#anthony bridgerton x yn

[blakeswritingimagines]

Dating Yandere Anthony Bridgeton Would Include:

Anthony Bridgerton would be a very protective type of yandere. He’d be the type to have the “you’re mine and I will keep you all mine by any means necessary.” He’d be very jealous, clingy, possessive, and overprotective. He’d want to know where you are at all times, making sure you’re not seeing or talking to any other guys. He’d constantly want to be with you and touch you, wanting to mark his territory so others know you’re his.

He would be very controlling as well. He’d want to know where you are, who you’re with, and what you’re doing at all times. He’d also want to control what you wear and how you interact with others, especially other guys. He’d be very strict about your behavior and appearance, he’d want you to be completely obedient and compliant to him. He’d be very jealous and possessive of you, wanting to make sure that no one gets too close to you and no one can take you away from him.

He’d always want to be with you, holding you close, touching you. He’d want you to be reliant on him too for almost everything. He’d probably want you to stay home all the time so no one can get close to you. He’d shower you with gifts, spoiling you so that you don’t want to leave him. He would make it very clear that you were all his at home and in public. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch you. He’d keep his arm around and never leave your side.

He’d be the type who would want your full attention all the time, needing to be assured that you are completely loyal to him. If he suspects you have any feelings toward another man, he’d be quick to step in and make it known that you’re his. He’d want to constantly be touching you, whether it’s holding your hand or having his arm around you. He’d want to mark you as his, leaving hickeys and bite marks on your neck and body.

Anthony would also be the type who would want to know what you’re doing at all times. He’d likely track your phone and have a few cameras set up in places you frequent, just to keep an eye on you. He’d be very wary of any male friends or acquaintances you have and wouldn’t want you spending any time with them at all. He’d be extremely jealous and possessive, keeping an eye on your every move. He’d want to be the only man in your life, and anyone who dared to try and come between you and him would be met with his wrath.

He’d have a low tolerance for you being away from him and get very impatient/irritated if he can’t see you when he wants to. He’d want you all to himself to the point of isolating you. He wouldn’t want other guys looking at you or flirting with you, and he’d get extremely angry if someone were to touch you. He’d constantly need reassurance that you’re completely his, and there will be no one else for you. He’d demand your full attention and would not tolerate anything or anyone who takes it away from him. 

He’d also likely want to keep you close at night too, most likely wanting you to sleep in his bed every night. He’d probably want to hold you while you sleep, wanting to be close to you and feel your body against his. He’d be very wary about letting you go somewhere alone, wanting to either go with you or send one of his brothers to follow you and make sure nobody else bothers you.

He’d probably want to know the details of your past relationships too. He’d likely ask lots of questions about who you’ve dated in the past and how far you went with them. He may compare himself to them and want to ensure he’s the best man you’ve ever been with. He’d likely also want to make sure you never reconnect with any ex-boyfriends and would keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t contact you.

He’d likely want to control your finances, insisting he pays for everything and not wanting you to have your own money. He’d want to choose what you eat, drink, and wear. He may also get angry and jealous if he sees you in a conversation with another, no matter how innocent or friendly it may be. He would not allow others to touch you.

He’d likely be very demanding and controlling, expecting you to do as he says and be obedient to his rules. If you disobeyed him or did something he didn’t like, he’d be quick to punish you, whether it’s by withholding attention or physically restraining you. He’d probably want to keep tabs on your communications as well, checking your phone and messages to make sure you’re not getting too close to other men.

As rewards, if you were to be obedient, loyal, and submissive to him, he would likely reward you with affection, praise, and gifts. He may also take you to special dinners or events as a reward for pleasing him. He would probably also give you physical affection, such as hugs and kisses, as a way to show how much he values and appreciates your obedience.

As for dates, Anthony would likely want to take you on extravagant and romantic dates, showing off his wealth and status. He might take you to fancy restaurants, to the theater, or on romantic boat rides. He'd likely also want to make sure you're both dressed to impress, wanting to showcase to others that you're with him. He might also take you to secluded spots, where he can have you all to himself and be romantic and intimate with you.

Anthony would likely be very affectionate, wanting to touch and hold you all the time. He might constantly have his arm around you, holding your hand, or have you sitting on his lap. He would constantly be telling you how much he loves and cares for you, wanting to make sure you know how important you are to him. He might also give you spontaneous kisses or hugs throughout the day, just to show his affection and keep you close to him.

Anthony's family would likely be wary of his behavior towards you at first. They would likely be concerned about the level of possessiveness and control he has over you, as well as the boundaries he's willing to cross to keep you all to himself. But he would likely justify his actions by saying that he’s only doing it because he loves you so much and just wants to keep you safe and his. He would also likely not care about what his family thinks, as long as you are his.

In front of others, Anthony would likely act possessive and protective, wanting to make sure that other people know that you’re his. He might constantly have his arm around you, holding your hand or having you sit on his lap, and would likely be very attentive to your needs and wants. He might also get jealous if he sees you talking to other men, and would likely try to monopolize your attention and keep you close to him. Overall, he’d want to make sure that everyone knows you’re his partner and that you belong to him.

Like with many relationships, Anthony and you would likely have fights and arguments from time to time. However, his yandere tendencies would likely make the fights more intense and emotional. He would likely get very defensive and possessive, not wanting to hear any criticism or feedback from you. He might also try to manipulate or guilt-trip you into believing that you are the one at fault. He may also get very aggressive, raising his voice or trying to physically restrain you.

If someone tried to help you leave, Anthony would likely see it as a direct threat to his relationship with you, which could lead to very explosive outcomes. He would likely become extremely possessive and paranoid, thinking that you were planning on leaving him. He may try to physically restrain whomever it was who was trying to help you, and would likely be very emotional, using guilt-tripping tactics and making you feel bad for betraying him. He might also try to isolate you further, to prevent anyone else from coming between you and him.

As for marriage, Anthony would likely want to marry you sooner rather than later, as he'd want to make sure that you are officially and legally his as soon as possible. He'd likely want a traditional, formal wedding, with all the bells and whistles. Once married, he would likely step up his possessive and protective behavior, seeing the ring on your finger as a symbol of your commitment to him and a way to show other men that you are his. He would likely expect you to be obedient and submissive to him as his wife, and would not tolerate any disobedience or questioning of his authority.

As for having children, Anthony would likely be eager to start a family with you as soon as possible. He would want children to further bond you to him and make sure you would never leave him. He might also want to pass on his bloodline and his family name. Once you have children, he would likely be very protective and possessive of them, not wanting to share them with anyone else and wanting to keep them close to him. He would likely also want a large family and would likely push for you to have as many children as possible.

If you were unable or unwilling to have kids, it would likely cause a lot of tension and conflict in the relationship. Anthony would likely feel very disappointed and frustrated, as having children is likely something he wants very badly. He might try to pressure you to change your mind, using manipulation and guilt-tripping tactics to make you feel bad for denying him what he wants. He might also become very possessive and protective, thinking that you are trying to deny him a part of his life. It could potentially lead to a lot of fights and arguments between the two of you.

“You are mine and mine alone. No one else is allowed to look at you, touch you, speak to you, or even think about you. You belong to me and only me. You are my property, my toy, my obsession.”

High heels - There's something about seeing you walk around in high heels that gets his blood boiling. The thought of bending you over and fucking you hard while you're wearing them is just too tempting to him.

Control - It really gets him going when he can control the situation when he decides how and when it happens. Making the other person do exactly what he wants you to do… whether that's begging for more or crying out in pleasure, he doesn't care. It’s all about him having the power.

Paddling - Nothing beats a good paddling session before or after sex. The sting and the sound of the paddle hitting skin always get him hard as fuck.

Dirty talk - Hearing those naughty words, the filthier the better. Aroused moans, and dirty comments during fucking, that stuff sends him over the edge.

Voice control - Calling out dirty orders and having them obeyed is something that gets him insanely horny. Being vocal about what you want or expect only pushes the intensity through the roof.

[chaxan08]

For those who are more visual, I’ve attached a chart that concisely summarizes the explanation from my previous post about 'British Titles'.

If you prefer to read the full post, here is the link: https://www.tumblr.com/chaxan08/755142365443981312/british-titles?source=share

[jamilelucato]

The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 01)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n] Summary: Miss [y/n] is not your average young lady, for she is also W. Jabber, a talented writer who challenges societal norms. All was well until her publisher presented her with a new challenge—to write a children's book disguised for adult readers and to have it illustrated. And to help her with the task, she knows only one good painter in London. Age rating: although this chapter is pretty chill for younger audiences, the next parts will have more explicit scenes, so let's keep it 18+. Author's note: I said I'd be back with the Bridgerton boys, and here I am! Benedict, for the win! Hope you guys like it! (Part 02 here!) To read Anthony's fic, click here! For other stories, click here. Enjoy! Miss [y/n] was a writer. A good one, she dared add. Of course, that was unnoticed by the people of the ton, who would not have appreciated female writing, even if it was that great.

For that precise reason, Miss [y/n] prospered in a secret double life, where she was a pleasant lady by day and a fierce author by night. Her publisher was the only man she considered a friend since he knew her true identity and was present in both parts of her life. Needless to say, such an intelligent and refined man, capable of admiring penmanship made by a woman, would already have a wife. And would be dangerously too old to be anything more than an extra father figure in Miss [y/n] 's history.

Being close and such, Mister Brendy often challenged [y/n] 's writing abilities, encouraging her to try new styles in every new book. He'd often advise her towards writing the genre most wanted by the public at that specific time, and [y/n] was always quick to agree — as she held Mr Brendy's opinions very highly. Also, her family desperately needed the money [y/n] provided anonymously. Pretending it was a subsidy presented by an old aunt from the country, the young woman allowed her family some great comfort; furthermore, she permitted herself the luxury of new dresses every season.

"Good afternoon, Mr Brendy. How are you this evening?"

The sky wasn't fully dark when Miss [y/n] popped into the tiny printer's shop, but she was confident enough that nobody followed her in; thus, she modelled no cape or undistinguished clothing. She was merely herself before her old chum and a couple more teen-boy workers.

"Very well, dear," the printer replied, holding a modest smile. Mr Brendy had gently round features, and his smile, even the smallest ones, was exceptionally pleasant to witness. "Hope you're ready to hear your next challenge."

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't, Mr Brendy," she answered, lowering her eyes to the papers over his table, looking for clues to his oncoming request. Most authors did not enjoy working with demands, but [y/n] thrived with them, and she was Mr Brendy's favourite because of it.

"Well, have you how many nephews and nieces again? I always forget; I'm sorry," Mr Brendy got up and walked towards Miss [y/n]'s chair.

"No need to be sorry, Mr Brendy — I, sometimes, forget as well," she smiled. "I currently have three nephews and one baby niece. She's such a lovely newborn!"

The gentleman placed his hands in his trouser pockets, scratching his throat before saying, "Yes, newborns are usually a delight—a blessing."

"Couldn't agree more," Miss [y/n] couldn't help her anxiety taking the best of herself. "But what does my siblings' offspring have to do with my upcoming, in need of writing, book?" 

After another scratch of his throat, Mr Brendy finally spoke his true intentions. "Do you remember when you found me shivering from the rain outside and asked if I could publish your first book? And even cold, you managed to make all these demands regarding our partnership?"

"Of course, I remember! I was a baby lassie of fifteen years of age, but wasn't I a captivating writer even then?" Miss [y/n] was only joking but noticed that Mr Brendy wasn't less tense. "Does this talk have something to do with my demands? Do you need to lower my percentage of profit?"

Dear God, she hoped not.

"Nothing of such. Your books are bestsellers, Miss [y/n]. Money is not the problem," he said. "However, your other contract demand... The one where you work alone..."

"Yes?" she was desperately nervous.

"Would you be able to make an exception?"

There was silence in the room. It felt like even the employees outside the tiny office were muted, waiting for her answer.

"I'm sorry, Mr Brendy, but what are you implying? You want me to write in association with another author, is that it?"

"Not another author per se," he gritted his teeth, and the noise startled Miss [y/n]. "No," he restarted, "I don't want your writing to get jumbled up. You have a magnetic way of putting words to paper; I would never allow anyone else to interfere with that."

"Thank you," she said, happy for the compliment, though confused about how to respond. Mr Brendy was a good man, but he rarely presented free praise.

"I want you to work partnered with a painter, an illustrator. See, this is where your nephews come to action — children's books are the latest fashion, the genre bestseller of the hour. We have no author good enough to conquer that style the way we want," he paused, "— at least no better writer than you."

She was flattered but primarily confused. Her books weren't for children. Under the name of W. Jabber, she published pieces about politics and devotion, death and art, but all of that over a darker tone, very adult if you dare. What would be her place when speaking to children? What story could she have stored to tell those little kids rushing to a bookshop, looking for the newest realise?

"I want you to write a children's story the way only you could — designed for the parents. I want it perfectly disguised so that, when a parent fetches the book — tediously and only doing it for the quietness of their offspring — they get stunned to find out the narrative is very well made for them as much as the child."

"You reckon I could write such a thing?" she asked in a second of bravery. "I don't think I can."

"Upon rereading your latest, my dear, I discovered that if anyone can, it is you," he said. "When I first read Storms of Love, I could never have deduced the novel was about the Priest falling in love with his bastard son. At first glance, the story felt like a mother missing her son when he decided to go to seminary!"

She pressed her lips together, feeling shy. It was a horrible habit, as the lady knew she looked dreadful when she did it, but she couldn't help it. How many times, during balls, did she have to hear people praising her without knowing that Jabber was [y/n]?

"Again, thank you, Mr Brendy. You know I adore compliments," Miss [y/n] tried to smile, but she couldn't disguise her dismay. "Regardless, I…"

"I would never force you, Miss [y/n]!" the printer rushed closer to her, taking the liberty of placing a hand on her covered shoulder. "But before you say anything, know that the illustrator would be one of your selections, and we could do the whole interaction anonymously if you so desire."

"It's not the teamwork that unnerves me, Mr Brendy, but the writing of a children's book for adults." Miss [y/n] stared deep into Mr Brendy's eyes, but that was a wrong choice. His big, green eyes stared at her back, filled with hope for her to accept. How could she say no to the older man who knew her more than her father?

She placed her hand over his on her shoulder before saying, "Do you truly believe I am the best option for this chef-d'oeuvre? It takes courage to defy society with a youngsters' novel."

He smiled in that way only a proud grandparent could. "Yes, I believe you can."

After the conversation with Mr Brendy, Miss [y/n] at least managed to secure the illustrator would be her pick and not be some random person chosen by the printer.

That was exceptionally tricky, however. [y/n] did not know a bunch of painters — at least not enough that were indeed talented for her intentions or kind souls that would not reveal her identity. She did not want to be Lady Whistledown's next victim.

Miss [y/n] came up with one name and one name only. It was the only name not crossed from her list made in the dim candlelight of past midnight.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Thorny indeed. Could she trust him?

She and her parents had been friends with the Bridgerton family for years now, and Francesca was what [y/n] could call her best long-distance friend, but how far did she know Benedict?

He was a second son, which did not help his reputation, but there was no denying he was a gentleman and a remarkable artist. They used to play together at Aubrey Hall when they were both too young to feel ashamed.

Benedict was her friend, at least as far as being friends with a man could go for a single lady.

Subsequently, Miss [y/n] waited for the promised ball Lady Danbury would throw for the people of the ton, anxious to see if Benedict would say yes to her proposition and not tell anyone her little secret.

"Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]," said Lady Danbury, appearing out of thin air beside the young lady, "you look nervous. What for, my dear?"

[y/n] swallowed hard. "Do I? I suppose I could look like that, but I promise I'm fine as a horse."

"If that horse is about to go racing," said the old lady sharply. "Seriously, sweetie, entertain me. I fear this is the first ball I throw where nothing good happens. It starts to hurt this hostess's feelings, you know."

"Lady Danbury, well, if you must know…." [y/n] was certainly not about to tell her the real reason beyond her nervous appearance. Lady Danbury was a lady of gossip, and that was the last thing [y/n] needed. "My mama, just yesterday…" started [y/n], but she never managed to finish her lie because Lady Danbury interrupted her with a yell.

"Mister Bridgerton!" 

Oh, Christ. [y/n] felt like she was all wet with sweat. What were the odds?

"Mister Bridgerton!" shouted the old lady again, this time prolonging the last name of the gentleman walking by.

"You know, Lady Danbury, I'm not obliged to answer since there are three 'Mister Bridgerton' alive at the moment," said Benedict, stopping closer with a grin. "Two of them are at this party right at this moment."

Lady Danbury hit him with her cane, and the gentleman pretended to feel pain beyond what he must have felt. "Very funny, Mr Bridgerton, but we both know one of them isn't even old enough to be called mister."

