight; you just didn't think that person would be your business rival, a fiery meeting turning into something else entirely.

“Not those,” he answers tightly. 

You smirk a little and instead move to untie the silky bows at your hips, your underwear falling away, so you are just standing in front of him naked except for your stockings and garter belt.

“Fuck y/n,” he breathes heavy, his erection straining against his trousers. “Please turn around and bend over my desk,” his voice is a needy thing. 

You do as he asks, begs, really. The glass tabletop is cold against your peaked nipples as you hear his chair creak as he leans forward; his warm breath ghosts across the top of your thighs.

Hands encircle your ankles, then slide sinfully slowly up the gossamer silk, a light callous from where he holds his pen, snagging on the delicate material. As he reaches your knees, they glide around the front of your legs, and he pitches his face forward. You cry out as his tongue runs a line down your slit, lapping the moisture there.

“I want to fuck you in these,” he gusts against your heated flesh, his fingers looping into the top of your stockings. “You look so sensational.”

“Do it,” you encourage over your shoulder. “Don't tease me, Anthony; I need this now,” you demand.

He groans against you, and his teeth graze the globe of your ass before he stands up and unzips his bespoke suit trousers. His hands wrap around the garter straps as he sinks into your soaked cunt.

“Fuck y/n,” he swears again as you cry out at the invasion, much larger than you expected. You reach forward and grab the other side of the desk as he withdraws and pushes into you again, the edge of the desk biting into your hip.

His hands slide inside the top of your stockings, and he grasps the meat of your thighs.

“Come work with me,” he groans in your ear.

“I’m not doing this for a job; that's not why this is happening,” your voice emphatic if a little breathless.

“Never said it was, but the point stands regardless,” he counters with a harsh thrust that makes you moan. “I’d prefer your predatory skill be on my side of the table during future negotiations; you're fucking terrifying.” 

Your laugh at that morphs into something desperate as he changes angle. 

“Give me a good orgasm, and maybe I’ll think about it,” you lobby back.

“See? Excellent negotiator,” he huffs an impressed chuckle and sets about fulfilling your brief. 

You take the job and make sure to wear stockings every day just to drive him absolutely insane.

tagging: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

[fayes-fics]

Oh, I'm so pleased you enjoyed this! 🫶 It was a fun way to start Kinktober. I would love to write more for this couple one day. I do love a bit of softdom Regency Benedict ngl. Anyway, TY for your note and for reblogging! 😁🧡🧡

Kinktober Drabble: #1 Sensory Deprivation

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, d/s relationship, blindfold.

Authors Note: Here's drabble #1. A gentle one to get us going. Unbetaed. Gonna use the same gif for all Regency Benedict Kinktober posts.

He towers above you, fully clothed as you kneel entirely naked next to your marital bed, feeling soft silk wrap around your eyes and cheekbones. There is a slight tug as he ties a knot at the back of your head, the world blacking out. 

“How does that feel?” he inquires, “any discomfort?”

“It’s fine, sir,” you respond, tilting your head to the sound of his voice even though you can’t see him anymore.

Robbed of your sight, your other senses heighten. Your own breathing is so loud in your ears. You gasp as his fingers trail down your neck over your chest and pinch a nipple.

“So responsive,” he appraises as he toys with you, fingers snagging your nipple and you whine gently, biting your lip. “You’ll do exactly what you’re told, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Suddenly the fingers are gone. You await his instruction; anticipation burns bright in your belly. You hear the clatter of boots on the wooden floor as he appears to walk away from you and what sounds like a squeak of a leather chair as you believe he sits down.

“Come to me,” he calls from across the room, slightly to your right.

“Sir?” 

“Get on your hands and knees, girl. Crawl to me,” his speech is soft but commanding, demanding obedience.

You turn in the direction you think he is in and place your hands out in front and move slowly forward, your palms and knees encountering different textures as you pass from the thick rug you were knelt on to the hard wooden floor, then onto another rug of a looser rougher weave. You feel the heat and hiss from the fireplace increase as you crawl further. You know you must be a sight, naked and blindfolded, slinking on all fours.

“That’s it. Follow the sound of my voice,” he lectures. As you get closer, you can smell him; his cologne and the tang of expensive cigars. 

Your next hand movement touches a leather boot, and you sigh happily, knowing you have reached him. You run your hand up the smooth leather and onto the slightly rough texture of his woollen trousers at his knee bend. Biting your lip, you bring your other hand to his other splayed thigh, feeling latent lean muscle under the ticklish fibre. 

You stop when your hands reach his hips and shuffle forward, leaning and nuzzling your face directly onto his crotch. Loving the sensation of his erect cock straining against the material, the smell of his soap and just him. 

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, running a hand over your hair, grasping the knot in your blindfold, and tilting your head up towards him. His thumb rounds your jaw to hook into the corner of your mouth.

You hear buttons popping under your chin as his other hand opens his trousers.

