Chapter Text
Francesca wasn’t a pervert. Or at least, she hadn’t thought she was. But that was before she moved in with Michaela stirling.
When Francesca had first begun the process of moving out of Aubrey Hall it was with peace in quiet at the front of her mind. A place of her own, free from the rambunctious interruptions provided by her much louder siblings. Free from the constant stream of visitors pulled from her family’s vast social pool, who Francesca would have to greet and smile and endure polite conversation until the appropriate time had elapsed and she could retreat back to her room.
But most importantly, free from her mother’s penchant for matchmaking. Having just gone four for four with her eldest batch, Violet Bridgerton now stalked her children like a bloodhound. It no doubt came from goodness, but its irksomeness was no less felt.
So when John, her closest confidant and dearest friend, heard of her woes in finally wanting to leave home and made mention of his cousin in search of a new flatmate, Francesca had jumped at the chance.
Why shouldn't she have? John’s cousin, a woman he had only the most wonderful things to speak of in passing, should have been a most agreeable flatmate.
But what John had failed to mention was that Michalea Stirling was the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen.
Perfect full lips, eyes that sparkled with alluring mischief, a face that no statue or sonnet could ever eschew the beauty of. A form fitting tank top that splendidly displayed the generous swell of her chest, jeans that hugged the woman’s curvature in all the right ways, powerful thighs and plentiful hips and an ass you could see from the front.
Francesca, who had arrived fifteen minutes early and chose the most favourable seating in the cafe and wore her favorite casual but still respectable clothing, was utterly unprepared for this. She sat there, dumb as a fish, as Michaela approached. Hips swaying, grace and confidence in every step.
“Francesca, I presume?” she said, a roguish grin on her magnificent face as she extended her hand. “Michaela Stirling - charmed.”
Francesca with all the grace and confidence of a bowlegged toad sprang from her chair and banged her knee against the underside of a table. The first thing she ever said to the most beautiful woman in the world was a pained hiss of; “Shit.”
“Are you okay?” Michaela asked, her lovely eyes showing concern.
“No, I’m Francesca,” she replied, eyes blinking as she comprehended her mistake. “I mean- I’m not- well I am, Francesca, that is, but I am also okay. My name! It’s, Francesca. Bridgerton.” She swallowed. “Is my name.”
If there were a god, he would have done her a mercy and struck Francesca down at that moment. Instead, she bore witness as Michaela’s face shifted from confusion to amusement, the small chuckle she let out more melodious than anything Francesca could ever summon forth from the piano.
“It’s lovely to meet you Francesca.” she said, voice serene enough to quiet the anxious beat of Francesca’s heart even as her cheeks went flush.
Thankfully John, a true friend and compatriot, stepped in before Francesca could stuff another sock in her mouth and urged them all to sit down.
Luckily, things proceeded better from there. Francesca is able to introduce herself as a pianist and puzzle hobbyist, while she learned Michaela is an event planner and greatly enjoyed travelling the world. She quickly took command of the conversation, regaling them with a tale from her travels. Francesca further learns that Michaela is funny and charming and smart and when she stood up to order something at the counter Francesca could do nothing but stare at her ass. Her eyes simply wouldn’t move
A thought strikes her as she watches how it moves in tandem with the sway of Michaela's hips: That if Francesca has any say in how she passes from this world, it will be with Michaela Stirlings’s ass on her face, slowly suffocating her as she expires in bliss.
As soon as Frances feels the full register of the thought, she tears her gaze away. She could feel sweat run down the back of her neck, hands clammy as she rubbed them on her trousers, her stomach twisted in shame and arousal. What was happening to her? She felt possessed, like some foreign parasite had infiltrated her body and was playing at the strings of her soul.
“Now then,” Michaela said, taking her seat again. “Before we go any further, I should let you know I have a lively social life and will be hosting some ‘friends’ at times,” she quirked a brow. “Would that be a problem?”
Francesca frowned.
What does she-
Oh.
Oh.
Yes, the parasite said.