"Yes indeed; Colin is a not fully formed child, but I rather only Bridgertons talk about that," he joked.

Only when his giggle ceased did the tallest Bridgerton siblings notice Miss [y/n]'s presence. It was a bit embarrassing for her, as she was staring at him laughing and how magnificent he looked — so relaxed that his hair moved with the movement of his chest. She had to tilt her head quite a lot to face him, so there was no covering her gaze.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. I did not see you there."

"Clearly," Lady Danbury whispered in her condescending tone, making her sound like a teenager.

"Good evening, Mr Bridgerton," Miss [y/n] said, ignoring Lady Danbury's comment and smiling at the gentleman before her. She had been looking for him after all.

"And now you two have been officially introduced," said Lady Danbury surly, allowing no interruptions. "Can I finally talk to you, Mr Bridgerton, about what I wanted?"

"You, calling upon me, had a reason!" said the Bridgerton man at the same time Miss [y/n] burst: "We knew each other already!"

"Oh, all right," Lady Danbury sighed, defeated. Benedict and [y/n] smiled, feeling victorious — but Benedict's smile was broader. "Mr Bridgerton, I insist on talking to you as I'm sure you must be anxious to meet my niece."

"Your niece?" he echoed.

"Yes, the one coming from Chester," continued the old lady. "Winnie Danbury. You had heard about her coming, yes?"

Lady Danbury's eyes seemed challenging as if asking for one of them to deny her tellings, as [y/n] was sure no one mentioned Miss Winnie before. However, they both stayed silent, agreeing with a head shake.

"Miss Winnie Danbury," said [y/n], testing the name, "is it her first time here in London?"

Lady Danbury moved her body to face Miss [y/n] as she had partially forgotten about the girl's presence. [y/n] was a charm; the old lady had only good things to say about her, but sometimes the Miss would rather stay in a corner barely lit, which infuriated Lady Danbury. Miss [y/n] was a beauty; she needed to be seen more often — even if society didn't agree with the elderly lady.

"Yes, it is," replied the aunt. "Oh, she's beautiful, Mr Bridgerton. And so talented! Did you know she plays five different instruments?"

Of course she does, [y/n] thought, sighing to herself. The anonymous writer dreamed of playing an instrument or, at least, being able to draw. She'd like to have another artistic talent besides writing. It was well viewed when a woman played wonderfully and even painted; it all did better than writers. Writing for a woman was like talking to the devil; her great-uncle had told her once when she'd suggested she had some talent for it.

"Lady Danbury, it will, undoubtedly, be a pleasure to meet another member of your family," said the gentleman.

"Especially if she's like you," whispered [y/n], afraid her tone sounded too provocative for the old lady's ears.

"But," continued Benedict, pretending not to have heard the young woman's comment, although the left corner of his mouth indicated otherwise, "is there any reason you should be offering your niece to me?"

"Why, yes! You are the oldest Bridgerton bachelor at the moment," said Lady Danbury and turned to Miss [y/n] before restarting, "and it would be a lovely match, wouldn't it?"

[y/n] had no reason to disagree.

"Of course. A Danbury with a Bridgerton, the missing couple in London."

Lady Danbury smiled as if she knew more than those young fools, and touching Benedict with her cane, she began to depart.

"I'll leave you alone, as I feel that my mission here is already complete."

"Oh no, please," Benedict pronounced sarcastically, "stay and tell us more about Miss Winnie."

But Lady Danbury had already turned away and walked away from the two of them, focusing her attention on Penelope Featherington, who was creeping through the room, trying hard not to be noticed.

Mr Bridgerton looked immediately unnerved by the noble lady's departure as if he didn't know what to say to Miss [y/n] [y/l/n]. And he didn't.

The two had known each other for a while and were even good friends, but she remained an unmarried woman in the presence of an unmarried man, and alone, the two seldom exchanged words. They were sharp when doubled against another Bridgerton or one of her brothers, but Benedict had always seen her as just one of the women of the ton.

She had her appeal, a magnificence in disguise. For example, she didn't take anyone's breath away but wasn't ugly to look at. In addition, she had more prominent curves than other women, a virtue when it came to her cleavage but a flaw when considering her corset region.

Benedict never judged her for that. On the contrary, he liked knowing she had something he could hold onto.

No.

He didn't like it.

Why exactly am I thinking about Miss [y/n]'s curves? The gentleman chastised himself. Forget it before you say something foolish!

Miss [y/n] noticed the dreadful hush and decided to speak first since she had something to say.

"Mr Bridgerton, I... I'd like to have a word with you," she felt her cheeks flush with nervousness. "In a less... crowded place."

Benedict gulped. So he spoke aloud. Bollocks.

"I have a business proposition. Perhaps it will interest you," she resumed, relieving Benedict immediately. "You still paint, yes?"

"Yes," he replied overly quickly.

"And you draw?"

"Well, yes." The gentleman stopped talking to reminisce. Would she like a portrait? Strange. No one hired painters during balls, and never, ever should a single lady ask a gentleman for a painting (at least not if she wasn't interested in the man himself).

Does she have an interest unrevealed? He thought but renounced the idea. It was [y/n] who stood before him. The same girl who played in the mud and one day made fun of him for having such fragile hands.

She had no interest in Benedict other than his artistic gifts.

"Need a painting, Miss?"

"Not precisely…" She looked nervous. "Can you pace with me to the refreshment table?" she asked, walking over to it before hearing him nod. It was the least guarded place in the salon at that moment.

He followed her, for he was too curious to drop it.

"How would you feel…" she started saying after analysing their surround "if it was offered to you a chance to illustrate a book?"

"A book?" he echoed, a bit too loud.

[y/n] waited a bit before continuing.

"A children's book, but adults can deeply interpret it."

"That's rather specific," he pointed out. So what was the meaning of all that? How was [y/n] in any power to offer him such a proposition?

"Mr Bridgerton, I simply want to know if you could be interested. If you are not, then I'll never mention it again," she said, her voice slightly shaky, even though she was playing chilliness.

Benedict took a step further, thinking she was out of her mind and only his closeness could bring her to her senses. "How can you do me such an offer, Miss? As I recall, your father is not in the editing, writing and printing business."

She closed her eyes tight, not believing she was about to confess to Benedict Bridgerton.

"But I am."

"Yeah, right," snorted the Bridgerton gentleman, crossing his arms in front of his chest. But [y/n] stayed utterly silent; she didn't dare utter a word, and Benedict could not stare at her big, closed eyes for that long without wondering: who was she? He was momentarily sure he didn't know. "[y/n]?" he called her, daring, in a whisper, to utter her first name.

[y/n] opened her eyes, surprised that Benedict had used her first name. She had always thought of him as Mr. Bridgerton, the handsome and charming gentleman whom society's most eligible ladies always surrounded. But now, she was asking him for help and needed to trust him with her secret.

"Yes, it's true," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm W. Jabber, the author of several books. I published under a male pseudonym."

Benedict was stunned. He had heard of W. Jabber's work and greatly admired "his" writing. He had no idea that the author was Miss [y/l/n], the girl he had known since childhood. He looked at her, seeing her in a new light. She was not just the girl who played in the mud; she was a talented writer who broke society's rules to pursue her passion.

"I had no idea," he said, his voice full of awe.

"I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's not something I can share with many people."

"And you want me to illustrate your next book?" he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his childhood friend was a published author.

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I've been working on a new book, and I think your illustrations would be perfect for it."

Benedict smiled, feeling honoured that she had asked him. "I'd love to help you," he said. "But how will we do it in secret? We can't let anyone know."

"I have a plan," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Meet me tomorrow at the park, and I'll tell you all about it."

Benedict nodded, feeling a sense of excitement at the thought of working with [y/n] on a secret project. He had always admired her intelligence and wit, but now he saw a new side that intrigued him even more.

As they returned to the salon, Benedict couldn't help but wonder what other secrets Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was hiding. But for now, he was content to focus on their new project, a collaboration that would push the boundaries of society and showcase their talents in a way that no one else could.

[lysatoru]

jujutsu kaisen x bridgerton

which confession from the bridgerton’s universe would say jjk’s men to their future wife/wife?

ft. geto, gojo, megumi and yuji

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Geto Suguru being the king George, y’know, i really feel like what the king George said to queen Charlotte would be something Geto would say because of his mental issues. I think he’d rather suffer alone than talking to his issues to his wife not to worry her.

Suguru stands up, raises his voice and looks at you, "I’m a madman. I am a danger. In my mind, there are different worlds creeping in. The heavens and the Earth collide. I do not know where I am!"

you raise your voice back, your face is firm, your brows are furrowed, "Do you love me?"

he doesn’t respond to your question and continues to talk about his issue, "You do not wish a life with me for yourself" — he stops — "No one, wishes that".

that’s bullshit! your think to yourself, what the hell would he think that? "Suguru! I will stand with you between the heavens and the Earth. I will tell you where you are. Do you love me?"

shouts echo through the room, the argument keeps going, "I love you! from the mo—" he takes a deep breath "from the moment I saw you trying to go over the wall—" tears begin to form in his eyes "I have loved you desperately. I cannot breathe when you are not near. I love you, yn. My heart calls your name."

both of your breathing are synchronized, Suguru comes closer and kisses you, desperately.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Gojo Satoru being Anthony Bridgerton, i just know sooo well this man thinks he’s THE gentleman of the season, every seasons. I think he doesn’t want to find a wife since he’s the head of his family and he just does what he’s supposed to do but when he first saw you, an inner conflict began.

You’re both in the library, he really wants you to leave or he’s going to do something he’ll regret instantly. He hates you since the first time you met but he doesn’t know why. You just told him you’re leaving for your country and he can’t help but feels betrayed, sad and angry.

Satoru closes his book and looks at you firmly, "do you think there is a corner on this earth that you could travel to far away enough to free me from this torment?"

you look at him completely confused, what the hell is he talking about? you start talking but he cuts you off.

"I am a gentleman, my father raised me to act with honor but that honor is hanging on a thread that grows precarious with every moment I spend in your presence."

"Satoru I—" he comes closer and whispers to your hear "You are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires. Night and day I dream of you."

You can’t even say a word. He steps back, takes a sip of his whisky "My mother is waiting for me" he quickly bows to you and leaves the room. You’re now all alone in the library thinking about what he just said to you.

Fushiguro Megumi being Simon Basset, i really think this man wants a partner who can be his bestfriend too, even though he never wanted to get married at first.

both of you are no standing in front of your majesty, wishing she’s going to accept your marriage. Megumi has always been a good man to you, but he never wanted to marry you, until that day. Today, you have to convince the queen to marry you.

"You see your Majesty, it was love at first sight—" you start but Megumi cuts you off, "It was not your Majesty" — he looks at you, and you just look completely stunned by his words — "the young lady flatters me, it was not love at first sight for either of us. There’s attraction certainly, at least on my part and Miss [last name] thought me presumptuous, arrogant, insincere, all fair really." — he pauses and breaths heavily, "And I thought her a prim young lady barely out of leading strings, not to mention the sister of my best friend and so romance was entirely out of the question for both of us but in so removing it, we found something far greater." — Megumi looks at you once again — "We found friendship." — The queen looks more interested now — "You see Miss [last name] and I have been fooling all of Shinjuku for quite some time, we have fooled them into thinking we are courting, and really all along, we simply enjoyed each other’s company so much, we could not stay away from one another—" you look at him, mesmerized by his words and presence in front of the queen. "I’ve never been a man that much enjoyed flirting or chatting or indeed talking at all, but with yn—" he clears his throat, "Miss [last name], conversation has always been easy, her laughter brings me joy. To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend and the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart…"

Everyone is looking at Megumi absolutely stunned by his confession. He really just said you two were fooling all of Shinjuku by pretending a future marriage?

You didn’t say anything and just keep listening to Megumi, excusing himself towards the queen and the prince.

When you go out from here you look at Megumi and ask him "Did a just say that to the Majesty for her to accept our marriage or—" he sighs, "I think all of what I said. I really think that."

Itadori Yuji being Collin Bridgerton, idk why but Yuji really gives ‘friends to lovers’ vibe and i’m HERE for it! I think this man doesn’t understand signals when someone likes him.

After helping you to find a man, Yuji starts feeling jealous of men trying to court you. When he saw you leaving the ball with your ripped dress, he couldn’t help but feel bad for you. He followed you to your coach and asked you to get on.

"Yuji, what are you doing here?" you ask him, this is definitely not why a gentleman he’s supposed to do, even though you two know each other since eight or nine.

He looks at you and starts telling you what’s in his mind. He talks rapidly because you’re going to you’ll soon reach your estate.

"I have spent so long trying to feel less, trying to be the kind of man society expects me to be. And for a moment, I thought I had succeeded. But these past few weeks have been full of confounding feelings." — he takes your hands in his — "Feeling like a total inability to stop thinking about you—" he looks at your lips, "about that kiss. Feelings like dreaming of you when I’m asleep, and in fact preferring sleep because that is where I might find you. A feeling that is like torture!" — he takes a deep breath — "But one which I cannot, will not, do not want to give up"

Tears start to roll down your cheeks, "please, do not say things you do not mean" — "I do mean it. It is everything I have wanted to say to you for weeks".

You’re now looking at each other. Yuji caresses your cheeks with his thumb and he finally kisses you. The kiss is delicate but rough at the same time. You wanted this for so long!

Once you arrive in front of the Itadori’s estate. He gets out of the coach and offers you his hand to get out too.

"Yuji?" — "Are you coming with me?" he smiles, "What? Your family will see me!" he comes closer, "For God’s sake, yn [last name], are you going to marry me or not?"

You take his hands and goes to his estate, with him.

i wanted to write this for soooo long!!! i had this idea with two of my friends @sunelia and @nycteis17 (look at her fanfiction of sukuna in ao3 : the irony of fate)

i put the one who have a netflix season because i didn’t read the books yet and i didn’t want to put fake things or whatever coming from the books.

i’m trying a new style of header, tell me if you prefer this one or not !!!

english isn’t my first language ;)

divider by : @saradika

[danvy121994]

Promised pt 1

Author note: this is part 1 of my first every fanfic! I hope you like it and sorry if there’s any errors English is not my first language <3

Anthony Bridgerton x reader

Synopsis: yn is stuck in a marriage with a man she knows nothing about, apart from the fact that he’s a rake and that his only concerns are his work and he’s family, but who knows what the future might hold for her…

Since the age of fourteen , YN was aware that she would have to marry out of love.

After Edmund Bridgerton died, the oldest son took the title, and with that came many responsibilities; the year after her husband's death Violet hopend up with one of her closest friends about her concerns, Anthony was a young man, whit too much responsibilities for his age, and because of that he wasn’t looking towards a marriage, instead he was going after women of easy virtue and solemnly concentrating on his work as a Viscount. Her friend hearing those words thought of an idea, to promise her daughter to the Viscount and make them marry once she was eighteen, so that he could live his life and learn to be a Viscount in the meantime. She agreed, and that is where our story started…

On the day of her eighteen birthday YN wasn’t happy as she should have been, eighteen for most women is the age when they become a woman, for her eighteen meant the start of her imprisonment.

She always dreamed of meeting the Perfect Man, during a perfect evening and falling in love and with only one glance knowing that they were made for one another. That would never happen.

This is what she thought of as she was getting ready to meet for the first time, and also marry, her future husband. Obviously she as read many thighs about him, from the most famous writer among the ton , lady whistledown, and the more she read the more she was scared of finally meeting him, a dark and handsome man, or at least that’s what they say; he was a rake, he had been with so many women that the author of the newspaper lost the count, and he was very secretive about his life, never engaging in conversations for longer that it needed and often bluntly telling people if he didn’t like them, as much as he could of course since he was a Viscount and needed to keep the family honor ; If there was one thing that she liked about Anthony Bridgerton was his love towards his family, it was something that they shared, if it wasn’t for the love towards her parent yn would have already tried to escape from this union, she knew how much it meant for her mother, so she sat in her chair, quietly as the maids were helping her get ready. As she was so lost in her trail of thoughts she didn’t hear the door opening, a girl appeared from the door,

She had a baby in her arms and as she was walking towards her she spoke “ you must be lady Y/S/N? I am daphne, Anthony’s sister, and you look even more pretty that I imagined” she’s nice, yn thought, “ it’s a pleasure to meet you lady Hastings” she has read of her on lady wistledown, oh how she wishes that she would get a love story like hers. They weren’t able to talk much further because a maid came in the room announcing the start of the ceremony, and in that moment yn was certain that from that moment on, her life would never be the same, in fact she was certain that from that moment on, her life would get even worst once tied to the one of the viscount.

[supercap2319]

Need a continuation to the Anthony x yn x Benedict fic where the two Bridgertons fill him up and punish him for being a slut

"You've wanted this haven't you?" Anthony said in between thrusts as he roughly rammed his manhood into Y/N. He would have responded, but his mouth was currently filled with Benedict's dick as the middle brother was fucking his mouth good and hard.