“Now let’s put that beautiful little mouth of yours to good use, shall we?” his voice low and sonorous.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, always, always so eager to please him.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports

[fayes-fics]

Thank you so much for reccing and reblogging this, my first-ever fanfic! It's been a journey since then lolol 😁🧡🧡

Sonnet #29

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: Your husband Benedict and you have a late night tryst in the billiards room of Bridgerton House.

warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, vaginal sex, oral sex (m to f), fingering, d/s dynamics, possessive/dirty talk, light bondage, drinking, dangerous use of Shakespeare, Anthony’s gonna need to rebaize that billiards table.

word count: 3.6k

author note: Not betaed. I haven’t written anything in years and this may be riddled with anachronisms, sorry. It also turned out less explicit and more romantic than I thought it would *shrugs*. The swaggering, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking Benedict from Anthony’s stag night, is the inspiration for this fic. Especially that cravat. The title of ‘my lord’ used here is part of their d/s play.

Benedict Bridgerton is missing. It has to be after 1 AM, probably later. You’ve woken to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Throwing on a robe and lighting a candle, you head down the backstairs of Bridgerton House. Keen not to disturb anyone but eager to find your errant husband. You’re visiting his family for the week, and tonight the brothers were celebrating their reunion.

You round a corner into the main hallway, then stop short. A drunken Colin is staggering slowly up the grand staircase, falling back almost as many steps as he advances. You bite back a giggle as he eventually stumbles onto his hands and knees, crawling the remainder of the steps. It must’ve been one hell of a Bridgerton boys' night.

Passing Anthony’s study, you’re surprised to see the door wide open. A quick peek reveals the Viscount passed out, head down on his desk. Light snores puffing condensation onto an empty tumbler in front of his nose, his hand still loosely wrapped around it - another casualty of the night's celebrations.

Still no sign of the one brother you are seeking. 

You slip silently down the hallway and into the billiards room you know they had been carousing in. The room is quiet, dimly lit by only a handful of candles. There is a lingering scent of cigars and expensive alcohol. Billiard cues lean haphazardly against disarranged chairs. Quite a party, it would appear.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice makes you gasp.

Benedict.

You hadn’t seen him in the shadows. He leans forward in a chair, the low candlelight now catching his face, a bemused expression tugging at his handsome features. He looks alluring with his sleeves rolled up, a glass held casually in one large hand.

“The bed is cold without you, darling husband”, you chide affectionately, snuffing out your candle and placing it aside.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I was about to come up. Can you believe my brothers don’t have the stamina to celebrate properly?“ he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Care to join me for a nightcap?” He adds, nodding at the decanter on the side table next to him. 

Without waiting for an answer, Benedict pours a glass for you and tops up his own. He knows you enjoy a quality whiskey when it’s on offer. And the Bridgertons always have excellent whiskey. 

He holds out the glass expectantly, beckoning you over. You move forward and take the drink, straddling his legs and lowering yourself onto his knees with a gentle smile. Benedict responds with his crooked smile, which always catches your breath. His free hand rests lightly on your robe-covered thigh as you take a sip. Smokey, almost caramel notes glide over your tongue. Oh yes, this is the good stuff. You can’t help the hum of satisfaction at the taste.

He raises his eyebrow before taking a slow, deliberate draw himself. He’s slightly inebriated but only enough to be playful. You wonder how he has held his liquor so much better than his brothers. Surely some strategy. You finish your drink lazily, feeling content just perched in his lap.

“We have never spent time here alone”, he rumbles quietly, glancing at the door. His hand becomes a firmer touch. From the slight glint in his eye, you can tell that his thoughts are turning intimate. It’s still surprising that just a few suggestive words have you wanting him. The feeling is so sharp and sudden. 

“Indeed we have not”, you murmur, leaning to place your empty glass aside and take his glass to do the same. Your mind flashes an image of you stripping bare for him in this very room. It’s the catalyst to push further into his lap and grab his face, locking your lips onto his. He tastes like cigars and the smoky sweetness of the drink - a delicious combination. You can’t help but deepen the kiss, running your tongue into his mouth and swallowing his slight groan. His hands move to grip your hips and pull you closer.

“Remind me to buy a whole case of this whiskey”, he smirks, trailing his lips down the side of your neck. You reach up into his hair and tug gently; it never fails to make him a little rougher in his ministrations.

“Clearly, I have been neglectful this evening”, he mutters against your collarbone using a slight edge of teeth. Oh yes.

“Please”, you whisper hotly, bringing his face back to yours for a bruising kiss. You hope he can read what you’re asking for.

His hands move, and you feel his thighs flex as he stands. You wrap your legs around him as he carries you a few steps across the room. It seems like no effort for him; the power in his athletic body never fails to impress you.

“Please, what?” He teases as he gently sets you down on the end of the billiards table.

“Talk to me”, you demure, not meeting his eye. Your hands move to release the buttons on his waistcoat. 

Benedict lets out a chuckle. “I rather think I’ve said more than you tonight”, his fingers gently tugging the ties of your robe.

“No, I mean… talk to me…. the way you did last week” you feel your cheeks burn as you finally dare to look him in the eye. You see them grow darker, and his nostrils flare. Now he’s catching on. He yanks off the waistcoat you have unbuttoned, then cups your face with both his hands.