“Of course not,” Francesca replied instead, comforted that not all sense had left her.
Michaela smiled. “Marvelous. Now the first thing you must do when you move in is try this absolutely divine italian around the corner-”
The rest of the afternoon was filled with discussing the minutiae of cohabitation, Francesca ignoring how John would glance at her every now and then as if she had started to sprout a second head and making sure her own gaze didn’t stray below Michaela’s tantalising collarbones. By the end of it Frances had secured a room, exchanged phone numbers and shook hands with the softer skin she’d ever felt.
“It was lovely meeting you Francesca. I’ll be sure to be in touch.”
On the way home, Francesca dampened down the butterflies in her stomach. She assured herself that this was a temporary state of insanity and soon enough she would be able to behave around Michaela as any normal person would.
In the three months since Francesca moved in, it had become clear that John had betrayed her.
If John had truly had Francesca’s best interests at heart, to aid in her purpose of peace and quiet, he would never have introduced her to a woman such as Michaela Stirling. It was as if John, turncoat that he is, informed Michaela of all the reasons Francesca had left home in order to fragrantly perpetrate them against her.
‘Rambunctious Interruptions’ was the only way to describe Michaela’s behaviour around the apartment: singing in the shower at a volume heard through walls and over running water, dancing in the kitchen at any wanton hour and revolving door of friends and strangers flooding into the flat.
Francesca had never greeted more strangers in her life. Appearing without warning, Francesca would be interrupted mid-bite of a meticulously prepared sandwich as Michaela brought home a gaggle of women home for a wine night. Or a parade of half-naked partygoers arriving for predrinks while Francesca was trying to practice. Always an invitation extended to her way, Michaela managing to catch her just before she could make her escape, goading her in with a hand on her arm and enchanting words.
She’s running out of excuses.
“Oh, sorry. I have to prep for tomorrow.”
“I can’t, I’m busy translating latin.”
“I have to feed my fish.”
But the worst of it is in the sounds that emanate from Michaela’s room in the dead of night.
“Ah, ah, fuck!”
She tries not to think of it, tries not to decode whether it comes from Michaela or her bedfellows.
Every visit home and phone call with her mother has her walking on eggshells at any reference to Michaela, lest her mother smell any blood in the water.
But above all, living with Michaela Stirling has exposed Frances as some pathetic lesbian pervert.
Francesca has never been hornier in her life.
Everything Michaela does is unreasonably attractive to her. How she speaks, how she eats, how she turns the page of a magazine with her precise fingers.
Fences has started avoiding the kitchen in the mornings, less she once again sees Michalea in her sleepwear. Loose shirts with no bra that show the fullness of her tits, nipples poking through the fabric, sleepshorts so short that practically half of Michaela’s ass hangs out. Nightgowns with ample cleavage, resting dangerously high on her divine thighs.
For some reason Michaela, despite her stature, insists on putting items on the high shelves. The stretch of her reaching causing the shirt to rise and display her smooth and supple stomach that Francesca imagined kissing her way down. She had only seen the nightgown rise up once and a single glance at the pair of lacy red panties was enough to provoke Frances to exile herself from mornings in the kitchen and nursing an erection for the next hour.
Frances must make clear that her obsession is not entirely sexual.
The way Michalea commands a room with pure charisma, her ease of conversation, her casual care and kindness, her incessant humour and with that Francesca giggling before she can help herself. The way she looks at you like you’re her sole focus, how she can share a smile like she knows all your secrets and would never tell a soul.
How she makes you feel seen.
But these factors only seem to exacerbate her desire. If she could set aside her disgust at herself, she might be able to reckon with the totality of her feelings for Michaela.
But she’s finding it quite difficult to do so when she wakes from her dreams grinding into her mattress, boxer shorts ruined with her own precum and muttering Michaela’s name in her sleep.
It’s pure fucking agony.
She hasn’t done anything about it, of course. She wasn’t some sex-crazed lunatic completely divorced from her inhibitions, no matter how depraved her nature had become. Frances has manners. Francesca has morals. Francesca will not jerk off to the thought of her flatmate, no matter how her body ached for it.