"He's such a slut, isn't he brother?" Benedict moaned.

"He certainly is. And you do know what we do to sluts, don't you? We punish them."

Y/N hums around Benedict's cock as he wants them to punish him. To spank him.

Anthony smiled. "Let's get him up and spank his arse in the basin."

"Agreed." They dragged Y/N to the basin and turned him around as they took turns spanking and fucking him.

[auroracalisto]

☆ AMA: Top 3 favorite fics you’ve ever written?

oof um let me think about that.

if i'm being 100% honest, a lot of the fics that i love eventually get posted over on ao3, even if they don't do well on tumblr. there are some fics that i've only ever posted on ao3 because they do well over there, but not well here. ANYWAY. i'm gonna link some of them.

good enough - posted this 12/4/22. i wrote this 8k fanfic in literally 3 hours, and had help from @yn-ymn-yln (in deciding what to do next). it is one of the most dramatic pieces i have ever written, save for a roman sionis fanfic i wrote during covid LMAO. i loved writing it though. i literally couldn't stop writing it.

broken glass - OKAY. this one is for victor zsasz. i have been wanting to rewrite it and lengthen it as it really does kind of suck with how short it is. i published it on 6/24/2020. i "finished" it on 1/6/2021. i have also been tempted to try and make an actual story out of it... ya know, irl and get it published. but idk.

Unanticipated - okay so this one is a Ukai Keishin/Reader fanfic. I loved Haikyuu!! (I still do, just don't really write for it), and I wrote it on 4/30/2020. It's been forever since I've written this one, but I loved it. It was like... one of the first fics I have ever written that consisted of a soulmate au, and it kind of blossomed my love for that. It has a special place in my heart. LMAO. but that being said. it is cheesy, and kind of badly written, too, but it seemed to do okay on ao3. so someone liked it.

here are some extras that i loved writing but i didn't put on the short list:

a love like this will never end - anthony bridgerton x wife!reader

he won't know (literally) - eddie munson x gn!reader

oh god, i want to feel again - xavier plympton x fem!reader

poisoned words - marcus pierce x reader

once upon a dream - felix volturi x reader

link to celebration

[thisismeracing]

My boyfriend Marc | CL16

SOCIAL MEDIA AU

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x actress!reader (she/her)

Warnings: curse words, Twitter environment, it’s not proofread, etc, etc. Minors DNI!

Summary: In which Yn always refers to her secret boyfriend as Marc and fans take forever to put the pieces together and realize that many of the names she used were actually Charles Leclerc’s middle names.

A/n: none of the pictures used are mine, they are all from Pinterest and other apps. everything else is made up by me and I do not give permission for it to be published on a different platform. I would appreciate it if those things could be taken into consideration 💛

see my masterlist | check here if you want to be on my new taglist

you can support my writing by liking, reblogging, and leaving me a message

yourusername

liked by netflix, jbayleaf, and others

yourusername monthly dump

view all 7,902 comments

bridgertonsisters I find it hard to believe Yn put a picture of the Monaco flag and a magazine with Ferrari on it by accident... 🤔

⤷ forzaferrari_ but she doesn't even follow charles

ynacting She did an amazing job, you deserve all the love, yn!!!

kanthonybridg I hate what they did to my fav book from the series, but still, Yn and Jonathan carried this whole season, their acting made up for the shitty story IMO

sunshineyln I love how her dumps are never about aesthetic, but rather real life and the genuine random pictures 🫶🏾

f1monza Patiently waiting for charles leclerc to show up

redbullracing

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly, and others

redbullracing We have her, scuderiaferrari 🤪

view all 13,429 comments

mercsun Did redbull just hard launch Charles relationship????????

princessyn I can't believe the twitter stans were right 😫

scuderiaferrar She's still wearing reddish tho! 😌😙

charles_leclerc ask her who's her favorite driver and you'll change your mind about having her

⤷ yourusername don't be jealous, chérie, you know you're my number one ❤️

gaslightpierre HOW DID WE NOT SEE ALL THIS DEVELOPING?!

charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, sebastianvettel, and others

charles_leclerc I don't think I would be patient enough for a soft launch anyway... 🙃

view all 9,395 comments

ynandf1 You guys passed almost unnoticed by us, I can't believe I didn't think about you as Marc

yourusername ❤️ je t’aime, marc!

charleslechair no but now that we know her boyfriend is charles it makes sense how she said it was hard to be together because he was constantly traveling

⤷ ynsunny and he watched her filming just so they could have a fifteen minutes break together, I WANT THAT FOR ME!!! 😭😭😭

pierregasly finally!! happy for you two 💙

danielricciardo is it true Netflix is hiring Charles for the next season of Bridgertons where he's gonna get rid of Anthony and become the viscount himself only to marry Yn?

⤷ landonoris nice fanfic you got there, when's the next chapter coming?

⤷ tototime HOW DOES HE KNOW WHAT A FANFIC IS?????? I-

summercharles The way he holds her, the way he looks at her, it's just so pure, you can see they're in love.

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @formulakay3 @mishaandthebrits @crimeshowjunkie @iloveyou3000morgan @saintslewis @fdl305 @chaoticevilbakugo @carojasmin2204

[velvetcloxds]

A HUSBAND'S DUTY | A.B.

Pairing: husband!anthony bridgerton x wife!reader

Word count: 1.6k words

Warnings: injury, little blood, getting stitches, anthony being an idiot, fem pronouns

Summary: after a little accident in town left you in need of some comfort while getting stitches, anthony fears he may be developing feelings for his wife

A/n: this was actually my very first anthony fic so go easy on me lol

Library Blog | Navigation | Taglist

Anthony was admittedly concerned as he walked into the Bridgerton home, he had received a rather vague letter demanding his return but no more than that, though the cart of the physician that stood idle in front of the front door did not instill him with much relief.

"Whatever is the matter?” He demanded from the youngest Bridgerton brother, Colin looking no more in the know than he was, but a loud cry soon followed the silence and Anthony’s heart sank, though the voice it belonged to had been a rather new addition to his setting, he’d still recognize it without any prompt at all. “Is Y/n hurt?” Anthony added, now more alarmed than he was when he came in and Colin offered him a careful nod, hands reaching for his shoulders to keep him in place when he dared to take off towards you.

“There was a minor accident in town, Y/n tripped on her way into the carriage and managed to cut herself on the wheel,” he explained with an almost calming tone, knowing that despite the practically transparent charade Anthony enacted, there was no denying that the viscount cared deeply for his wife. “It is not as awful as her shouts make it appear, merely a few stitches to her arm, though she seems remarkably unfond of the needle, that is all.”

Anthony considered the words carefully, somewhat relieved that the injury was not as dreadful as the thousands of scenes his mind presented him at your first cry, but he was still uneasy. There was an unreasonable feeling biting at his stomach, it begged him to go to you, be there for you and he’d half the heart to pay it no mind but he was not sure he had enough restraint to do so.

“Eloise and Benedict are at her side, brother, you need not fret,” Colin began, a door creaking upstairs, footsteps fleeing down the hall, and with the bedroom now open to eager ears, he heard your voice even clearer than before, his name being the only thing to truly filter through as you begged for your husband to be brought to you and it was that shrill demand that had something in his chest snap. Colin sighed as he took hold of his brother’s top hat, watching the man strut up the stairs with determination.

“Please, no more,” you cried with your bloodied arm held tightly in place by Benedict, Eloise sat next to you on the bed as you shook your head in objection, resembling that of a child refusing to go to bed and were it not for the circumstance, Anthony would have taken a moment to take note of it, yet he cleared his throat instead. Your eyes found his in an instant, new tears, now of relief, cascading down your cheeks as your husband shrugged off his coat and shoes.

“Thank heavens,” Benedict sighed, carefully releasing your arm from his grip, a silent nod telling Eloise to follow him as he decided to leave you in the capable hands of his brother. “I wish you good luck, brother,” he mused as he patted Anthony’s shoulder, sparing you a sympathetic smile as he did. “She is intent on refusing help,” he added, and the siblings retreated to their own rooms.

“Anthony,” you breathed as he made his way towards you, nodding to greet the physician before climbing onto the bed with you.

“My love,” he cooed, sparing a glance at the worrying cut that traveled along your skin, an irritated wound if he had ever seen one, your squirming doing quite well in aiding the cause. “Have I not told you to be more careful with that spiteful step?” he reprimanded in the same soft tone, brows furrowed in concern as he moved his body behind yours, assuring a tight hold on you as your back rested against his chest.

“You have,” you agreed, nuzzling into his neck as careful hands rubbed at your waist to calm you down. “Please, tell them that there is no need for all this fuss,” you insisted and knew you would not get your way when he tutted lowly, kissing your forehead as you looked up at him with large eyes, a look he had never seen before, though that was but one of many new gestures you had shared within a few moments.

“I believe that despite your fighting, you are nearly free of this torture, merely a few more seconds, and then I shall ensure you never have to see the poor man again,” he bargained, and had you been of sound mind, you would have reprimanded him for attempting to manage your emotions, though you could not deny the serenity you found in his arms- what seemed utterly terrifying a second ago, was now but an uncomfortable excuse to be closer to him than ever before.

“Will you stay?” you sighed with a soft pout, allowing your head to fall further into the crook of his neck to better your view of his handsome face, one that was now adorned with a caring smile that you were sure he had conjured only for you.

“Until the very end, dearest,” he promised with a gentle shrug and you took a second before nodding, closing your eyes in preparation for the prick of the needle, breathing in Anthony’s cologne instead, feeling the soft material of his shirt against your cheek, the almost non-existent strokes of his thumbs against your sides, you were sure that if Benedict or Eloise could see you now they would think you mad. You thought yourself quite mad as well, finding so much solace, so much peace in a man who had married you while promising none, yet he held you so tightly, kept you so close, you felt as though you might shatter once he released you back into a world without his embrace.

You were unsure how long you had allowed yourself to be lost in Anthony before your stitches had been finished, the gentle tone of his voice bidding the old man goodbye summoning you back to your bedroom as you felt a flustered blush creep over your cheeks, gentle eyes looking down at you to ensure that you were in fact alright.

“I should apologize to your siblings,” you noted, daringly leaning further into him as he laughed softly, moving his hands to accommodate your shifting body as one arm cradled your back to keep you against his chest while the other dragged nimble fingers over the cloth that hid your closed wound. “I fear I may have acted fairly out of character.”

“You have,” he agreed and raised a brow when you avoided his gaze, looking down at your own hands as they laid in your lap. “Though, I do not believe any harm was done. In fact, now that my mind has cleared of worry, I can appreciate the terror on their faces upon my arrival.”

“You were worried about me?”

“Terribly. I cannot say that I remember ever experiencing worry quite like it,” he admitted and you felt your fingers entwining with his, you half expected him to pull away, return to the man you had known in the months after your wedding, the one who insisted on boundaries and distance, the one who insisted on pretending he was cold when he was truly just a man terrified to allow love into his life when it could so easily be stolen from him. “If I had any say in the matter, I would wish not to experience it again.”

“I am sorry for worrying you,” you nearly whispered, and he shook his head, smiling down at you as he regained your attention. “I did not know that Benedict had sent for you until I saw you standing at the door, and at the time I was far too relieved to see you to think of anything else.”

“You need not apologize, my love, is it not a husband’s duty to worry about his wife?” he teased, and it was though he achieved something marvelous when a smile sifted onto your lips as well, he knew he had matters to tend to, the day still long as he took note of tasks left abandoned when he came here, though he could not bring himself to leave you after the little ordeal. “How would you like to accompany me to some meetings in town?” he asked before he could stop himself and your face flooded with shock. “I am to finish up for the day and it would give me much more peace of mind if you were with me.”

“I would love to,” you squealed, knowing you ought to be hiding your excitement at such a simple request, but your moments together had left you drowning in greed, you would delight in whatever opportunity that held his presence as a promise. “I shall change first,” you giggled, smiling at him before he guided you out of his arms and onto the floor, watching you as you padded towards the bathroom.

“How fair the wounded bird?” Benedict teased as he stilled in the doorway, leaned up against the doorframe as he took a bite from his apple, brow raised at his brother who looked only at the closed door you had just disappeared into. “Anthony?”

“Something horrible is happening, Benedict,” he breathed, shaking his head as he met his brother’s gaze. “I believe that I am falling in love with my wife.”

all fandoms: @scandalous-chaos @the-blue-forest

bridgerton: @mirclealignr @saintlike78 @wrathspoet @esposamultifandom @murdockcastleslut @littlsstuff @golden-hoax @joline12829

other: @sarahisslytherin @leydileyla

[deliontower]

a love like this | a.b

pairing: anthony bridgerton x reader (gn)

summary: Anthony has a nightmare and the reader comfort him

warnings; mostly fluff, some angst, small mention of injury and that’s it I think

word count: 808

a/n: my schedule has finally cleared so I’m working through my request! Edited but might have missed something.

request: would you be up for an Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader imagine where he keeps tossing and turning on the bed and he can’t sleep and he’s afraid that the reader would wake up because of him so he goes to his study and tries to sleep there. but the reader then wakes up and finds anthony sweating because of a nightmare in the couch of the study room so she cuddles him to sleep and when anthony wakes up, he sees the reader falls asleep spooning him, he realizes that he finds comfort in the touch and breathing her scent.

MAIN MASTERLIST | REQUEST OPEN

Most people would say that Anthony Bridgerton needed no one. Maybe not even his family and if the lady whistledown was to be believed. He was a rake through and through.

Which is why everyone was so shocked when word came of his engagement, even more so when his wedding day actually came. Everyone thought it would only be a matter of time before you came to your senses and called off the wedding.

The people of town said the title must be worth it, that maybe it was a marriage of economic proposition, a business deal pure and simple.

Maybe sometime in the start of your and Anthony’s coruship you thought that too, but you wondered what he could want from you? He had enough money, enough influence and honestly he could have anyone he wanted, but he picked you.

Now though you knew his feelings were true. He would always dance with you at parties, he would always make time for you, eat one meal a day with you and every night before you slept he would kiss your hairline and inhale.

You were happy and you hoped he was happy too.

After a long day Antony loved nothing more than climbing into bed, and watching you undress. Not even in a lustful way. It was amazing to him just how much work went into your day.

Your shy smile as you settled down next to him. While he looked through the last papers of the day you would read something, offered the latest lady whistledown, laughing at the odd line then nudging him and to tell tell him the line through a string of giggles.

Though he doesn’t get it the way you did he always graced you with a dry laugh and smile. He knew it was enough because you would sigh constantly and lean into him.

There was nothing Antony hated more than trying to sleep. It was something he had always struggled with, the room was either too warm or too cold, the bed too hard or too soft, something was always wrong.

He sat up defeated looking down to your peaceful sleeping face. Not wanting to disturb your sleep he took his dressing gown and headed to his study.

The sun had barely risen when you woke up with a feeling something was wrong, reaching out to Anthony’s side of the bed the feeling got worse. The dim light coming from the fire gave you a view of the whole room, where your husband was nowhere to be found.

After wasting four matches you finally lit a candle and went searching for Anthony. Aware the rest of the family were all fast asleep you walked as quietly as you could.

The door to Anthony study was open just a crack, you were just going to walk past but stopped hearing something.

Pushing the door open, stand in the doorway only with the small candle to light your line of sight.

“My love” you called out.

You heard what sounded like a muffed cry, with one last look behind you, you walked into the room. Holding the candle high above you to get a better view, turning on the spot to get the best look.

You nearly dropped the candle seeing Anthony curled up on the small sofa. “My love” you cried rushing over to him, you softly nelt on the floor before him, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead.

“What happened?” You asked worriedly.

His breathing was too heavy which made you worry more, you were halfway to your feet about to call for a doctor when Anthony reached out of your waist.

“Please don’t leave me” he managed to get out through wobbly breaths.

“I’m not going anywhere” you nodded, sitting down beside him. “Just breathe for me love ''.

He did as you ask, with a little time.

You moved him so you were both lying down. Most of his weight was on you but after shifting around you didn’t mind. As you played with his hair you repeated that you were there and wouldn’t be leaving. He was fast asleep, relaxed and you felt confident enough to sleep yourself.

Giggling woke Anthony hours later, annoyed he looked to the door just in time to see two figures run away, he scoffed lying back down only to be confused by the hard surfaces on your shoulder. That’s when he remembered the night before, the sleepless night, the nightmare that followed when he had got some sleep and then you appeared like an angel in the doorway, holding him until his demons left.

He sat up feeling oddly rested, smiling seeing you still asleep.

Most people would say that Anthony Bridgerton needed no one. That wasn't true, he needed you. And as long as he had you he could live.