“Oh, what did I do to deserve you?” He wonders with a hint of awe, giving you a brief gentle kiss. 

Before his whole demeanour changes. 

You feel a ripple of excitement in your belly as he sweeps a thumb up to your lips. His grip on your jaw becomes a little tighter.

“Tell me,” he drawls, “just how lonely were you up in that bed, wife?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Did you touch yourself?” 

You shake your head as best you can, with his hands around your face.

“Good girl” He looms closer, and you have to brace your hands onto the smooth felt of the billiards table behind you. 

“Although, clearly not that good”, he tuts, “coming to me so wantonly. And in my brother's house. Anyone could walk in right now. There’s no lock on that door. Is that what you want? To have my brothers watch as I take you right here?” You whimper at the images he concocts.

His thumb hooks into your mouth, and instinctively you pulse your tongue against it. He growls as you catch it gently with your teeth. He releases his grip and takes a half step back.

“Show me yourself. All of you,” he commands.

This. This is why you crave him so much. He can intuit your deepest desires. 

You scramble off the table and quickly wrestle off your robe and nightgown, letting them fall to the floor. You love the sharp intake of breath he takes as you obey. He drops his eyes covetously to take in the sight of you completely nude before him, flexing his fingers. The sinful gaze has you throbbing already. 

“Get back up on the table” his words are a harsh staccato. You do as ordered, sitting in the same position as before, perching on the raised edge of the billiards table. He pulls your knees up and apart, stepping between your legs. His kiss is urgent and deep, his tongue pushing and rolling into your mouth. One of his hands is in your hair, guiding your head to angles he wants. The other kneads at your breasts, snagging your nipples between his fingers. It’s possessive; the excitement buzzes right down into your core.

He grabs both your wrists, running his nose over your pulse points before bringing them together in front of you like you’re in prayer. “Hold right there, don’t move.”

You watch as he pulls roughly on the knot of his cravat. He hastily unwinds the material until it slips away from his neck — the golden silk glinting in the low light. You gasp as he loops the long strip of fabric around your wrists. Loose at first, then pulls tighter as he ties the ends in a bow. The material is soft but unyielding. 

This is something new. You peek up at his expression; there is a hunger but also a questioning vulnerability.

“My lord“, you exhale. It’s your permission for his silent request to continue.

“You are so perfect”, he groans, diving in for another hard kiss before pulling your tied hands above your head. He lowers you gently until your shoulder blades are resting against the green felt of Anthony’s billiards table. If only he knew what his younger brother was doing right now.

“Stay there. Do not move until I allow it; keep your arms above your head”, Benedict warns.

He hovers over your prone body. The material of his britches brushing lightly against your open thighs is the only contact you have. You squirm, needing him to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. Instead, he uses his words.

“Look at you, Mrs Bridgerton. I can see how desperate you are for me to touch you.” He inhales deeply, “I can smell your need for me. This is how I want you. Always.” His voice seems impossibly low.

“Benedict…” you pant. 

“I want to keep you like this for hours. Naked, at my mercy. Bound in my silks. My muse, my masterpiece.” His speech ghosts air over your skin; this is a special kind of torture.

Finally, he leans down the last few inches separating you and captures your right nipple between his teeth. Your cry is guttural, and he holds your hip bones down harshly as you try to cant up, seeking friction. He soothes the bite with his tongue. He attacks your other nipple with the same fervency. You are so aroused there’s an ache tugging like a hook deep inside. 

“Please, please, fuck me, please,” you chant, knowing that crude word he taught you will rile him. You need him now.

He groans at your curse but says nothing in response. He drags his mouth slowly and sinfully over your rib cage and stomach. Pausing to swirl his tongue around your belly button, he continues down. You hear his knees sink to the floor as his nose trails into your pubic hair. He breathes deep, animalistic, and so so wanted. He drops lower and licks a sharp line through your folds. You cry out, closing your eyes and tilting your head back to bite at the binding on your wrists. 

“Don’t,” he growls. You snap your head back, looking down your body to his face between your thighs. “Don’t you dare look away,” he lightly bites the meat of your thigh, “watch me do this.”

He hauls your legs over his shoulders. One strong arm wraps around your left hip, his hand resting low on your belly. He holds your gaze fiercely as he swirls his tongue slowly around your clit and then applies gentle suction with his whole mouth. By god, he is so good at this. He languidly takes his time, running his tongue all over, varying pressure, pulses, kisses and even little nips against your heated flesh. He never lets you break eye contact. If you try, he stops, and you whine for more. He sucks hard and takes you to the edge, then backs off to gentle kisses, not letting you over. Your whole body burns with anticipation.

“Have mercy,” you breathe.

Two of his long artistic fingers plunge into you. You cry out at the invasion, clenching down on them. He quickly locates that spot which makes you lose all sense. He rapidly strokes, his other hand bearing pressure on the same area from the outside, curled around your public bone. He glows with primal satisfaction as you scream open-mouthed with every stroke.

“Yes, my love, scream for me” his voice is ragged and muffled against your skin “you are so beautiful like this. Wake the whole house; I don’t care. My good girl, mine .” 