That was until the incident.
Francesca has made the mistake of using the kitchen in the morning. Having last night received a text from Michaela that she would not be coming home, the Bridgerton has assumed that she would be granted a few hours to herself in the morning. So she ventures into the kitchen with the musings of making herself an omelette.
Looking through the cabinets for a pan reminds her that the self-imposed exile has resulted in her not quite knowing where everything is. She finally finds the right cabinet, crouching down to wrangle the one of the right size from the chaotic pile of cookery. Absorbed in her retrieval and thought of how she might organize the kitchen, Francesca failed to register that she was not alone.
Managing to extract the pan, she lets out a pleased huff and smiles to herself. A smile quickly dashed as she turns and is greeted to the sight of Michaela’s ass in her face.
Michaela, home when she should not possibly be, stands on the tips of her toes trying to grab something down from a high cabinet. The length of the nightgown has risen, giving Francesca an unrestricted view of that same pair of mouth-watering lacy red panties.
She feels her cock swell instantly, the fabric clinging to Michaela only serving to make her thickness more enticing. Francesca is no stranger to ‘reacting’ to Michaela’s proximity: gentle hands on her forearm making her hairs stand on end, leaning over to grab an item bringing her cleavage to nearly spill out of her loose top, sweat coating her beautiful skin post-workout, heavy breath and laboured breathing affecting Francesca horribly. And ass, good fucking god the ass.
It’s just never been so- well. In her face.
She wants to bite it. She wants to squeeze and caress and take handfuls. To map every curve and slope down to her thighs back up again with her tongue. She wants to pull the panties to the side and lick into Michaela’s pussy, to take her clit into her mouth, to savour the taste of her sweat and slick and cum.
Michaela drops her foot and the recoil makes her ass fucking jiggle - ish she dreamin? She has to be dreaming, trapped in a nightmare where she can do nothing but be teased with the object of her desires as it jiggles in her fucking face. She feels ravenous, like a wolf stalking its prey. Except the prey is a rabbit who won’t stop wiggling its pom pom in the wolf’s face.
She can’t help but remain staring, transfixed in this timeless trance. Then Michaela begins to turn around and Francesca’s entire body goes haywire in panic. With uncharacteristic speed, she stands up, rearranging her raging boner into a concealed position and placing the frying pan in front of it as causally as possible in front of her crotch.
“Well isn’t this a nice surprise," Michaela smiles, gaze lingering on Francesca before placing a container of porridge oats on the counter.
Frances’s heart tries to beat out of her chest. “I’m sorry?” she squeaks.
“Don’t usually see you up and about in the wee hours.”
Oh thank god.
She clears her throat. “Ah, y-yes. I was thinking about making an omelette,” Francesca taps on the pan, wincing at how it knocks against her aching cock.
Michaela chuckles. “I mean no offense, but I feel I must ask; you can cook?”
Frances feels her chest settle a little, a shaky smile on her lips. “Not really. It’s one of the three dishes I can really make without setting something on fire.”
Michaela laughs now - Francesca admires how the woman does it so freely and without reservation. She feels pleased with herself to be the cause, no matter how unintentional.
“Oh do tell.”
“I can make pasta-”
“The height of culinary cuisine,” Michalea takes a saucepan from a drawer.
Francesca keeps her eyes straight ahead, not taking in how the woman’s sleepwear clings to her form. “-and steak.”
For the first time in their time together, Michaela looks caught off-guard, hand stalled halfway to opening the fridge. “Steak.”
Francesca nods. “My brother Colin insisted on teaching me. He said every gentleman of good standing should know how to properly prepare their own steak.”
Michaela looks her up and down, playful smile on her lips. “Gentelman?”
Francesca blushes. “I think he was trying to be supportive.”
“And is this the brother who dated his wife’s sister or the one who fell in love with the maid?”
“It’s the one who married my sister’s best friend, actually.”