[heloisedaphnebrightmore]

Good enough for you [Anthony Bridgerton x Reader]

Title: Good enough for you Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Female!Reader Word count: 1.8k Published: 11 October 2021 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Summary: Anthony has been acting as if he was your personal royal guard, not letting even one gentleman near you. Once Benedict joins you and teasingly steals you away, Anthony shows you another side of him.

Bridgerton Masterlist | Masterlists

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The sweet melody ushered gentlemen to look for a suitable dance partner, their gazes roaming across the room to find those who shined the brightest. The ballroom was lit by dim, warm lights, diamonds sparkling vividly on each young ladies' tiaras, catching the young men's eyes. But for you, it seemed no one was good enough. Or rather the oldest Bridgerton brother thought so, which to your surprise didn't bother your papa and mama. Not in the slightest.

"Anthony, should you keep glaring at those fine gentlemen, I shall never find a suitable husband." Your scolding words left you in a silent chuckle, knowing you could never truly be upset with him. Not with him. Not with all those feelings you've been secretly harbouring for the eldest Bridgerton brother. As though he was oblivious, he never realised your eyes shamelessly staring at him, nor did he acknowledge the not-so-subtle teasing Benedict enjoyed riling him up with.

"They aren't good enough for you," his tone was barely beyond an irate grunt, his moodiness earning a light giggle from you.

"Who shall be good enough for me then?" You asked with an arched brow, a playful smirk attempting to reveal itself in the corner of your lips.

"Certainly not this bunch," he huffed, his gaze studying the room as he stood beside you with the air of a royal guard surrounding him, protecting your innocence at all costs.

"May I?" A deep baritone voice called for you, the familiarity immediately catching your attention.

"Benedict," you squealed in excitement. Benedict was a brother that you wished to have but weren't so lucky to get. Instead, you settled for a best friend in him. "Please," your voice was a plea that Anthony didn't miss noticing. "Your brother bores me with his brooding," you chuckled as you looked at Benedict's older brother, wearing a sceptical look across his face.

"I'm merely trying to protect you," he added.

"Should you keep protecting me any longer, I'll end up as a splinter, Anthony," you huffed, rolling your eyes, all mannerism thrown out the window.

"Then you shall be a splinter," he shrugged in a child-like manner, earning a loud scoff from you. No amount of reasoning could change Anthony's mind at times.

"You can't possibly believe that," you raised your voice slightly, bewildered by his nonchalance.

"As I have already told you before, they aren't good enough for you," he replied, eyes still studying the people dancing around the centre of the room.

"I appreciate your concern, Anthony," you started, your voice wearing a more solemn tone, "but I shall never find a gentleman should you protect me from the wind itself," you arched a brow, daring him to oppose. But instead of a reply, Benedict's wholehearted laughter rang in your ear, earning your complete attention.

"Might I suggest you reconsider my dear brother's intentions?" Benedict asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Brows narrowing, you watched him, and Anthony participate in a staring contest, clearly none of them winning the gentlemanly battle.

"Should I understand?" You asked, interrupting their silent argument, possibly one that only siblings could encode.

"He means nothing," Anthony added, his stern gaze still attached to his brother's. However, Benedict didn't seem fazed, rather looked as though he enjoyed Anthony's glare.

"Then you shouldn't be concerned with your dear brother stealing this beautiful lady from you," he chuckled triumphantly and even though you focused all your attention on the pair, you found it hard to understand what underlying meaning their words had.

Instead of letting those mighty gears work in the deepest part of your mind, you waited for Benedict to scribble his name on your dance card, before taking his hand, and offering a sweet smile to Anthony, his expression softening at the sight.

Benedict didn't only steal one, but two dances from you. He made you laugh and accidentally step on his shoes, but it seemed to make the already easy air around you even more comfortable. You loved the boy and sometimes wished to have him as a brother, but once Anthony's face appeared in your memory you quickly swatted those thoughts away.

Though having Benedict as a brother would have made your days tremendously brighter and livelier, the thought of not being able to have Anthony even in your wildest of dreams made your heart sting. For as long as you could remember, Antony looked at you like a little sister, protecting you from your own reflection if needed, and you hated every moment of him looking at you as a mere obligation and not a woman who could possibly make him the happiest man alive. But at least it gave you an opportunity to stay beside him, however hopeless your situation seemed to be.

Benedict twirled you around the dance floor with a wide grin plastered across his face. As soon as the music stopped, however, Anthony strutted up to you with a scowl on his face. You offered him a questioning look, but he simply reached for your hand and gently dragged you after him, across multiple corridors, some dimmer, some lighter.

"Are you trying to cause a scene?" You huffed as you watched his broad shoulders stiffen, but he didn't halt his steps. "Anthony?" His name seemed to do the trick as he looked over his shoulder, meeting your gaze for a mere second, before he turned away again. "Anthony!" You called more sternly, but he only hurried his steps in a response.

Once you reached the garden, only luminated by the dim light of the moon, you pulled your hand out of his hold. He didn't look at you, didn't even turn to you. No possible explanation could make you understand what was going on in his head, but you didn't miss to realise that something was off about him. The one person who protected your innocence and cared more about your reputation than anyone, almost caused a scene for a reason unknown to you.

"You can't possibly stay quiet for the rest of the night. You must speak to me at one point, Anthony," you spoke up after a moment of silence, voice laced with anger, covered with frustration. But the eldest Bridgerton brother stayed silent, not even his breathing audible. "Fine, I shall take my leave then," you huffed, irritated by his behaviour, and turned around.

"You were becoming rather comfortable with Benedict," he said at last, your steps halting instantly, eyes narrowing as you turned around.

"Benedict is a dear friend of mine and your brother. I don't see why it must concern you," you tilted your head, still facing his back, but you didn't miss the heavy sigh that left his lungs.

"I love my brother, but he isn't good enough for you," he shook his head, voice heavier with each word.

"Then who shall be good enough for me?" You asked, throwing your hands in the air. "Frankly, I'm starting to believe your way of saying no one is good enough for me simply means I'm not good enough for anyone." The pain that laced each word that left your lips made Anthony swirl around. His eyes widened as though he was surprised to hear you say those words. "Don't you dare look at me like that," you hissed through gritted teeth. "What do you expect of me, Anthony? Should you think I'm not worth being courted then say it. Be honest and own up to your opinion," you spat in anger as a silvery layer began coating your eyes, blurring your vision.

"That is not what I meant," he shook his head, closing the distance between you in an instance, cupping your cheeks to comfort you. The swipe of his thumb coated with your tears that seemed to escape down your cheeks made you shiver. Your heart thundered heavily at the feel of his touch, but you attempted to ignore the effects he had on you.

"Then why are you doing this to me?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but Anthony could hear you just fine.

"Because— you deserve more. You deserve someone better. Someone who sees how beautiful you are inside and out. Someone who can appreciate your silliness as much as that smart little head of yours." Anthony's voice shook as he pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes closing, inhaling your sweet scent. "Someone who doesn't just look at you as a suitable wife, but a lifelong partner to be cherished and adored every second of every day." Noone could prepare you for his words, the genuine care and love he harboured for you. The heavy thudding of your heart in your rib cage quickened and weight settled in the pit of your stomach as you realised all this time it was Anthony who deemed himself unworthy of you.

"You are more than good enough for me, Anthony," you breathed as you cupped his face and lifted his gaze to yours, his eyes opening and growing wide in surprise. "You are what I want. But it doesn't matter how much I want you, should you keep me close to you but never close enough for me to reach you."

"You— you want me?" He asked, his usual confidence unseen, uncertainty settling deep inside his bones.

"I have wanted you for years, but you are a blind fool," you chuckled as tears collected in your eyes again accompanied by a gentle smile. "Must I say it for you to realise how much I love you? I have made it beyond obvious, Anthony and still, you could not see it." His lips curved into a tiny smile as you rose on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. He was stunned for a mere second, forgetting to return the gesture, but once he awoke from his daze, he wrapped his arm around your waist, his other hand digging into your hair on the back of your neck, messing up the beautiful hairdo. But you couldn't care whether you looked dishevelled or inappropriate. The man you have been longing for held you securely in his arms, wrapped around you as if he never intended letting you go again. But air seemed to do the trick to force Anthony to part your lips but didn't let you back away from him.

"I meant it!" He said with a stern tone as though he was making a promise. "I want to cherish you and adore you every second of every day." The fiery glint in his gaze told you enough to take his words as an oath he never wished to break.

"And I wish to prove that you are more than enough for me," you replied, sealing the promise in an alluring kiss as you basked in each other's embrace, before you were to return to the ballroom and Anthony was to collect your papa with what you imagined to be a wide grin across his face, proudly accepting Anthony's proposal. After all, it made sense why your mama and papa didn't seem bothered by the eldest Bridgerton brother guarding you if they saw what the two of you needed years to finally acknowledge.

Notes: If you enjoyed reading this little piece, please don’t forget to leave a like, comment and/or reblog. Your opinion matters and gives us motivation. Thank you ^^

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Taglists are in reblog.

[blakeswritingimagines]

KINK LIST With Anthony Bridgerton

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Anthony takes the aftercare extremely seriously, almost more than the sex itself. He’s always attentive and sweet, making sure you're comfortable and that your needs are taken care of. He’ll often bring you a glass of water and a snack afterward. If you want to cuddle, he’s more than open, enjoying this part just as much as the sex. He loves making sure his partner is content and well cared for.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For himself, Anthony's favorite part of his body is probably his chest, specifically his broad, muscular shoulders and chest. He works hard to maintain his physique and takes pride in his physical strength. He loves when his partner touches and worships his body, especially his chest.

As for his partner, he loves every part of your body, but he particularly enjoys your curves. He appreciates the way you look and feel and takes pleasure in exploring and touching every inch of your body.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

On your stomach - whether it's right below your belly button or lower down towards your pelvis, there's something so visceral about cumming on someone's tummy. It feels primal and instinctual.

On your thighs - He loves to shoot his load onto your legs, particularly your thighs. It feels like he's marking you as his and showing everyone that you belong to him.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

One of Anthony's dirty little secrets is his deep-seated praise kink. He loves it when you whisper sweet compliments and praise into his ear during intimate moments. It makes him feel desired and appreciated, and he often finds himself getting more excited in response. Despite his confident and usually dominant persona, he craves validation and reassurance from you.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Anthony has extensive experience in the bedroom, and he knows what he's doing. He's been with many women before you, and he's confident in his abilities to make you feel good. He's attentive to your needs and knows how to use his body and hands to bring you pleasure. He's definitely not timid or shy when it comes to physical intimacy and knows exactly how to please his partner.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Anthony's favorite position is missionary. He loves being able to look into your eyes and see the pleasure on your face. He's also able to kiss your neck and mouth easily, and he enjoys the feeling of being in control and dominant. However, he's open to trying new positions and exploring different ways of pleasing his partner.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Anthony can be quite serious and intense during intimate moments, focused on giving and receiving pleasure to his partner. However, he can also be lighthearted and humorous, often cracking jokes to make you laugh. He has a dry sense of humor and a playful side that usually comes out when he’s comfortable and relaxed. Overall, he strikes a balance between being serious and being fun.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Anthony is meticulously groomed and well-kept. He takes pride in his appearance and ensures that his hair is always styled neatly and trimmed. He also grooms his private area regularly to keep it tidy and presentable. His hair is dark brown and neatly styled, and everything matches down below as well.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Anthony is intimately romantic during intimate moments. He's passionate and intense, yet often also gentle and tender. He loves to shower you with kisses and touch you gently, making sure you know just how much he desires you. Sometimes, he likes to be slow and sensual, and other times he likes to be rough and passionate. Either way, he's always focused on making the experience as enjoyable as possible for both himself and his partner.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Anthony has a healthy attitude towards masturbation and understands it as a normal part of life. He doesn't do it often, as he's usually got a revolving door of dates to keep him occupied, but he occasionally indulges when he needs release and doesn't have a partner. He's not ashamed of his desires and finds pleasure in it, though he prefers sharing that pleasure with a partner.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Anthony is into a wide range of kinks, including bondage, control, and domination. He typically prefers to be the dominant one in the relationship, and he loves using restraints and other toys to assert his control. He also enjoys role-playing and exploring different power exchange dynamics with his partner.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Anthony is not picky when it comes to location. He's not afraid to have a sneaky liaison in a more daring or public setting, such as a secluded spot in a garden or a hidden nook in an old castle. But he also loves the comfort and intimacy of a bed or a couch, where he can take his time and fully focus on his partner. He also enjoys the excitement and novelty of a fancy hotel room or a weekend getaway.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Anthony is aroused by a multitude of things. He loves the sight of you in lace or other sexy lingerie. He also finds it stimulating when you touch and caress him in subtle, unexpected ways. He’s turned on by the sound of your moans and gasps of pleasure, and he’s especially attracted to a confident and assertive demeanor in the bedroom.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Anthony has boundaries and limits, and he respects your boundaries as well. He’s not interested in anything that would cause harm or discomfort to himself or his partner. Some of his hard limits include non-consent, violence, and degradation. He prefers intimate encounters to focus on mutual pleasure and respect, with each partner feeling valued and respected throughout the experience.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He's a fan of both giving and receiving. There's something about that warm, wet feeling of someone else's mouth around his dick, it's like nothing else. But he also enjoys pleasuring others. The taste of your arousal, the way you squirm beneath him. It's all part of the thrill. As for skills, I'd say he's pretty damn good at what he does. He can make you moan, make you beg, make you cum so hard your knees buckle. And if you're into it, I might even let you return the favor.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Anthony likes to switch up the pace depending on his mood and your desires. He can be gentle and sensual, taking his time to explore and savor every moment, or he can be fast and rough, driven by passion and need. He's pretty good at reading your signals and matching his intensity to what you respond most to.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Anthony doesn't mind a quickie now and then, but he generally prefers a longer, more intimate session rather than a rushed exchange. He thinks of intimacy as something to be savored and enjoyed, and he likes taking his time to build up the anticipation and make sure both partners are satisfied. He's not opposed to a quick romp in a pinch, but given the choice, he'd choose to draw out the pleasure and make it an extended, passionate encounter.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Anthony has a healthy attitude towards risk in the bedroom. He's open to trying new things and exploring new desires with his partner. He's also aware of his limits and those that you'll have, and he's always respectful and communicative when exploring something new. He's willing to take calculated risks to enhance the experience and bring you pleasure, as long as safety is paramount.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Anthony has good stamina and endurance, particularly for a man his age. He can go several rounds in a night if needed, with adequate rest periods between. He also has a good level of self-control and is able to hold back his climax until he and his partner are both satisfied. He rarely has issues with premature ejaculation, and he's usually able to maintain his stamina throughout the entire encounter.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Anthony has a collection of toys that he's not afraid to use with his partner. He's particularly fond of restraints, such as handcuffs and ropes, and has a few varieties to choose from. He also has a couple vibrators and other toys that can be used for both his and your pleasure. He's open-minded about using toys and views them as a normal part of intimate play.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Anthony loves to tease you. He finds perverse pleasure in building up anticipation and making you crave more. He loves to withhold satisfaction and deny you release until he's ready to give it to you. He may edge you, stop just as you're about to reach climax, or whisper naughty promises in your ear, knowing full well you can't have what you want just yet. He's pretty good at anticipating your needs and knows just how far he can push you before you break.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Anthony can be quite vocal in bed. He's not afraid to let out a moan or cry of pleasure when he's feeling good. He's also known to mutter the occasional praise or filthy words to his partner. However, he doesn't get too loud if you're in a public place or somewhere where you could easily be overheard. He's also a bit of a fan of dirty talk, particularly when his partner starts to squirm and moan at his words.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Anthony occasionally explores roleplay scenarios with his partner. He finds it interesting to try different characters and play out different scenarios, such as a doctor-patient or a boss-secretary dynamic. He also likes to use toys like blindfolds and feathers during these scenarios to heighten the sensation of being in character.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His cock is 8 inches long, thick, and always hard. It has a vein running along the top of it that throbs when he gets aroused.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Anthony has a high sex drive and is often easily aroused. He's rarely without a partner, and he usually doesn't go more than a few days without a release. His mind is constantly filled with thoughts of pleasure and the desire to touch and be touched, and he often daydreams about sexual encounters during the day, even if he's not actively pursuing someone.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Anthony can fall asleep quickly after sex if he's tired enough, but he usually doesn't pass out immediately. He takes a few minutes to catch his breath and come down from the high of the encounter before he drifts off. He also enjoys lying in bed with his partner, holding you close, and feeling your body relax next to him.

[chaxan08]

British Titles

I usually don't share posts of this type, but I've taken the liberty of doing so because I've read several fanfics and seen too many posts both here and on TikTok, in which it's more than evident that many people don't know how British noble titles worked in the 18th and 19th century. This is something I've seen more in the Bridgerton fandom, but many content creators or writers from other fandoms have made the same mistakes when interpreting noble titles.