He runs his teeth against your clit, and it sends you over the edge, calling his name. He holds your hips firmly open as your body spasms, his strength fighting against your bodily urge to close your legs and curl up against the convulsions. He gently kisses your overheated soaked folds as you slowly come down.  

Benedict stands up smugly, peeling down his braces, watching your body shiver with mini aftershocks, admiring the whimpering soaked mess he has made of you. He quickly removes his shirt while rounding the other end of the furniture. Just as you come back to yourself, strong hands grab under your shoulders. You gasp loudly as he hauls you bodily to the centre of the billiards table. He can be so strong and overpowering when he wants to be. He leans down and kisses you softly to calm your surprise, stopping to marvel at the view down your body, sprawled naked across the green felt, your hands still bound above your head. 

Wanting nothing more than to wrap yourself around his body, you stay lying obediently, just as he had ordered you to. Your eyes track his movement as he stalks back around the table, admiring the flex of his now shirtless torso. It's probably considered scandalous for a lady of good society to be so enamoured with their husband’s body, but you revel in it. He is a beautiful man you have coveted since the day you first saw him. Whenever you have no social commitments to fulfil, at your sanctuary out in the country, your home, you will spend hours wrapped naked around each other, just luxuriating in the pursuit of sensual pleasures and mutual satisfaction. Those are your favourite days. 

A hand encircles your ankle, shaking you from your brief reverie. 

“I hope you were thinking of me,” he smiles indulgently, the sweet husband breaking past the dominating mask you love that he wears for you sometimes, like tonight.

“Always,” you reply, as easy and truthful as breathing.

After a shared moment, his expression turns sinful as he starts to flick open the buttons of his britches one-handed. You watch covetously, wishing you had permission to get up, to use your hands. To reach out and touch him, help him disrobe. 

“I want to touch you”, you whisper plaintively, voicing your thoughts as you watch.

“I know you do, my love”, he smirks, “but not tonight. Tonight you do as I say. You watch me.” You moan as he drops that last piece of clothing from his body. His cock is so perfect and beautiful, standing proud against his body. You want nothing more than to fall on your knees before him and take him into your mouth. He knows he is denying you one of your favourite things by making you lay passively waiting for him. He effortlessly mounts the billiards table, stalking slowly over you on all fours, like a big cat rounds on its prey.

“If only the world could see you now,” he purrs, “my demure wife begging to touch me. You are doing so well, my good girl, not moving those hands, even though I know how much you burn to,” he teases hotly, making sure you look down and watch as he grabs and strokes his hard cock to prove his point. Your breath is so uneven now you can barely make a sound except a pitiful whine. He bows down and kisses your breasts, running his tongue up to your throat, softly biting your earlobe. 

“Please, please….” for what seems like the hundredth time, he has you pleading.

Slowly he lowers his body onto yours. The feeling of his weight, the woodsy masculine scent, all his heated skin finally upon yours overwhelms. Your hands itch to move, grab, hold him in place, but you fight it and obey.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in your submission? It’s like poetry.” he breathes into your neck.

He reaches down to push your legs wider apart. You press your hips and breasts up hard against him, chasing all the touch you can. You feel him nudging at you and almost want to weep in relief. The moment he pushes into your body is everything—the solid weight stretching you, curling your toes. You let out a long keening sound, shutting your eyes to concentrate on the heavy sensation.

“Look at me”, he orders as he inches in further. Your eyes flutter open to meet his. They are blown wide with lust and devotion. One hand cups your jaw.

“Haply I think on thee…” his voice cadence changes; it’s a gentle lilting sound. His eyes don't leave yours as he bottoms out inside you. 

“…and then my state, like to the lark at break of day….” he slowly withdraws almost all the way. You realise faintly he is reciting actual poetry. A sonnet….? 

“From sullen earth sings hymns…,” His beautiful words settle over you, sinking into your thoughts, heightening every feeling. He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as you feel every inch of him slowly push back into you, dragging along all the right spots.

“At heaven’s gate….” he slowly increases the pace and strength of his thrusts, peppering your face with kisses. You moan threadily, pushing your body up against his, kissing wherever you can, twisting your hands against their binding, snagging in your hair.

“Oh god, Benedict”, it’s a plea for more, everything. The hand on your jaw moves, and he traces your lips with his thumb. As he looks down on you, a sheen forming on his brow, you fiercely wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking hard on the fleshy pad. He growls and thrusts into you harder, deeper. You feel yourself climbing as he hits that spot repeatedly, the one that makes you feel electric, a live wire of pure lust. You desperately want to grab his hips, impale him so deep he can't leave your body. 

“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings….” His voice is wavering now. He hooks both arms under your shoulders and rests his forehead on yours, never breaking eye contact as you both pants heavily into each other's open mouths. He’s taking you so hard, hitting that place where it hurts so good with every stroke. You beg for more, wanting to feel this ache lingering tomorrow, a physical reminder of this, of him, you will carry secretly. 

“That then I scorn to change my state with kings.” His voice breaks into a long groan as he finishes his sonnet. Without stopping his movements, he reaches one hand up and, with an expert tug, releases the knot binding your wrists. You sob a relief and instantly move, wrapping your arms tight around him, clinging to him, digging your nails into his back muscles, cresting your legs high around his hips. Your desire coiled tight.