Michaela throws her head back, cackling. Francesca has no clue what she’s doing right but she hopes it lasts forever. The movement gives prominence to the tract of Michaela’s neck, the sharpness of her jawline, the morning light making the tops of her breasts shine. Francesca is stuck with the urge to cup one of them and take Michaela’s nipple into her mouth.
If Francesca’s depraved imagination wasn’t enough to affect her, seeing Michaela in their shared kitchen, casual and lively and laughing and Frances is the one to make her laugh? It does nothing to help the hole she’s burning through her sweats.
“My word,” Michaela says, a hand over her breasts and a look that could only be called sultry. “You Bridgertons are trouble.”
Francesca fucking throbs.
She has to get out of her, before her body can betray her further. She inches on her backfoot, not stealthy enough to escape notice.
“Aren’t you going to make your eggs?” Michaela gestures at the stovetop.
Fuck.
“Oh, I, um- I left something in my room.”
Michaela tilts her head. “For making eggs?”
“Yep,” Francesca croaks. “It-it’s a spatula. A special spatula, practically a family heirloom!”
Before Michaela can finish furrowing her brow, Francesca turns and egresses with haste. She only drops the pan from her dick after she closes the door and muffles her screams into the palms of her hands in the privacy of her room.
Francesca doesn’t come out of her room until four hours later.
She would greatly prefer to remain in her room to slowly die of shame. But it’s twelve o’clock on a Sunday and Francesca’s turn to do laundry. Which, of course, she only does on Sundays at twelve.Routine wins out over self-flagellation and so she forces herself out from her room. The silence is a relief, meaning Michaela has left.
A sigh, a deep breath, an exhale.
Laundry. Just do laundry.
She’s found laundry to be peaceful. Repetitive and mindless, sorting the whites and colors, arranging it all into the washing machine so it fits. It activates some of the same joy she gets from puzzling. But such peace is to be. When Francesca opens the laundry basket, a pair of lacy red panties lay on top of the pile.
Michaela’s underwear. The ones responsible for torturing Francesca just this morning are right in front of her. Michaela must have just left them, still fresh, perhaps have been worn though the night, probably still smelling just like-
No. No. No.
Francesca banishes the thought from her mind. She will not do something so depraved, so utterly lacking in all decorum. She has handled her flatmates undergarments every other time she’s done laundry and she will do so now.
Then she sees it. A wet patch staining the satin red, the darkness of its color seeped moist and fragrant.
Oh fuck it.
She grabs them, shoving it into her pocket. Laundry can wait, she needs this now. She slams the door shut behind her and takes a seat on the edge of her bed. She removes the item panties from her pocket, smoothing her thumb across the wet, its texture titillating, her cock staining against her sweatpants.
She brings the underwear - Michaela’s underwear - to her nose and with the first whiff she knows she can never go back. The smell is indescribable, rich and musky and sweet and salty. An intoxicating blend of Michaela’s fluids, her swear, her slick, her natural allure that has Francesca sniffing the room after Michaela departs. This is why she has a nose.
She rubs herself into it, smearing the traces of Michela across her nose and cheeks. She pulls her waistband down, her cock smacking into her stomach as it springs free. Francesca has tried to be good, she really has, but she can’t resist any longer. She moans as her hand wraps around the shaft of her leaking member.
“Oh fuck- Michaela!” she whines, stroking her mast. Her life has been spent drifting to the desert dying of thirst and now finally drinking from the oasis.
It’s still not enough.
She puts the panties in her mouth. Her tongue licks at the fabric, overcome with a flavour like molasses, robust and earthy. She imagines Michaela’s pussy is right behind the cloth, craves the feeling of the woman’s covered cunt against her mouth. Her dick twitches at the thought. She needs it, she needs it, she needs it-
Francesca cums, chanting Michaela’s name through the panties, sucking them dry of every last bit of Michaela’s juices.
She lays down, chest heaving, spent. Semen stains her clothes and hand and the panties still caught between her teeth. But none of it reaches her. Francesca’s mind is but a single thought:
Michaela.