First of all, I would like to clarify something. English and British noble titles are not exactly the same, although they are related. The following explains the difference and the historical context:

Historical Context.

England:

Before the formation of the United Kingdom, England had its own system of noble titles.

Titles such as duke, marquess, earl, viscount, and baron were common.

2. Great Britain:

In 1707, with the Act of Union, England and Scotland united to form the Kingdom of Great Britain.

After this union, noble titles became titles of the Kingdom of Great Britain.

3. United Kingdom:

In 1801, with the incorporation of Ireland through the Act of Union, the Kingdom of Great Britain became the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

This further expanded the scope of noble titles.

Noble Titles.

Despite these political changes, the titles themselves (duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baron) remained consistent in terms of hierarchy and honor. The main difference was the realm and origin of the title:

English Titles:

Referred specifically to those created in the Kingdom of England before 1707.

Examples: Duke of Norfolk, Marquess of Winchester, Earl of Derby.

2. British Titles:

Refers to those created after 1707 in the Kingdom of Great Britain and later in the United Kingdom.

Examples: Duke of Marlborough, Marquess of Rockingham, Earl of Chatham.

Differences and Similarities.

Similarities:

The hierarchy and responsibilities of the titles remained the same, regardless of the change in the kingdom's designation.

Titles granted by the British crown maintained the same forms of address and privileges.

2. Differences:

British titles cover a broader scope, including Scotland and Ireland (later Northern Ireland).

English titles were specific to the Kingdom of England before the formation of Great Britain.

In short, while English and British noble titles are part of the same hierarchy and nobility system, the main distinction lies in the political and historical context in which they were created. During the 18th and 19th centuries, this difference was based on whether the titles originated before or after the unions that first formed Great Britain and later the United Kingdom.

Now then, with that said, I want to mention that my main reference for this is the article 'ENGLISH TITLES IN THE 18TH AND 19TH CENTURIES' by Jo Beverley, who is a Member of the RWA Hall of Fame for Regency Romance. Here is the link if you want to read the original article: On Titles (jobev.com)

It is also important to mention that, as Jo Beverley said, this brief run-down of English titles is for use by fiction writers. It is by no means comprehensive, but covers the more common situations arising in novels set in the above periods.

Now, the peerage basically runs according to primogeniture, ie the eldest son gets nearly everything. If a peer has no eldest son, the title and possessions that belong to it go to the next male heir, probably a brother or nephew.

There are a very few titles that can pass to a female if there is no direct heir, but they will revert to the male line when the lady bears a son. (Such as the monarchy.) Some titles can automatically pass through a female heir (when there is no male heir) and most can be revived by subsequent generations by petitioning to the Crown. But that's getting into more complicated areas. If your plot depends on something unusual, please do research it thoroughly before going ahead.

As Beverley said, this is a bit more complicated and requires further research if it's something you wish to incorporate into your work, especially if it's set in the 18th or 19th centuries. In the 20th century, this was more common. A clear example would be Lord Mountbatten (1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma), who had no sons, only two daughters. Therefore, he passed his title to his firstborn, Patricia Knatchbull (née Mountbatten). Thanks to this title, the Countess was entitled to a seat in the House of Lords, where she remained until 1999, when a House of Lords Act removed most hereditary peers from the chamber.

But returning to the main topic, the eldest son is called the heir apparent, as he is undoubtedly the heir. If there is no such son, the next in line is called the heir presumptive because, however improbable (such as the duke being on his deathbed), there remains a possibility of a closer heir being born. Therefore, an heir presumptive does not hold the title of heir, if there is one. (See below about heir's titles.)

If a peer dies leaving a wife but no son, the heir inherits unless the widow says she might be with child. It is for her to do that. If she stays silent, it is assumed that she is not. If she's pregnant, everything waits until the child is born.

These last two paragraphs can be perfectly illustrated by an example that many know. In 'When he was wicked', after the death of John Sterling, Earl of Kilmartin, Michael Sterling is not immediately named as the new Earl upon his cousin's death, as Francesca announces her pregnancy. But since she had a miscarriage, there was no longer a possible heir to the late Earl of Kilmartin, and therefore, the title is immediately inherited by Michael.

Continuing with the main topic, an heir must be legitimate at birth to inherit a title, though that could mean a marriage ceremony performed while the mother is in labor. A peer may raise bastards with devotion and/or marry the mother later, but a bastard child can never be his legal heir.

It's also crucial to mention that peers automatically had seats in the House of Lords. Note, however, that courtesy titles (those held by heirs) do not give seats, or any of the other privileges of the peerage.

Something else that is highly important to clarify, as confusion is quite common, is that most peers do not use their surnames as their title. Thus, the usual pattern would be something like Sebastian Burgoyne, Earl of Malzard. He is Lord Malzard NEVER Lord Burgoyne. (Or, for that matter, Lord Sebastian.) As an author, you might like variety, but take as a general rule is that no one ever had two forms of address.

THE RANKS OF THE PEERAGE

Duke.

Leaving aside royalty, this is the highest rank. His wife is the Duchess. They will be duke and duchess of something.

If we use the famous main couple from Bridgerton Season 1, the example would be: Duke and Duchess of Hastings. Address is "Your Grace", though familiars may address them just as Duke and Duchess. Like, "Fine weather for shooting, eh, Duke?" or may address the duke by title. "Care for more port, Hastings?"

The duke will also have a family name, that is, a surname, but he will not use it in the normal course of events. And something crucial that is also commonly confused, the duchess does NOT use the surname at all. Continuing with the same example, if Daphne Bridgerton marries the Duke of Hastings (whose surname is Basset), she will be the Duchess of Hastings and will informally sign as Daphne Hastings, NEVER as Daphne Basset.

The duke's eldest son is his heir and will have his father's second-best title as his courtesy title. Nearly all peers have a number of titles marking their climb up the ranks. The heir to a duke is often the next lowest ranking peer, a marquess, but the title could, however, be an earldom, or even a viscountcy. For example, the eldest son of Daphne and Simon, the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, holds the courtesy title that his father had when the Late Duke of Hastings was still alive: Earl of Clyvedon.

Important note, a courtesy title does not give the holder a seat in the House of Lords or other privileges of the peerage.

If the heir has a son before the heir becomes duke, that son will take the next lowest title as a courtesy title. If the heir dies before his father, his eldest son becomes the heir apparent and takes his father's title.

Apart from the heir, a duke's sons are given the courtesy title Lord with their Christian name. (Lord + firstname + surname). Continuing with the example of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, assuming that like in the book, they also have David and Edward in the series, their courtesy titles would be: Lord David Basset and Lord Edward Basset. They are NEVER Lord Basset or Lord David Hastings and Lord Edward Hastings.

All duke's daughters are given the courtesy title (Lady + firstname + surname). And continuing with the same example, the daughters of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, Belinda and Caroline, would be: Lady Belinda Basset and Lady Caroline Basset. Also, they are NEVER Lady Basset or Lady Belinda Hastings and Lady Caroline Hastings.

And also, if they marry a commoner, they retain the title. Let's say Lady Belinda marries Mr. Sticklethwait, she becomes Lady Belinda Sticklethwait. But if she marries a peer, she adopts his title. If Lady Belinda marries the Earl of Herrick, she becomes Countess of Herrick, Lady Herrick. And if she marries the holder of a courtesy title, then she may use his title or her birth title as she wishes.

I make this clarification because it's the most common mistake in these types of novels. Note that in all cases, titles like Lord or Lady with both first and surname (eg. Lady Anne Middleton) and Lord or Lady "last name" or "title" (Lady Middleton) are exclusive. No one can be both at the same time. Moreover, Lord or Lady "firstname" is a title conferred at birth. It CANNOT be gained later in life except when the father accedes to a title and thus raises his family.

So, Lady Mary Smith is not Lady Smith and vice versa. Lord John Brown in not Lord Brown and vice versa. If Mary Smith marries Lord Brown she becomes Lady Brown, NOT Lady Mary. (If she marries Lord John Brown, she becomes Lady John Brown. Yes, it may sound odd to modern ears, but the past is, as they say, a different country. That's the charm of historical fiction.)

Marquess.

This is the next rank. (As above, it can be spelled marquis or marquess, but in either case is pronounced markwess.)

Similar to the duke, he will be the Marquess of something, for example: He is Richard Byron, the Marquess of Salisbury, or Lord Salisbury, or simply Salisbury to his family. His wife is the Marchioness of Salisbury or Lady Salisbury. She would sign with her firstname and title, for example: Diana Salisbury, NEVER Diana Byron.

His heir apparent takes his next highest title as a courtesy title (eg. Earl of Cranborne). All other sons have the title of Lord with their first and surname (eg. Lord Arthur Byron and Lord Albert Byron, NEVER Lord Byron or Lord Arthur Salisbury and Lord Albert Salisbury). All daughters have the title of Lady with their first and surname (eg. Lady Alexandra Byron and Lady Amelia Byron, NEVER Lady Byron or Lady Alexandra Salisbury and Lady Amelia Salisbury).

Earl.

He will nearly always be earl of something. His wife is the Countess. If we take another famous couple from Bridgerton, they would refer to him as "the Earl of Kilmartin" or "Lord Kilmartin," or simply "Kilmartin" among family. His wife will be the Countess of Kilmartin or Lady Kilmartin, and she will sign as Francesca Kilmartin. In the same way as with the wife of a duke or marquess, considering that the Earl of Kilmartin is named John Stirling, Francesca will NEVER be called Francesca Stirling. That's why in the series, when she introduces herself to Michaela, she says that her name is now Kilmartin and NOT Stirling.

It's important to mention that some Earls do not use 'of' like Earl Spencer, and in that case, the family surname is the same as the title (following the previous example, the surname would be Spencer), but this is quite unusual and I think it should be avoided in fiction unless it's a crucial plot point.

As with a duke or marquess, the earl's heir will take the next lowest title as a courtesy title, and the heir's son, the next again. Continuing with the example of the Kilmartins, it's not very clear what the courtesy title for John Sterling II (son of Francesca and Michael in the books) is, but if Michael Sterling is the Earl of Kilmartin and has a subsidiary title of Viscount, then their eldest son, John Sterling II, would use the courtesy title of Viscount Glenmore or Lord Glenmore. If there is no specific subsidiary title, then the eldest son would simply be known as Lord John Stirling.

All the daughters of an earl are given the courtesy title: Lady + their first name. Again, using the Kilmartins as an example: Lady Janet Stirling and NEVER Lady Janet Kilmartin. Younger sons of an earl, however, are merely "The Honorable" which is not used in casual speech. So, assuming in the books Michael and Francesca had another son, for example, Michael Stirling II, he would simply be The Honorable Michael Stirling, but in casual speech, he would simply be referred to as Mr. Michael Stirling or just Mr. Stirling.

Viscount.

His wife is a Viscountess. He will not use 'of'. He will be, for example, Viscount Bridgerton, usually known as Lord Bridgerton, or just Bridgerton. His wife will be known as Lady Bridgerton and will sign herself Kathani Bridgerton.

His heir has no special title. All children are known as "The Honorable". Continuing with the example of the Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton, their children would be called:

*The Honorable Edmund Bridgerton, and simply be referred to as Mr. Edmund Bridgerton.

*The Honorable Miles Bridgerton, and simply be referred to as Mr. Miles Bridgerton.

*The Honorable Charlotte Bridgerton, and simply be referred to as Miss Charlotte Bridgerton.

*The Honorable Mary Bridgerton, and simply be referred to as Miss Mary Bridgerton.

Baron.

This is the lowest rank in the peerage. His wife is a Baroness. NOTE that the terms baron and baroness are only used in the most formal documents, or when the distinction has to be made elsewhere. General usage is simply to call them Lord and Lady.

She will sign with her name and title. The children are known as "The Honorable".

Using another character from Bridgerton, if we assume that Colin and Penelope Bridgerton's son is named Elliot, then Elliot Bridgerton, the new Lord Featherington, would sign as Lord Featherington and NEVER as Lord Bridgerton. Therefore, his wife would also sign with his title, that is, Featherington. For example, if the wife's name is Elizabeth, then she would be Lady Featherington and would sign as Elizabeth Featherington, and NEVER as Elizabeth Bridgerton or Lady Bridgerton.

Baronet.

The next in the ranking—and not of the nobility—is Baronet. A baronet is addressed as Sir + first name + surname. For example, using another couple from the Bridgerton universe, Sir Phillip Crane. His wife would be called Lady + surname. For example, Lady Crane and not Lady Eloise Crane unless she is the daughter of a duke, marquess, or earl (which is not the case). She would sign with her full name, as Eloise Crane.

His children have no special distinction. However, the title is inheritable. So, continuing to use Sir Phillip as a reference, when he dies, his baronetcy will pass to his eldest son Oliver, who will then be called Sir Oliver.

It's worth mention that although in the series Oliver is NOT Sir Phillip's biological son, he still married Marina before the birth of the twins and acknowledged them both as his own, so the baronetcy title will pass without any issue to Oliver. In the event that he did not acknowledge them as his children or that Sir Phillip and Marina married after the birth of the twins, then the title of Sir Phillip would pass to his next legitimate son, Frederick (son of Sir Phillip and Eloise in the books).

Knight.

A knight is essentially treated the same as a baronet, but with the difference that it is a lifetime title only. His wife will be Lady + surname.

OTHER MATTERS

Dowagers

When a titled lady is widowed she becomes a dowager, but the practice has generally been not to use that title until the heir takes a wife, since there can be confusion about who the true Lady Bridgerton is, for example.

And even if she has a daughter-in-law, in general usage she would still be referred to by the simple title unless there was likely to be confusion. So, if the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton was at a house party while her daughter-in-law was in London, people would not be constantly referring to her as the Dowager Viscountess.

Female titles in their own right

There are a few, very few, titles that can pass to a daughter if there is no son, as in the Royal Family, for example. In this case, the usage is the same as if they were the wife of a peer of that rank, but their husband gains NO title from the marriage, just as the Duke of Edinburgh was not king.

A Peeress in her Own Right retains her title after marriage, and if her husband's rank is the superior one, she is designated by the two titles jointly, the inferior one last. Or she can say what form she wants to use. (eg The Marchioness of Rothgar is also the Countess of Arradale by right. She chooses to be Lady Rothgar and Arradale in the most formal situations, Lady Rothgar in general, but Lady Arradale in private, especially when attending to her duties as Countess of Arradale. Unusual situations do tend to get complicated.) Her hereditary claim to her title holds good in spite of any marriage, and will be passed on.

Since the husband gains no title from such a marriage, it's possible to have the Countess of Arbuthnot married to Mr. Smith.

Her eldest son will be her heir and take her next lowest title. If she has no son, her eldest daughter will be her heir, but until she becomes the peer she will hold only the title that comes from her birth — eg. Lady Anne — if any, because an eldest daughter is always an heir presumptive. There might still be a boy.

The most common errors observed in novels:

Interchanging courtesy titles like Lady Mary Smith and Lady Smith.

Interchanging peerage titles, as when Michael Downs, Earl of Rosebury is variously known as Lord Rosebury, Lord Downs, and Lord Michael Downs.

Applying titles that don't belong, as when Jane Potts marries Viscount Twistleton and erroneously becomes Lady Jane, a title form that can only come by birth.

Having the widow of just about anyone, but especially a peer, remarry before time has elapsed to be sure she is not bearing a child. Or rather, whose child it is that she bears!

Having the heir presumptive assume the title and powers before the widow has made it clear that she's not going to produce an heir.

Having an adopted son inherit a title. Legal adoption was not possible in England until the twentieth century, and even now an adopted son cannot inherit a title. Even if the son is clearly the father's offspring, if he wasn't born after a legal marriage, he cannot inherit the father's title. However, since they didn't have DNA testing, a child was assumed to be legitimate unless the father denied it from the first. Even if the son turns out to look suspiciously like the vicar, the father cannot deny him later. This, I assume was to avoid the chaos of peers coming up with all sorts of excuses to switch heirs on a whim.

Having a title left in a will, which follows from the above. A title cannot be willed to whomever the peer in question chooses. It goes according to the original letters patent, which almost always say that it will go to the oldest legitimate male in direct descent. The property can be left elsewhere, unless it is entailed, but the title goes by legitimate blood.

Having an heiress (ie a daughter without brothers) inherit a title and convey it to her husband. It could be done — anything could — by special decree of the Crown, but it was not at all normal.

Now, when you've arrived at the title you want to give your character, perform an internet search to see if it exists. You can also check The Peerage or do an advanced search on Google Books. You wouldn't want to give your fictional character a title that was already in use at that time. Additionally, some readers will be knowledgeable about the real nobility and it could disrupt the fictional reality you're trying to create.