“Please, my love,” he implores needily, “please come for me; I need to feel it.” The brash character he played for you earlier slipping away; it's just Benedict. Your husband, the love of your life. He moves one hand down to your clit and rubs tight circles. You know you are crying out loudly now, uncaring of anyone overhearing you. 

Your orgasm hits you hard like a blinding light, fracturing and reassembling. Liquid hot and throbbing everywhere, from the static on the back of your head, through the fingers you are scraping over your husband's back, to the waves of wet warmth where you pulsate with a vice grip around his cock. You hear Benedict roar your name, losing all sense of finesse in his movements, and in your heightened state, you hiss encouragements, a litany of things you would never admit to saying, sucking the fingers he had between your legs. He snaps, stilling suddenly, his slack mouth hooked onto your chin. The feeling of him coming is visceral. He curls his body in and around you, still pulsing hard inside you, its warmth spreading.

“Fuckkk, I love you”, he curses, panting hard, not wanting to pull out.

“I fucking love you too,” you counter lightheartedly, revelling in the use of taboo vulgarities, still intoxicated by your high. You bask in his responding laughter, feeling it inside too as he slowly pulls out of your body. He plants a kiss on your forehead, still chuckling deeply.

You lay limbs tangled for more than a few minutes, getting your breath back and enjoying the afterglow. Gently Benedict helps you climb off the billiards table and assists you into your nightgown and robe. Unseen by him, you pocket his cravat, your souvenir. He pulls up his britches, looping the braces over his shoulders, barechested, grabbing the rest of his clothing and bundling them over his arm. He grabs your hand, gives it a tender kiss and guides you out of the room into the hallway.

Straight into the path of Anthony. Arms crossed, looking foreboding and much soberer than last time you saw him. However, there is an intense blush on his cheeks. He scowls at Benedict, but he won't look you in the eye.

“Brother, I suggest next time you feel the need to exercise your… spousal duties, kindly consider exactly where the secret door from my office leads to”, he hisses. “And check it’s actually closed.” 

tagged by request: @mothdruid @foreverlonginguniverse

[fayes-fics]

Heheh I'm glad you enjoyed this sequel to Sonnet 29 as well 🫶 TYSM for reblogging 😁🧡🧡

Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?” 

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night. 

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?” 

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it. 

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own. 

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..” 

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly. 

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside. 

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips. 

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…” 

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?” 

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh. 

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.” 

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it. 

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand. 

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric. 

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought. 

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there. 

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point, 

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…” 

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward. 

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane. 

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised. 

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face. 

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue. 

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts. 

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..” 

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to. 

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you. 

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”  

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart. 

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

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[fayes-fics]

Heheh, I always enjoy your gif reactions. 🫶

I'm so happy you enjoyed this, my first ever piece of fanfiction! 😁🧡🧡

Sonnet #29

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: Your husband Benedict and you have a late night tryst in the billiards room of Bridgerton House.

warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, vaginal sex, oral sex (m to f), fingering, d/s dynamics, possessive/dirty talk, light bondage, drinking, dangerous use of Shakespeare, Anthony’s gonna need to rebaize that billiards table.

word count: 3.6k

author note: Not betaed. I haven’t written anything in years and this may be riddled with anachronisms, sorry. It also turned out less explicit and more romantic than I thought it would *shrugs*. The swaggering, cigar smoking, whiskey drinking Benedict from Anthony’s stag night, is the inspiration for this fic. Especially that cravat. The title of ‘my lord’ used here is part of their d/s play.

Benedict Bridgerton is missing. It has to be after 1 AM, probably later. You’ve woken to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Throwing on a robe and lighting a candle, you head down the backstairs of Bridgerton House. Keen not to disturb anyone but eager to find your errant husband. You’re visiting his family for the week, and tonight the brothers were celebrating their reunion.

You round a corner into the main hallway, then stop short. A drunken Colin is staggering slowly up the grand staircase, falling back almost as many steps as he advances. You bite back a giggle as he eventually stumbles onto his hands and knees, crawling the remainder of the steps. It must’ve been one hell of a Bridgerton boys' night.

Passing Anthony’s study, you’re surprised to see the door wide open. A quick peek reveals the Viscount passed out, head down on his desk. Light snores puffing condensation onto an empty tumbler in front of his nose, his hand still loosely wrapped around it - another casualty of the night's celebrations.

Still no sign of the one brother you are seeking. 

You slip silently down the hallway and into the billiards room you know they had been carousing in. The room is quiet, dimly lit by only a handful of candles. There is a lingering scent of cigars and expensive alcohol. Billiard cues lean haphazardly against disarranged chairs. Quite a party, it would appear.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice makes you gasp.

Benedict.

You hadn’t seen him in the shadows. He leans forward in a chair, the low candlelight now catching his face, a bemused expression tugging at his handsome features. He looks alluring with his sleeves rolled up, a glass held casually in one large hand.