If you really like the title but it already exists or existed, you can modify it while still retaining its appeal. For example, if Lord Amesbury exists, you could create Lord Aymesbury or Lord Embury. If your character's family has been in Suffolk for generations, names of places in Suffolk can provide ideas for names.

I hope this helps, although I'm sure it can be subject to debate and improvement.

[jamilelucato]

The Writer and The Illustrator (Part 03)

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Miss [y/n]

Summary: (Part 01 / Part 02) In the carriage en route to Lady Danbury's ball, tension crackles between Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] and Mr Benedict Bridgerton. Beneath their bickering lies an undeniable attraction that they both need to take care of before it's too late.

Age rating: 18+.

Author’s note: It's the end of age! No, I'm kidding, but it is the end of this story.

To read Anthony’s fic, click here! For other stories, click here.Enjoy

An air of tension hung heavy within the plush confines of the velvety blue carriage.

True to his word, Mr Benedict Bridgerton stood promptly outside the [y/l/n] residence at seven o'clock, resplendent in his finest attire, ready to escort Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] to Lady Danbury's ball. The initial exchange, with Mr [y/l/n]'s presence in the periphery, was pleasant enough—gentlemanly handshakes and cordial smiles exchanged between the men, with Benedict embodying the epitome of a refined gentleman, at least in the eyes of the [y/l/n] household.

But such commendation found little favour with Miss [y/n] [y/l/n].

Seated across from Benedict, [y/n] regarded him with a fiery intensity in her gaze. She couldn't shake the feeling of indignation at Benedict's earlier remarks, his unwitting perpetuation of the sexism she fought against. Who was he, she seethed inwardly, to lecture her on the perils of being a woman author in the 19th century?

[y/n] was well aware of the risks and well acquainted with the challenges she faced as a woman pursuing her literary aspirations. She wouldn't have embarked on this daunting journey if she weren't driven by an unwavering determination to realise her dreams. And yet, Benedict's condescension rankled her—his first foray into illustrating a book hardly qualified him to lecture her on the intricacies of the publishing world. He was a newcomer to her domain, ignorant of the trials she endured.

Still, despite her righteous anger, [y/n] begrudgingly acknowledged Benedict's artistic prowess. She may have bristled at his presumptions, but she couldn't deny his talent as a painter. His not-so-recent exhibition at the Bridgerton house, for the family's closest friends, had been a testament to his skill. Though she had been present under the [y/l/n]'s invitation, Benedict's work ultimately swayed her decision to enlist his talents for her project.

Benedict's voice, though barely above a whisper, resonated within the confines of the carriage, imbued with an unexpected intensity by the close quarters.

"You won't say anything?" he queried, his gaze fixed firmly on [y/n].

She unwaveringly met his gaze, her voice collected as she responded, "And what would you have me say, Mr. Bridgerton?"

A sharp exhale escaped Benedict, frustration seeping into his tone. "Am I now merely 'Mr Bridgerton'? No longer 'Ben'?"

[y/n]'s eyes rolled in exasperation. "Well, forgive me if the current circumstances don't exactly evoke the camaraderie of our long-time friendship," she retorted sharply. "Ben was the amiable fellow who praised my boldness in my talents as he delicately illustrated them. At present, however, it feels like he's nowhere to be found."

That woman threatened to drive him to madness.

Benedict's hand rose instinctively, gripping his own chin firmly as if to silence the words he yearned to express. The action seemed to quell the words on his tongue, preventing him from affirming that he remained the same Ben who marvelled at her talents and considered her utterly unique.

Somehow, Benedict couldn't bring himself to offer [y/n] the praise she might have expected at that moment.

"I have all the illustrations with me in the carriage," he declared, nodding towards the briefcase nestled beside him, unseen until now in the dim light of the carriage. "Before the ball concludes, we shall escape, and I shall escort us directly to your editor."

"Oh, why, Mr Bridgerton!" She exclaimed with exaggerated surprise, her eyes widening playfully. "It appears you've managed to summon your inner gentleman at last. Quite a departure from the sexist pig you were earlier in my library."

She was maddening. Utterly maddening.

For a myriad of reasons, unfortunately.

Benedict wanted to attribute his discomfort solely to her condescension, which tempted him to respond, assert his dominance and put her back in her place. A firm swat on her behind might remind her she must be a pleasant, nice girl.

Heavens! He nearly exclaimed aloud, reining in his thoughts just in time. Benedict found himself entertaining the notion of [y/n]'s posterior, a territory over which he had neither jurisdiction nor entitlement.

Clearing his throat, Benedict offered, "I apologise if that's how it came across. It was never my intention to diminish you because of your gender."

"It wasn't that," she responded, her gaze penetrating his. This time, he noticed, there was no anger in her eyes. [y/n] simply wanted to clarify her perspective. "You said I shouldn't go alone."

"Yes, and I stand by that," Benedict affirmed.

[y/n] paused, realising she needed to elaborate further for him to grasp her viewpoint.

"I understand your concern," she conceded. "But you didn't offer to accompany me. You only criticised me."

Benedict felt a chill run through him at [y/n]'s revelation. He had argued with her under the assumption that his willingness to accompany her was implicit. Not merely because she was a young, unmarried woman venturing into a dangerous part of London at an ungodly hour but because it was their joint endeavour she intended to pursue solo.

Now that he knew her secret identity and understood that this tenth book would not be her last, Benedict was determined to accompany her to the publisher's office on all future occasions. It would be against his principles as a gentleman—principles instilled in him by both his father and mother—to allow a lady to undertake such journeys alone, especially now that he was aware.

Suddenly, he realised, with a softening expression toward [y/n], that he'd be accompanying her to the ends of the earth from then on. He recognised the truth in his revelation. He couldn't envision himself being apart from her.

But the carriage stopped before Benedict could articulate his newfound determination to [y/n] or even offer an apology for any misunderstanding. They had arrived at Lady Danbury's residence.

As [y/n] began to prepare to disembark, ensuring her hairstyle was intact and smoothing her satin skirt, Benedict peered out the window, a heavy groan escaping him.

"No."

Startled, [y/n] looked up from her lap to find Benedict wearing a determined expression. He lightly tapped the carriage roof swiftly—a clear signal for the coachman to continue the journey. Almost instantly, [y/n] felt the carriage lurch forward as the horses resumed their pace.

"What are you doing?" she inquired, still adjusting her hair, the sudden movement causing her to worry about her appearance.

At that moment, she realised—quite abruptly—that lately, she had been increasingly concerned about her appearance. After her second failed season, during which she remained unmarried, Miss [y/n] had abandoned many of the formalities of fashion. She seldom wore corsets and paid little heed to the latest dress designs, opting instead for simplicity. Her hair, usually secured in a tight bun resembling that of a governess, was styled by her own hands, as her brother had also tasked her maid with attending to her sister-in-law.

But something had changed.

Benedict frequently selected her as his dance partner at parties where they unexpectedly crossed paths. They often rendezvoused in Hyde Park to discuss their book. Almost every afternoon, [y/n] found herself at the Bridgerton residence, although she couldn't quite fathom why she felt an unspoken obligation to maintain a polished appearance.

She wasn't oblivious to the rumours circulating about them. Many speculated that the two were courting, and why wouldn't they? What other reason could a single gentleman have for associating with an unmarried lady?

Still, [y/n] dismissed such notions as ludicrous. She felt like the most withered flower in the garden—what bee would alight on a flower with almost no pollen?

She consumed Benedict Bridgerton's thoughts. He couldn't help but gaze at her, taking in every detail. Only then did he realise he had instructed the carriage to continue, bypassing Lady Danbury's residence entirely.

Good Lord, he mused, in just fifteen minutes in her presence, [y/n] had managed to drive him insane, as he had assumed she would.

And, of course, he wanted to blame himself but blast it all; why did she have to wear the most exquisite dress in all of British fashion? Why did she have to wear a corset that not only accentuated her waist but also elevated her bosom?

Benedict, a gentleman with little interest in women's fashion, found himself fixated on it that particular evening.

"Mr. Bridgerton!" she exclaimed, breaking through his reverie.

Miss [y/n] [y/l/n] was, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Suddenly, he regretted not having his drawing chalks with him so he could capture her likeness right then and there in the soft glow filtering through the carriage windows.

"[y/n]," he whispered her name like a plea as he wet his lips, "what's going on between us?"

She averted her gaze, feeling the weight of his intensity. "What do you mean, Ben? We're simply working partners."

He grinned like a mischievous imp. "No, we're not."

"Ben," she began, intending to distance herself. No, that would be a lie. His fervour drew her in like a moth to a flame, even as she knew she shouldn't respond. It didn't matter that she'd heard whispers about the longing looks he cast her way across the room; it didn't matter that her brother had overheard Benedict defending her at the men's club just two days prior. "We're just the writer and the illustrator. That's all."

"The writer and her illustrator," he echoed, but she barely noticed the subtle pronoun shift.

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing hard. "The writer and her illustrator."

A smile of pure delight graced his lips.

"I am yours, I'm afraid," he confessed, taking her aback. She, a writer, was powerless against his words. Involuntarily, she leaned in closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. "Could you say it again?" he pleaded, inching nearer, breaching the space between them.

They were mere inches apart.

"What? 'My illustrator'?" she repeated, her confusion mingling with the intoxicating atmosphere.

"My writer," he responded, mirroring her phrase. "Mine."

He was marking her with words. She liked it.

"I'm also afraid I have to kiss you," he said, leaving her confused. Benedict couldn't need permission, could he? She thought she was being very obvious when she prompted forward, her cleavage at his disposal.

She might have been a virgin, but she wasn't naive.

With a swift, decisive movement, [y/n] closed the gap between them, her lips capturing his in a searing kiss. Ben's initial surprise melted away as he responded eagerly, his body instinctively leaning to hold her in an embrace. The tension between them for so long ignited into a blaze of passion, consuming them both.

Their kisses grew more urgent, more desperate, as the carriage rocked gently beneath them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s body, tracing the curves of her silhouette with a reverence that bordered on worship. [y/n]'s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the heady rush of desire coursing through her veins.

At that moment, the confines of the carriage faded away, leaving only the two of them wrapped up in each other's arms. Time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in the heat of their passion, their bodies moving together in a sensual dance that spoke volumes without the need for words.

Amidst their embrace's perfection and delectable allure, [y/n] sensed an unspoken yearning deep within her soul. Despite the exquisite intimacy they shared, she couldn't shake the conviction that there was something more she craved from Benedict—something she couldn't quite articulate or request. Each time she drew near to him, although he didn't push her away, she felt him place his own hips away from hers.

Yet, after countless attempts to bridge the distance between them, Benedict could no longer deny the fervour burning within him.

"[y/n]," he murmured her name with a weighty sigh, attempting to extricate himself gently with one final kiss, but the lady refused to relent, meeting his lips once more. "I must escort you home."

His words sent a tremor of apprehension through [y/n], causing her to withdraw instinctively. She had barely noticed that she wasn't even in her seat anymore: she was trying to jump into his lap, but as he kept moving away, she seemed to crouch in the carriage. Oh, the shame that flooded her being, her gaze lowered in embarrassment.

Her reaction tugged at Benedict's heartstrings, stirring a tumult of emotions within him as he swiftly reconsidered his course of action.

"Do not feel ashamed," he implored, his tone pleading. The thought of [y/n] bearing any semblance of shame was unbearable to him. "I must release you now, for I could easily succumb to temptation in this carriage, and such a fate is ill-suited for a lady of your stature. You deserve far better."

Though every fibre of her being yearned for more at that moment, [y/n] knew deep down that he spoke the truth. She deserved better. He hadn't said he liked her, for instance. He hadn't proposed. She supposed that, to be deflowered, she at least deserved that.

"You're right," she conceded, her gaze drifting to the window as she pondered their proximity to her home. "I've never done this before, you know?"

Benedict stifled a sudden urge to utter a remark that hovered at the tip of his tongue, granting her the space to share her thoughts freely. He trusted her to confide in him, as she always had.

"I've never been kissed," she admitted with such earnestness that Benedict was taken aback.

Never been kissed? The notion perplexed him. After all, hadn't she just demonstrated such fervour and skill with her lips in the confines of the carriage? How could someone as captivating as [y/n] [y/l/n] have never experienced the simple act of a kiss? Surely, no shortage of suitors had come calling at her door.

"No, you can't be serious," he interjected, his incredulity evident as he leaned closer, their proximity becoming increasingly intimate. It seemed he had lost all semblance of restraint in her presence.

"But I am," she insisted, a hint of defensiveness colouring her tone as she addressed her innocence. "I am a spinster, Ben. Gentlemen typically pursue the young and bright diamonds of the seasons."

"You are young, and you are bright," he countered, his brow furrowing in response to her apparent self-deprecation. "You may not have been dubbed the diamond of the season, but that designation would have hardly done you justice."

[y/n] found herself unable to muster the strength to protest. Further, a realization soon dawned on Benedict as he observed her resigned demeanour. Yet, despite her acquiescence, he sensed a lingering doubt in her eyes.

"[y/n]," he began, his voice softening with sincerity, "these debutantes are hailed as diamonds because they are transparent and colourless. You, my dear, are nothing like them. By God, you are the most brilliant writer I have ever met; your scenes are so well described that I had no difficulty drawing them. If only I had dedicated our time together to capturing your likeness, I would have employed every hue in my palette to convey the sheer beauty that I behold in you—the most exquisite woman I have ever beheld," he confessed, his heart swelling with emotion as he laid bare his sentiments. "And look, I'm older than you."

"Only by a few years," she countered, a flicker of warmth igniting within her, a profound longing to smile once more gracing her features.

"Wait," Benedict interjected; his movements stilled as realization dawned upon him, connecting the dots between her confession, observations, and the vivid scenes in W. Jabber's novels. "[y/n], if you've never experienced a kiss, how is it that you wrote such erotically charged passages?"

Her eyes widened in alarm, akin to a child caught red-handed in mischief.

"'The Flowers of Our Garden,' despite its intricate political narrative, contains some rather passionate scenes," he remarked astutely, drawing upon his recollection of the four novels by W. Jabber that he had perused.

"Nothing overly explicit, Ben," she countered defensively. "Nothing I couldn't have imagined."

"Did you imagine being kissed?" he pressed, his gaze piercing.

[y/n] swallowed hard, her mind racing. Of course, she had—what woman hadn't entertained such fantasies? In the past month alone, while toiling alongside Mr Bridgerton day in and day out, [y/n] had conjured more scenarios of tender embraces than she had penned words.

"And what of the intimate caresses described in 'Flowers'? Did you envision someone touching you in those places as the protagonist did with his wife?"

"Ben," she uttered his name with a cautionary tone. "Yes, I am no stranger to worldly matters, having witnessed much within the confines of party gardens. Do not judge me for it. After all, no one judges Mr. Jabber for his prose."

"[y/n]," he started again, rephrasing. "I didn't ask how you know those things in your novels. One doesn't need to have died to know death," he offered through analogy. "But I'm curious if you desired those experiences for yourself. The kisses, the touches...?"

She cast her gaze downward, contemplating her response. "Yes," she admitted quietly.

"Oh, dear," he murmured tenderly, his words a gentle caress. [y/n] lifted her eyes to meet his, finding herself lost in the depths of his caring gaze.

He wanted her as the protagonist of his stories.

Benedict realized that to fulfil her desires, he first needed to address their current situation. And that solution seemed clear: he longed to give a name to their connection.

"Will you marry me?" he implored, drawing closer in the soft glow of the carriage.

"What?" she exclaimed, taken aback. Surely, Benedict must be jesting, she thought.

"I desire your hand in marriage," he persisted. "Please, say you'll marry me. Say you'll be mine, [y/n], and I will support you. I want nothing more than to cherish you. To experience the passion depicted in your novels and beyond. To capture the moments in my paintings. To immortalize you, now and for all eternity, bathed in candlelight."

"Benedict Bridgerton!" she gasped, feeling a flutter in her chest akin to a young maiden's.

"Ben," he gently corrected her. "I'm your illustrator, remember? Your Ben."

He yearned for her affirmation, yet she remained silent, lost in her thoughts. Determined, he leaned in to kiss her, pulling her onto his lap, his desire for her no longer a concern.

"Say yes," he whispered against her skin, trailing kisses along her neck. "Say it, [y/n]."

"Yes," she breathed, succumbing to the intoxicating allure of his touch. "Yes, I am yours."

"You are mine," he declared, his lips trailing lower to the curve of her bosom. With a playful smile, he pressed a kiss before meeting her gaze again. "You are mine."

"I am yours," she affirmed, feeling a shiver of anticipation. And as he bit her there, tenderly, she surrendered to the promise of more—a promise that seemed boundless in the arms of Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict left a trail of kisses all over her that night in the cramped carriage. He began with tender kisses upon the lady's bosom—no, upon his bride's bosom!—before trailing lower, his hands deftly undoing the fastenings of her dress until it lay in disarray. Though not entirely bared, she was more exposed to him than ever.