“The bed is cold without you, darling husband”, you chide affectionately, snuffing out your candle and placing it aside.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I was about to come up. Can you believe my brothers don’t have the stamina to celebrate properly?“ he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Care to join me for a nightcap?” He adds, nodding at the decanter on the side table next to him. 

Without waiting for an answer, Benedict pours a glass for you and tops up his own. He knows you enjoy a quality whiskey when it’s on offer. And the Bridgertons always have excellent whiskey. 

He holds out the glass expectantly, beckoning you over. You move forward and take the drink, straddling his legs and lowering yourself onto his knees with a gentle smile. Benedict responds with his crooked smile, which always catches your breath. His free hand rests lightly on your robe-covered thigh as you take a sip. Smokey, almost caramel notes glide over your tongue. Oh yes, this is the good stuff. You can’t help the hum of satisfaction at the taste.

He raises his eyebrow before taking a slow, deliberate draw himself. He’s slightly inebriated but only enough to be playful. You wonder how he has held his liquor so much better than his brothers. Surely some strategy. You finish your drink lazily, feeling content just perched in his lap.

“We have never spent time here alone”, he rumbles quietly, glancing at the door. His hand becomes a firmer touch. From the slight glint in his eye, you can tell that his thoughts are turning intimate. It’s still surprising that just a few suggestive words have you wanting him. The feeling is so sharp and sudden. 

“Indeed we have not”, you murmur, leaning to place your empty glass aside and take his glass to do the same. Your mind flashes an image of you stripping bare for him in this very room. It’s the catalyst to push further into his lap and grab his face, locking your lips onto his. He tastes like cigars and the smoky sweetness of the drink - a delicious combination. You can’t help but deepen the kiss, running your tongue into his mouth and swallowing his slight groan. His hands move to grip your hips and pull you closer.

“Remind me to buy a whole case of this whiskey”, he smirks, trailing his lips down the side of your neck. You reach up into his hair and tug gently; it never fails to make him a little rougher in his ministrations.

“Clearly, I have been neglectful this evening”, he mutters against your collarbone using a slight edge of teeth. Oh yes.

“Please”, you whisper hotly, bringing his face back to yours for a bruising kiss. You hope he can read what you’re asking for.

His hands move, and you feel his thighs flex as he stands. You wrap your legs around him as he carries you a few steps across the room. It seems like no effort for him; the power in his athletic body never fails to impress you.

“Please, what?” He teases as he gently sets you down on the end of the billiards table.

“Talk to me”, you demure, not meeting his eye. Your hands move to release the buttons on his waistcoat. 

Benedict lets out a chuckle. “I rather think I’ve said more than you tonight”, his fingers gently tugging the ties of your robe.

“No, I mean… talk to me…. the way you did last week” you feel your cheeks burn as you finally dare to look him in the eye. You see them grow darker, and his nostrils flare. Now he’s catching on. He yanks off the waistcoat you have unbuttoned, then cups your face with both his hands.

“Oh, what did I do to deserve you?” He wonders with a hint of awe, giving you a brief gentle kiss. 

Before his whole demeanour changes. 

You feel a ripple of excitement in your belly as he sweeps a thumb up to your lips. His grip on your jaw becomes a little tighter.

“Tell me,” he drawls, “just how lonely were you up in that bed, wife?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Did you touch yourself?” 

You shake your head as best you can, with his hands around your face.

“Good girl” He looms closer, and you have to brace your hands onto the smooth felt of the billiards table behind you. 

“Although, clearly not that good”, he tuts, “coming to me so wantonly. And in my brother's house. Anyone could walk in right now. There’s no lock on that door. Is that what you want? To have my brothers watch as I take you right here?” You whimper at the images he concocts.

His thumb hooks into your mouth, and instinctively you pulse your tongue against it. He growls as you catch it gently with your teeth. He releases his grip and takes a half step back.

“Show me yourself. All of you,” he commands.

This. This is why you crave him so much. He can intuit your deepest desires. 

You scramble off the table and quickly wrestle off your robe and nightgown, letting them fall to the floor. You love the sharp intake of breath he takes as you obey. He drops his eyes covetously to take in the sight of you completely nude before him, flexing his fingers. The sinful gaze has you throbbing already. 

“Get back up on the table” his words are a harsh staccato. You do as ordered, sitting in the same position as before, perching on the raised edge of the billiards table. He pulls your knees up and apart, stepping between your legs. His kiss is urgent and deep, his tongue pushing and rolling into your mouth. One of his hands is in your hair, guiding your head to angles he wants. The other kneads at your breasts, snagging your nipples between his fingers. It’s possessive; the excitement buzzes right down into your core.

He grabs both your wrists, running his nose over your pulse points before bringing them together in front of you like you’re in prayer. “Hold right there, don’t move.”

You watch as he pulls roughly on the knot of his cravat. He hastily unwinds the material until it slips away from his neck — the golden silk glinting in the low light. You gasp as he loops the long strip of fabric around your wrists. Loose at first, then pulls tighter as he ties the ends in a bow. The material is soft but unyielding. 

This is something new. You peek up at his expression; there is a hunger but also a questioning vulnerability.

“My lord“, you exhale. It’s your permission for his silent request to continue.

“You are so perfect”, he groans, diving in for another hard kiss before pulling your tied hands above your head. He lowers you gently until your shoulder blades are resting against the green felt of Anthony’s billiards table. If only he knew what his younger brother was doing right now.

“Stay there. Do not move until I allow it; keep your arms above your head”, Benedict warns.

He hovers over your prone body. The material of his britches brushing lightly against your open thighs is the only contact you have. You squirm, needing him to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. Instead, he uses his words.

“Look at you, Mrs Bridgerton. I can see how desperate you are for me to touch you.” He inhales deeply, “I can smell your need for me. This is how I want you. Always.” His voice seems impossibly low.

“Benedict…” you pant. 

“I want to keep you like this for hours. Naked, at my mercy. Bound in my silks. My muse, my masterpiece.” His speech ghosts air over your skin; this is a special kind of torture.

Finally, he leans down the last few inches separating you and captures your right nipple between his teeth. Your cry is guttural, and he holds your hip bones down harshly as you try to cant up, seeking friction. He soothes the bite with his tongue. He attacks your other nipple with the same fervency. You are so aroused there’s an ache tugging like a hook deep inside. 

“Please, please, fuck me, please,” you chant, knowing that crude word he taught you will rile him. You need him now.

He groans at your curse but says nothing in response. He drags his mouth slowly and sinfully over your rib cage and stomach. Pausing to swirl his tongue around your belly button, he continues down. You hear his knees sink to the floor as his nose trails into your pubic hair. He breathes deep, animalistic, and so so wanted. He drops lower and licks a sharp line through your folds. You cry out, closing your eyes and tilting your head back to bite at the binding on your wrists. 

“Don’t,” he growls. You snap your head back, looking down your body to his face between your thighs. “Don’t you dare look away,” he lightly bites the meat of your thigh, “watch me do this.”

He hauls your legs over his shoulders. One strong arm wraps around your left hip, his hand resting low on your belly. He holds your gaze fiercely as he swirls his tongue slowly around your clit and then applies gentle suction with his whole mouth. By god, he is so good at this. He languidly takes his time, running his tongue all over, varying pressure, pulses, kisses and even little nips against your heated flesh. He never lets you break eye contact. If you try, he stops, and you whine for more. He sucks hard and takes you to the edge, then backs off to gentle kisses, not letting you over. Your whole body burns with anticipation.

“Have mercy,” you breathe.

Two of his long artistic fingers plunge into you. You cry out at the invasion, clenching down on them. He quickly locates that spot which makes you lose all sense. He rapidly strokes, his other hand bearing pressure on the same area from the outside, curled around your public bone. He glows with primal satisfaction as you scream open-mouthed with every stroke.

“Yes, my love, scream for me” his voice is ragged and muffled against your skin “you are so beautiful like this. Wake the whole house; I don’t care. My good girl, mine .” 

He runs his teeth against your clit, and it sends you over the edge, calling his name. He holds your hips firmly open as your body spasms, his strength fighting against your bodily urge to close your legs and curl up against the convulsions. He gently kisses your overheated soaked folds as you slowly come down.  

Benedict stands up smugly, peeling down his braces, watching your body shiver with mini aftershocks, admiring the whimpering soaked mess he has made of you. He quickly removes his shirt while rounding the other end of the furniture. Just as you come back to yourself, strong hands grab under your shoulders. You gasp loudly as he hauls you bodily to the centre of the billiards table. He can be so strong and overpowering when he wants to be. He leans down and kisses you softly to calm your surprise, stopping to marvel at the view down your body, sprawled naked across the green felt, your hands still bound above your head. 

Wanting nothing more than to wrap yourself around his body, you stay lying obediently, just as he had ordered you to. Your eyes track his movement as he stalks back around the table, admiring the flex of his now shirtless torso. It's probably considered scandalous for a lady of good society to be so enamoured with their husband’s body, but you revel in it. He is a beautiful man you have coveted since the day you first saw him. Whenever you have no social commitments to fulfil, at your sanctuary out in the country, your home, you will spend hours wrapped naked around each other, just luxuriating in the pursuit of sensual pleasures and mutual satisfaction. Those are your favourite days. 

A hand encircles your ankle, shaking you from your brief reverie. 

“I hope you were thinking of me,” he smiles indulgently, the sweet husband breaking past the dominating mask you love that he wears for you sometimes, like tonight.

“Always,” you reply, as easy and truthful as breathing.

After a shared moment, his expression turns sinful as he starts to flick open the buttons of his britches one-handed. You watch covetously, wishing you had permission to get up, to use your hands. To reach out and touch him, help him disrobe. 

“I want to touch you”, you whisper plaintively, voicing your thoughts as you watch.

“I know you do, my love”, he smirks, “but not tonight. Tonight you do as I say. You watch me.” You moan as he drops that last piece of clothing from his body. His cock is so perfect and beautiful, standing proud against his body. You want nothing more than to fall on your knees before him and take him into your mouth. He knows he is denying you one of your favourite things by making you lay passively waiting for him. He effortlessly mounts the billiards table, stalking slowly over you on all fours, like a big cat rounds on its prey.