"I... I..." she attempted to speak, to offer some form of explanation or apology. Was it due to her appearance? But she felt anything but unattractive under his hungry gaze, beneath his fervent touch upon her curves. Perhaps that's why the words eluded her.

He scarcely afforded her a chance to articulate further.

Ben persisted in his passionate assault, his bites and caresses a testament to his desire to taste her, to consume her completely.

"I need you to sit back... no, that won't do," he pondered the spatial constraints of the carriage. "I want you to go back to your seat."

She arched an eyebrow, bemused.

"I will kneel before you."

A soft laugh escaped her lips. "No need to worship me."

He knew she teased him, relishing her playful spirit. "I shall indulge in that too. It's been my practice since our journey began."

A smile of pure delight graced her features.

"But for now, my dear, I simply long to savour you, and that I can only achieve if you recline in your seat."

[y/n]'s initial confusion morphed into a swirl of emotions as Benedict delicately guided her back into her seat within the carriage, positioned her to face him, and divested her of the remaining layers of her attire. Fully exposed now, she stood vulnerable before him, her naked form laid bare. Yet, as she observed Ben's reaction, his evident pleasure at the sight of her, she couldn't suppress the smile that graced her lips.

At that moment, her confusion ebbed away, replaced by a sensation akin to pleasure.

With his bride before him, Benedict ventured where none had dared. [y/n] had never fathomed such intimacy possible. Though she had witnessed many clandestine trysts in the moonlit gardens of ballrooms and countless exchanges of affection, she had not anticipated the sheer ecstasy of feeling his touch in places even she hesitated to explore. It was an exquisite revelation, one she wished to prolong indefinitely.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he inquired, his gaze fixed upon his task. [y/n] responded with a breathy affirmation, amusing him, yet he longed to hear her voice her pleasure. "Speak to me."

"I want you, Ben," she said suddenly, surprising them both by her boldness. "I want… oh!" Her words trailed off as a surge of sensation overwhelmed her. The intensity mounted with each passing moment, threatening to consume her, but Benedict halted before she could reach the brink of release.

"I want you too, dear," he declared, rising from kneeling. "And now, I shall claim you as mine, forever marking you as mine."

She regarded him with eyes ablaze with passion.

"You're ready, more than that," he continued, his words trailing off as he became lost in the depths of his declaration.

A smile graced her lips. "I'm eager."

He grinned; a devilish twinkle in his eyes caused her cheeks to flush crimson.

"It might hurt, I must tell you," he cautioned as he began to undo his trousers. At that moment, as he moved, [y/n] realized she stood alone in her nakedness.

"You must remove your shirt," she insisted, emboldened by her desire. Knowing Ben's yearning for her, she felt empowered to act upon her longing.

"I suppose I must, mustn't I?" he teased.

"I shall assist," she declared, reaching forward to disrobe him, stripping away each garment until he stood as bare as she. With gentle strokes, she trailed her fingers over the expanse of his chest; her curiosity piqued until her touch encountered something far more masculine than the smooth contours of his torso.

"Oh," she gasped, biting her lip in surprise.

"You may explore at your leisure later, my dear," he murmured, covering her hand with his own. "For now, I fear I may lose control if you continue."

Enchanted by his words, she acquiesced, allowing him to guide her hand away from his sensitive skin.

It had felt soft to the touch, yet beneath her gaze, she found it firm, rigid, and elongated. It was not what she had envisioned, but somehow, it was better.

She liked his use of words, so she let him take her fingers away from the delicate skin. 

The air thickened with anticipation as their desire reached its crescendo. Benedict's gaze met [y/n]'s, a silent exchange of longing and need that spoke volumes without a single word.

With a shared understanding, they closed the distance between them. Benedict's hands roamed over [y/n]'s naked form, igniting sparks of pleasure that danced along her skin. She gasped as his lips found hers, their kiss a fiery union of passion and urgency.

As their embrace deepened, Benedict guided himself inside her, their bodies becoming one in a primal dance of ecstasy. [y/n] moaned in pleasure, her nails digging into Benedict's back as he moved with a steady rhythm, each thrust driving them closer to the edge of oblivion.

In the throes of passion, time seemed to stand still as they lost themselves in each other, their cries of ecstasy mingling with the rhythmic creaking of the carriage. 

It was only them, lost in the blissful oblivion of their shared desire.

And as they reached the peak of their pleasure, they clung to each other with a fierce intensity, their bodies trembling with the force of their release. 

As they lay entwined in each other's arms, their breath coming in ragged gasps, Benedict pressed a tender kiss to [y/n]'s forehead, his heart overflowing with love and adoration.

"You're mine, now," she said before he could say it first. For an unknown reason, she felt possessive over him. "I think I... I do love you, Benedict Bridgerton, you must know."

Before she could register the astonishment in his eyes, Benedict silenced his own smile with a fervent kiss, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that spoke volumes.

"I'm yours, without a doubt, and I love you more," he confessed with a smile, though his expression soon shifted to one of realization. "I'll have to procure a special license for our wedding. It will entail some effort... but it will be worth it."

"Can't endure being my fiancé any longer? They say being my husband will be even worse," she teased, her fingers trailing through the dark waves of his hair, tucking them back from his forehead.

"I would gladly remain your fiancé for a lifetime to become your husband for as many lifetimes as we have," he replied charmingly. "However, having a bride who is... with child might raise some eyebrows."

"Oh, Lord," she gasped, her eyes widening in alarm as she pulled back from him. "You don't think...?"

"It's a possibility," he confirmed, his tone laced with both excitement and apprehension.

He felt her tense, her body hardening over his. But he ran his hands over her curves and, smiling, said, "Don't worry about the child, my dear. I heard that a great writer is about to release a beautifully illustrated children's book..."

At his words, their laughter mingled with kisses, at their secret and the promise of a marriage that was not only passionate but also very, very artistic.

[cherry-lipbalm]

anthony bridgerton

fifth season and counting.

yn x anthony, not really enemies to lovers more i-fell-in-love-with-you-but-don’t-think-i’m-good-enough-so-i’m-going-to-pretend-it-never-happened vibe

concept: yn has lost count of how many seasons she has gone without a suitor, but her mother certainly hasn’t, and if it takes recruiting anthony bridgerton to get her off her back, then so be it.

Last season, Daphne Bridgerton wedded the Duke, and since, I have yet to have a single ounce of peace from it.

If it weren’t for Lady Whistledown’s debriefs, nor the tedious eyes of every lady I passed and their mothers, or even the judgemental gaze fermented in the portraits of the hallways I passed on a daily basis, willing me to do better, I’d be living a rather tranquil life, if I don’t say so myself. Yet, I was to be chastised at every minute. On every walk, at every meal, throughout every soirée and ball that presented itself, I felt my tolerance, and that of everyone else’s, deteriorate. With that, at least, my mother and I could find common ground.

“You’ve been awake since dawn, I suppose?” She asked, accompanied by the persistent anticipation of argument to her tone that she had seemed to make rather well an acquaintance with as of late.

“And why do you suppose,” I countered, focusing my gaze on the eggs ahead of me. To the sound of her sigh I remembered to remove my elbows from the table as I dug in, but not without a sneer to the empty seats surrounding us at the breakfast table to emphasise my point of who on Earth I was supposed to be impressing.

“I noticed the stable appeared rather… unkept on my walk this morning,” she hummed. An absentminded finger of hers droned around her glass, her appetite obviously more centred on something else entirely.

“You mean you’ve been spying,” I said, shoving a forkful of runny yolk and bacon in my mouth, much to her dismay.

I ignored the rolling of her eyes. “I’m not spying. Merely observant.”

I hummed back, glancing up to see her reprimanding expression before gladly returning to my breakfast. Clarence always seemed to know when tensions were running high, and served my breakfast accordingly: stacked to the brim. She knew that if anything was to take my mind off things, it was her Full English. I had smiled when realising she had added an extra slice of toast, with inch-thick butter to accommodate for it. She’d been right to do so; tonight was Lady Danbury’s ball, one that had been mentioned throughout the papers and this house far too many times to count. A dress had been hanging on the back of my bedroom door to be a painful reminder every time I opened my eyes for the past week, had my mother’s relentless comments not stricken the fear into me enough.

“I only say, YN, for I am concerned you won’t tire yourself out for tonight. I need you to be proper, and… observant, like myself.”

“Hm, you’ve made it abundantly clear,” I muffled, finding my way to the mushrooms.

“Oh,” she tutted, as if I were some sort of dog she’d seen relieving itself on the street. “Must you eat so…”

She failed to finish her sentence, but the scorn of her voice made me raise my eyebrows all the same. Looking up for the first time that morning, I adjusted to how far away we were, her sat at one end of the banquet table and I at the other. I struggled to see her face past the unlit candles and floral centrepieces, but felt the weight of her judgement from the distance between us all the same. It seemed, no matter how many times I endured it, there was no end to the way it pierced through me.

“So…?” I urged her.

“I just hope you have more sense of manners this evening.”

Something told me her issue surrounding me and my breakfast had nothing to do with my execution of manners.

“I will, mother, I always do.”

“And yet, here we are.”

I stopped eating, letting the blistered tomato go amiss on my fork as I set it down. I swallowed apprehensively, and wiped the corner of my mouth with a napkin. My mother had seemed to make some sort of game out of my failure as a lady. How I’d been unable, for the fifth season now, to entice any approval and secure a marriage — nay, not even a suitor. While it was some sort of cathartic ritual for her by now, the novelty had long worn off, and something my mother failed to imagine was how wearying it was for myself too.

The only solace I had obtained this upcoming evening was that it was to be a Masquerade Ball. The prospect of hiding my face and being unidentifiable swelled my chest with joy and relief. I had implored for my mask to be as covering as possible, my request hidden behind an eagerness for elaborate and flattering designs. Of course, I only cared for my countenance to be unrecognisable, to be protected from the knowing glances and prolonged stares. Albeit, while my desire to be betrothed may have diminished with every season, I knew my hidden identity would only work as an advantage for me. With no one knowing who I was, I was gifted a blank slate. There was no gossip attained to my face, and therefore no expectations or hinderances I had to apply to myself. For a moment, briefly, I was the young girl only just embarking onto her first season.

My mother cleared her throat across the table. I wondered, if I was particularly lucky, if I could use my new identity to formulate an excuse to be apart from my mother this evening, only to ensure no connections to my true self are made, of course. I sat back in the chair, allowing my plate to be taken away.

“Tonight is a big night, YN.” She spoke. “Lady Danbury will be accompanying us–”

Babysitting me, she meant.

“– and I am sure of it, this time. We will find you an eligible bachelor.”

And, my God, if I had a shilling for every time I heard her say that.

one dress fitting later

I had been reminded now, sixteen times, the way to hold my fan, to bat my eyes and, most importantly, to smile. My mother assured me that the only thing she wanted to pass my lips was a grin, and even then, only at the man who we (she) deemed most worthy.

I willed myself not to let it slip that beggars can not necessarily be choosers.

By the time our carriage arrived in front of Lady Danbury’s conservatory, I had managed to bite my tongue (I had learned well, it seemed). My mother and I, though already remarkably well acquainted with the instances of balls and, above all, Lady Danbury’s opulence to running them, peered through the carriage’s curtains eagerly. The courteous sound of people arriving provided a certain buzz to the atmosphere that I hadn’t missed at all. While my mother watched on with glistening eyes, already brandishing the delicacy of her posture, I greeted hello to the old friend residing in the pit of my stomach known as forsworn dread. I was much older than the first time I had attended a ball, and still, I hadn’t found a way to combat the nerves that attacked me in this moment. There was no alleviation in something that only got worse every year. I was convinced the stares would be more intense, the whispers even louder. Bile rose to my throat at the thought of how everyone would stop when I entered. They’d look down on me with pity, some would wonder why I put myself through trying, mercilessly, every year to be dealt the same fate, to only be in the same position again next year. The music would shudder with my footsteps, a falter to the ideal scenery, shattered by my mere presence. I’d be an impostor, a spinster. I didn’t belong here, and I wanted to go home.

“YN, come.”

My breath hitched. I swept a strand of curled hair from my eye and brandished my gaze to the mask sitting on the pillowed carriage seat beside me. The dressmaker had done a splendid job, despite my mother’s concerns, and had created a magnificently woven accessory. It matched my dress in colour, with accented gold framing the edges which, I triumphed, would run across most of my face, only stopping at the stoop of my cheekbones. Had I been told the maker had crept into my room one night and secretly melded my face to the creation, I would have been sharp to believe it. I draped the string behind my head and let it cling to my hair, the mask falling into my facial features.

“Y/N.”

My mother was wedged in the pebbled path to the conservatory, adorned with lights and ivies. The artificial hope in her countenance made me want to return home even more, but I knew it would be worse for me to do so, to admit defeat and to let down the woman in front of me, to whom I owed so much more.

“Yes, certainly,” I whispered. There was no ignoring the influx of people swarming into the conservatory, but I simply had to pretend it did not matter. I heard my mother beginning to entertain someone who had rushed to her presence, and she was swept away in an instance, leaving me on my own, which I was left to deliberate on whether was a fortune or not. I took solace in the fact that I hadn’t recognised the voice of who had cornered my mother, and relished in that, if there was one good thing that could come from my frequent annual visits, my generation had long been wedded off, and maybe no one around here would know me at all.

I stepped out, my hand guiding itself to where the guard stood, completely in awe of what Lady Danbury had presented, and in some oddly confound optimism that maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

Whatever hope I momentarily grasped subsequently dissipated, however, when my own grasp did not meet that of any guard alongside the carriage, and my heel slipped, sending me pummelling to the ground.

I, suddenly, no longer admired the dedication of the pebbled path, not when the rocks themselves were jabbed into my knees and palms. I only hoped the fall was not enough to draw blood, or graze what skin of me was visible, as it would surely be enough to ward off anyone that even dared to go near me. That, and I prayed my screech had not caught any eyes, although I knew it was fruitless to think my fumble had gone unnoticed.

Already, as I knelt on the ground of the path, having not even made it inside, I felt defeated. I subsided my weight onto my backside, slouching on the floor, barely concerned to any ripping of my dress or what onlookers may think. Let them judge, I thought, what more could they say? This was only this night’s entertainment to them. Something else to add onto the list of why my whole prospect as a woman was a failure.

“Oh dash, are you alright?”

I cursed myself. The last thing I needed now was anyone’s feigned pity.

“I am quite fine, thank you,” I said, clearing my throat and pushing down any flushed humiliation that threatened to make me a teary mess. I could at least still try to redeem myself, but I wasn’t going to do a good job of that whilst kneeling on the floor.

“Here, let me help you,” the voice came again. Insistingly kind, and yet I wanted to rip their face off. But I was a lady, so I glanced up and mercifully took the gloved hand outstretched to me.

I sighed, curling my fingers around their palm. “Thank you.”

They pulled me up with an ‘uumph!’ back onto my feet. The shock of it all must have still been coursing through me, for I wobbled on my stance, but the grip tightened on my hand and another came to my forearm to steady me. I leant on it dependently, desperate not to suffer another embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, this is… humiliating, to say the least,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

“Please,” he said, “don’t apologise.”

The gratification of his voice willed me to raise my head. I was surprised, grateful and humiliated all over again when I saw he was someone relatively close to my age. He was adorned in a mask, but a meek one which suggested he was only playing the role as to appease someone dear to him. I was still able to see the youthful stubble across his skin, and the small smile he looked upon me with, like an old friend with whom I was sharing an inside joke with we had rectified years before. I felt more at ease in the ability to laugh at myself when what was a courteous smile reached his eyes and his hands fell.

“I rather indulge in a drink or two myself before an event as such in an attempt to dilute any nerves, but… dare I suggest you may have had one too many?”

I scoffed, much too loudly, unattractively, and close to his face, and was endearingly reminded of the time my mother had chided me for doing so a few years prior in front of a Lord Dawsdon, who I was to never hear from again after my mother likened the outburst to that of a certain farmyard animal. I composed myself rather quickly, and pursed my lips, reminding them their only duty was to smile.

“I assure you,” I said nevertheless, “I am somewhat appropriate. Even I am aware arriving intoxicated is less likely to make a good impression.”

“Ah, you are more well versed than you seem,” he said, and I resisted the urge to scoff again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, perfectly fine, thank you.” I smiled. “Just a wobble.”