“If only the world could see you now,” he purrs, “my demure wife begging to touch me. You are doing so well, my good girl, not moving those hands, even though I know how much you burn to,” he teases hotly, making sure you look down and watch as he grabs and strokes his hard cock to prove his point. Your breath is so uneven now you can barely make a sound except a pitiful whine. He bows down and kisses your breasts, running his tongue up to your throat, softly biting your earlobe. 

“Please, please….” for what seems like the hundredth time, he has you pleading.

Slowly he lowers his body onto yours. The feeling of his weight, the woodsy masculine scent, all his heated skin finally upon yours overwhelms. Your hands itch to move, grab, hold him in place, but you fight it and obey.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in your submission? It’s like poetry.” he breathes into your neck.

He reaches down to push your legs wider apart. You press your hips and breasts up hard against him, chasing all the touch you can. You feel him nudging at you and almost want to weep in relief. The moment he pushes into your body is everything—the solid weight stretching you, curling your toes. You let out a long keening sound, shutting your eyes to concentrate on the heavy sensation.

“Look at me”, he orders as he inches in further. Your eyes flutter open to meet his. They are blown wide with lust and devotion. One hand cups your jaw.

“Haply I think on thee…” his voice cadence changes; it’s a gentle lilting sound. His eyes don't leave yours as he bottoms out inside you. 

“…and then my state, like to the lark at break of day….” he slowly withdraws almost all the way. You realise faintly he is reciting actual poetry. A sonnet….? 

“From sullen earth sings hymns…,” His beautiful words settle over you, sinking into your thoughts, heightening every feeling. He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as you feel every inch of him slowly push back into you, dragging along all the right spots.

“At heaven’s gate….” he slowly increases the pace and strength of his thrusts, peppering your face with kisses. You moan threadily, pushing your body up against his, kissing wherever you can, twisting your hands against their binding, snagging in your hair.

“Oh god, Benedict”, it’s a plea for more, everything. The hand on your jaw moves, and he traces your lips with his thumb. As he looks down on you, a sheen forming on his brow, you fiercely wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking hard on the fleshy pad. He growls and thrusts into you harder, deeper. You feel yourself climbing as he hits that spot repeatedly, the one that makes you feel electric, a live wire of pure lust. You desperately want to grab his hips, impale him so deep he can't leave your body. 

“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings….” His voice is wavering now. He hooks both arms under your shoulders and rests his forehead on yours, never breaking eye contact as you both pants heavily into each other's open mouths. He’s taking you so hard, hitting that place where it hurts so good with every stroke. You beg for more, wanting to feel this ache lingering tomorrow, a physical reminder of this, of him, you will carry secretly. 

“That then I scorn to change my state with kings.” His voice breaks into a long groan as he finishes his sonnet. Without stopping his movements, he reaches one hand up and, with an expert tug, releases the knot binding your wrists. You sob a relief and instantly move, wrapping your arms tight around him, clinging to him, digging your nails into his back muscles, cresting your legs high around his hips. Your desire coiled tight.

“Please, my love,” he implores needily, “please come for me; I need to feel it.” The brash character he played for you earlier slipping away; it's just Benedict. Your husband, the love of your life. He moves one hand down to your clit and rubs tight circles. You know you are crying out loudly now, uncaring of anyone overhearing you. 

Your orgasm hits you hard like a blinding light, fracturing and reassembling. Liquid hot and throbbing everywhere, from the static on the back of your head, through the fingers you are scraping over your husband's back, to the waves of wet warmth where you pulsate with a vice grip around his cock. You hear Benedict roar your name, losing all sense of finesse in his movements, and in your heightened state, you hiss encouragements, a litany of things you would never admit to saying, sucking the fingers he had between your legs. He snaps, stilling suddenly, his slack mouth hooked onto your chin. The feeling of him coming is visceral. He curls his body in and around you, still pulsing hard inside you, its warmth spreading.

“Fuckkk, I love you”, he curses, panting hard, not wanting to pull out.

“I fucking love you too,” you counter lightheartedly, revelling in the use of taboo vulgarities, still intoxicated by your high. You bask in his responding laughter, feeling it inside too as he slowly pulls out of your body. He plants a kiss on your forehead, still chuckling deeply.

You lay limbs tangled for more than a few minutes, getting your breath back and enjoying the afterglow. Gently Benedict helps you climb off the billiards table and assists you into your nightgown and robe. Unseen by him, you pocket his cravat, your souvenir. He pulls up his britches, looping the braces over his shoulders, barechested, grabbing the rest of his clothing and bundling them over his arm. He grabs your hand, gives it a tender kiss and guides you out of the room into the hallway.

Straight into the path of Anthony. Arms crossed, looking foreboding and much soberer than last time you saw him. However, there is an intense blush on his cheeks. He scowls at Benedict, but he won't look you in the eye.

“Brother, I suggest next time you feel the need to exercise your… spousal duties, kindly consider exactly where the secret door from my office leads to”, he hisses. “And check it’s actually closed.” 

tagged by request: @mothdruid @foreverlonginguniverse