The fear coursed through me then that maybe I had broken a heel, and watched the amusement of the man before me transform to worry at my own as I frantically waded through the layers of fabric to my dress to ascertain the status of my shoes. My mother had bought them especially, and to think of her finding them broken made me revisit the bile in my throat from earlier. I bundled up my skirt, revealing their intact state, and breathed a sigh of relief. When I returned to the man’s gaze, I saw him peering at where I had previously with an astounding flush to his cheeks. I wasn’t particularly well-trained, despite my years’ experience, to the etiquette of… everything, and realised only then that maybe hiking my skirt up past my thigh and not been necessarily appropriate.

“My apologies,” I muttered, dropping the hem and fixing my hair in the awkwardness that ensued. He coughed clearly and abruptly, and insisted.

“The apologies are all mine, Miss…” his voice trailed away, and I clicked all too late that he was searching for my name.

As I fumbled, not yet acquainted to introducing myself, I caught my mother out of the corner of my eye, punctual as ever. She had obviously grown impatient; she had that wrinkle above her left eyebrow that told me so. I dreaded to keep her waiting any longer, but couldn’t disguise the thankfulness I felt for her interruption, for possibly the first time in my life. I bid my apologies and my farewell to the man with a, less than par, curtesy and rushed to meet my mother, a careful yet haste flurry in my steps as to not cause any real damage to my heels this time.

I hoped that maybe that would be the worst of it, and I could leave that part of the night behind me, outside of the conservatory, this ball and my prospects, where it belonged.

part two.

[ithebookhoarder]

Jealous Eloise as fem!reader dances at a ball with a suitor? Reader confronts Eloise on why she’s upset and Eloise gives an angsty love confession? Something along those lines you can change it up to whichever is better for the story

You Belong With Me (Eloise Bridgerton x F!reader)

A/N: Oh, Eloise. Love of my life. I had WAY too much fun indulging with this one, so thank you to whoever sent it in 😉 Also, I have set this up as part one of two, as it combined so well with another request I got for Eloise and a female reader - so I hope you don't mind. Keep your eyes peeled as it should be up soon. Promise! 🤞

Part 2

Masterlist:

The start of the new season was always chaotic. Your whole house seemed consumed with nothing but making preparations, from choosing which outfits to wear, to which suitors would be in attendance, to which dances were most in fashion. 

It was no surprise to you that you were not the only people in England also caught in the frenzy of social life. Merely a day or so since your arrival to London and you had already received a staggering number of invitations for teas, soirees and balls for the coming weeks in town. 

The idea of attending even a handful of them made your head spin.  

Luckily, your mother had spent her entire life preparing for this eventual situation. She, and your father, almost had it down to an art. As soon as you would open an invitation, your mother would have already placed it in one her neat piles. Needless to say there was a rather large contrast between the acceptance, and denial piles. The way in which she organised the whole affair so efficiently was almost militaristic.

In another life she’d have made a particularly marvellous general, or so you remarked as you watched your mother’s ‘battle plan’ forming. 

However, despite your mother’s assurance that matrimony was not the entire aim for the season - merely an additional blessing, should you receive such an offer - you still felt like the pressure to find such a prospect was mounting. 

So far, it had taken all your will power not to protest every time your mother and father had made a mention of some other silly tradition or ritual you would be expected to perform before the season was out. 

This morning in particular had almost sent you screaming from the breakfast table as your mother had informed you that she had received your vouchers and invitations for Almack’s for the season, after having had a rather flattering letter from its current Patronesses - all as titled, and ridiculous as the last in their opinion. You really didn't care who Lady Emily Cowper, Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh or Mrs Drummond Burrell were. 

You also cared a hell of a lot less about their eligible offspring too - each as ridiculous as the next… and, most importantly, male.  

That was a rather crucial detail in your eyes, given the fact that you knew you were simply not capable of feeling the traditional sentiments about the other sex. It was something you had always known - ever since you were a small girl and played with your dolls house, making up stories for your ‘brides’, and casting the male dolls aside. 

You simply hadn’t seen anything wrong with the idea of two girls choosing to spend their lives together, rather than wasting it on silly boys. However, your mother had been quick to assure you that you would grow out of such childish nonsense when you came of age.

You hadn’t. 

Quite the opposite in fact, as your feelings only cemented themselves, as opposed to waning. You could blame the blossoming affection between you and a Miss Eloise Bridgerton for that… An affection that was currently driving you almost mad with frustration. 

All evening, since you’d first arrived at the terrible soiree that was was to be your prison for the evening, you had been in a state of intense irritation with both yourself and the world.

You were irritated by the silly fop who had just escorted you from the dance floor to your mother; you were irritated by the footman who offered you a glass of champagne; you were irritated with the cloying smell of too many different perfumes that pervaded the ballroom; and you were irritated with the itchy fabric of your dress which made you want to twitch like a demented bedlamite.

Most of all, more than anything else, you were irritated with yourself for your detailed knowledge of the movements of one blasted Eloise Bridgerton.

It wasn’t her fault, per say, that you were unable to take your eyes off of her all night. Yet, you had been dragged to and fro, from suitor to suitor – all the while noting Eloise’s each and every movement.

You were behaving like a jealous ninny. 

“Oh, look!” exclaimed your sister, Charlotte, poking you in the arm. You rubbed irritably at the spot. Splendid. Now you were both itchy and bruised. “There’s Charles dancing with Eloise Bridgerton. Oh, mama will be thrilled. A match between them would be most ideal.”

“Indeed,” you muttered sourly, following the direction of your sister’s finger towards the dance floor, where your elder brother was dancing across the floor with Eloise.

Now, of course, you knew without even asking that chances were your brother had been forced into asking Eloise to dance, just as much as Eloise had been forced by convention to accept - it would be considered the highest of insults to have said no, and whilst Eloise was every bit a rebel at heart, she would never have embarrassed her mother, or family, in such a way. 

However, that didn’t stop your stomach from churning as you watched from the edge of the room. 

Your heart clenched in a way it had no business clenching over such an innocent scene, but it was more likely due to the fact that you knew you could never have such a privilege. 

It was one thing to waltz with Eloise in her own home, but another to do so publicly. It simply wasn’t done… just as it wasn’t done for two women to love one another as you both did. It wasn’t done for two women to start a life together and reject the rules and conventions of society, but that hadn’t stopped you so far. 

You had been to one another as close as two people could be, and had been for a while now. 

You knew how Eloise’s perfume lingered when she was in your arms. You knew how it felt to have her hand holding yours. You knew how it felt to have Eloise’s eyes on you, watching your every move either during a dance in the ballroom or the bedroom. 

As if he could sense it, over Eloise’s shoulder, your brother caught your eye and grinned.

You started, blushed, and focused instead on downing the remainder of your glass of champagne.

When you had all but slammed the glass down on a passing server’s tray, your sister turned an inquisitive eye on you. “What is wrong with you tonight? You don’t appear to be in a very good mood.”

You did your best to repress the urge to growl. “I’m fine.”

“Y/N.” Your sister knew when you were lying better than most - a fact you very much were aware of. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing - I should find Lord Sinderby,” you muttered icily. “He is written down as my next partner for the evening.”

You had had enough of standing gawking on the sidelines like a spectator at a bad play. Instead, you were almost glad of the distraction as your partner decided to emerge from the crowd and take your hand in his. 

Just because you knew Eloise returned your affections, didn’t mean you were certain of the future. After all, a dalliance was one thing. To commit to a future together? To face an uncertain existence? To cast off any chance at marrying and having children, like women were supposed to? They were entirely different things. 

Perhaps you had been naive to assume Eloise felt as you did. or maybe you had been optimistic - dangerously so, as your aunt had once warned you. 

The thought was suddenly too much to bear. As was the idea you could be forced to watch Eloise choose another- a spectator in her life and not a key player. 

You cursed to yourself and hastily forced back a tear that threatened to escape from your eye. 

Thankfully, the music started and your partner was far too busy watching his feet to notice. Then again, Alfred Sinderby had never been the sharpest tac in the box. He was kind and wealthy, and that was enough for most women and their mamas, which would explain why so many had had their sights set on him all season. 

Still, he managed to survive unscathed by matrimony just yet, which was impressive - all things considered. Perhaps that was why he always asked you for a dance, given that your disinterest in suitors was widely known amongst your peers, even if it was never discussed aloud. Whistledown had written you both off as being highly critical and particular in your searches, which wasn’t exactly incorrect, even if it wasn’t that simple. 

You had found a worthy match, but taking her hand wouldn’t be as easy as marching in to her drawing room and declaring it then and there for all to hear - something Eloise knew was the same for you too. Neither family would likely welcome the news or understand, either (even if you suspected some members of your families would be more accepting of the idea).

So, for now, you contented yourself with dancing and listening to Alfred’s rather candid sense of humour. It was all you could do to make this evening more bearable. 

That, and letting yourself be dragged from one dance to the other by whomever wished to pencil their name on the card attached to your wrist. 

Alas, it was easier to smile and simper at young gentlemen, than be truthful with yourself. Focusing on keeping up with the steps was a less painful alternative compared to focusing on anything else. 

However, there came a point in the evening where even you could dance no longer and you needed a reprieve from your aching feet and the suddenly suffocating heat of the crowded dance floor. 

Whilst your first choice would have been to reclaim your family for company, or even Lord Sinderby (given the fact he seemed one of a few in attendance tonight able to keep up a decent conversation about anything other than matrimony or one’s fortunes), they were nowhere to be found. In fact, despite standing in the middle of the most crowded room in all of London, you suddenly felt remarkably alone. 

Then again, was that such a surprise? After all, you’d learned long ago there were few who could truly see, let alone understand, you - and the person who did it best was always being pulled away from you in another direction entirely, either by life, her family, or the world in which you both lived. 

Perhaps you were destined to be alone… the thought was a bitter one, but not all that surprising, as tonight had proven once again. 

To hell with it. To hell with this whole night - it was that thought that propelled you to leave the ballroom, and march to the deserted terrace, and gardens beyond it. 

You didn’t care if a young lady such as yourself should never leave the room unattended, nor venture into the darkened gardens where those of looser morals may prey upon those naive enough to stray. All you cared about right then was putting as much distance as possible between you and the gilded cage in which you found yourself. 

That, and there was a sense of peace to be found standing in the late night breeze, staring up at the stars in the sky, and listening to the whispers of the music echoing from the open windows of the ballroom.

It was easy to forget everything, for just a moment. To pretend you were free, with only the company of the various chiseled statues for company… Each, ironically, familiar with your plight in their own ways. 

Marc Anthony… Eurydice… Penelope… Anarkali… 

Was it a sign, perhaps? 

A sign of what though? A sign that love was always doomed? That it was but a foolish folly? Or that love was worth fighting for, even if it seemed impossible?

Why else did people still erect monuments to lovers past, even if they didn’t achieve their happy ending? 

Even without saying anything, you still somehow felt a sense of judgement radiating off of the passive observers that surrounded you.

“Don’t even say it,” you growled, shooting the warning at the Emperor Hadrian, who had the misfortune of being the one to stare down at you at that particular moment. 

“Don’t say what?”

“Good lord!”

You started, swerved, and nearly toppled over the bench you had failed to see behind you.

It wasn’t the statue come to life. That, you suddenly felt you could have dealt with, rather than this. 

Eloise crossed the final few yards of the path, her muslin gown luminous in the moonlight. The thin fabric moulded itself against her legs as she walked, increasing the resemblance to a statuary of classical antiquity, but no statue had ever had that sort of effect on you.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” you yelped. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Besides, I thought you had another young idiotic fop to dance with.”

Eloise winced slightly at your tone. “One, your concern for my wellbeing is somewhat hypocritical given the fact you are currently out here alone. Also, I needed to speak to you. About tonight-”

“You needn’t bother,” you interrupted tersely. “Don’t feel the need to come keep me company when you clearly have no shortage of company yourself.”

Eloise winced slightly at your tone. “One, your concern for my wellbeing is somewhat hypocritical given the fact you are currently out here alone. Also, I needed to speak to you. About tonight-”“You needn’t bother,” you interrupted tersely. “Don’t feel the need to come keep me company when you clearly have no shortage of company.”

Eloise squinted at you. “Says the woman who has been escorted on to the floor by practically every man with a pulse in there tonight.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” 

“Well, forgive me if I didn’t wish to sit like some wallflower and play spectator to you and your own constant stream of suitors tonight,” you snapped back sharply. “You can’t honestly have expected me to just sit on some shelf and act like I didn’t care in the least that the one person I wished to dance with, to hold in my arms, is the one person I couldn’t.”  

“I know!” Eloise retorted, her bravado suddenly slipping in place of a forlorn expression of someone just as tormented as you. “Look. I - I’m trying to apologise to you, or at least that was the intention when I followed you out here. I do not wish to fight about something as trivial as this.” 

“Trivial? Is that what you think? That my pain is trivial?”

“Your pain? Ha!” exclaimed Eloise. As repartee, it wasn’t her finest hour, but she was clearly too furious to attempt words of more than one syllable. “You’re the one who has been behaving like some air headed debutante all night - simpering at every word your partners said, and batting your eyelids at them. You were doing this to spite me.”

“Spite you?”

“Yes,” Eloise continued. “You only did this as retribution for me accepting your brother’s dance - something I had no say in, I remind you. Yet, you’re the one running around in my dreams, smiling across the ballroom at me like that – I can’t think. I can’t sleep. I can’t look my best friend in the eye. It’s been sheer hell.”

“And that is my fault?’ You’re the one didn’t bother to— Wait. Your dreams? You’ve been dreaming about me?”

Eloise froze. She took a step back, looking horrified. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

You took a dangerous step forward. “Oh, no. There are no “never minds”, Eloise Bridgerton. You’re not getting off that easily this time. I can’t keep doing this, unsure of what you feel inside, or if everything between us has been nothing more than some dalliance for you.” 

“Fine.” She took a step forward. “You want to know the truth, Y/N? The truth that every waking minute, my heart aches for you… that staying away from you is all I can do to keep my hands off you.”

Another step towards you. A step that brought you and Eloise so close that her breath stirred the loose strands of hair that had escaped your elegant arrangement atop your head.

You inched backwards, but the hedge was at your back, pricking you through your dress, blocking retreat.

“In fact,” Eloise continued, her hands reaching for you as her head descended towards your own – “you have been driving me absolutely mad.”

With a desperate sideways movement, you wrenched yourself from her grasp, leaving Eloise to almost stumble headlong into the hedge.

“Oh, no,” you warned, tears of rage and frustration gathering in your eyes. “The game where you kiss me and then run off and hide from me for weeks on end… It’s – I just can’t – if you’re just looking for a bit of fun, you’re going to have to find it somewhere else”-

Gathering your skirts in hand, you whirled in the direction of the house, only to be jerked back around abruptly by Eloise. 

“That’s not what I want,” she burst out, turning you to face her.

 “Then what do you want?” 

 “You, dammit! You, and only you.”

The words hung there in the air between you.

Each of you stared at the other, your eyes locked with Eloise’s, both frozen as still as the statues surrounding you.

“Say something… do you… do you not feel the same?” 

“Don’t you know, El?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “No.” Her voice broke. “I don’t know anything right now, other than I do not wish for a life without you in it.”

“Funny,” you whispered achingly. “You took the words right from my lips.”

That was it. 

With infinite gentleness, her lips reached for yours. Her hands slid softly into your hair, stroking your temples, easing away aches you hadn’t realised you had. 

Letting your eyes drift closed, you leant into the kiss, abandoning yourself to the dreamlike unreality of it all. Your hands slid up to Eloise’s shoulders, feeling the warmth of her body through the fine lace and muslin of her dress, as warmth of an entirely different kind spread through you. 

With a movement as soft as a sigh, your lips slid away from hers. They remained suspended in time, your lips a whisper above hers, your hands on her shoulders, her fingers still threaded in your hair. 

“I missed you,” she whispered.

You pulled her tightly against you, rubbing your face in her hair and simply savoured having her. “Me too.”

As if to prove just how much you’d missed her, your lips followed the delicate curve of her jaw, down the elegant line of her throat, pausing long enough to hear the gasp she gave as your lips reached the sensitive hollow of her neck. 

You were undone.

So was Eloise’s bodice; One gentle pull at the ribbon fastened at the neckline drew the fabric apart, allowing you better access to the top of her décolletage - which you were quick to add to your exploration. 

Eloise arched in your arms, her nails digging into your back.

“Y/n,” she groaned in a way that made you suddenly wish you were in the safety of your bedroom, and not in the middle of a darkened garden. Then you could simply do away with the whole garment, altogether, rather than be forced to tease her so. 

Still, you were enraptured by her flushed cheeks and the way she bit at her lip as she squirmed in your arms. 

You were just lowering your lips, when a voice cut through your lust filled haze.

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Oh god. 

You turned.

Eloise balked, hastily reaching to yank her dress back together and fasten the ribbon in place. However, it was too late to hide what you had been doing.   

In front of you both loomed one of Eloise’s brothers – thankfully, the one you thought you liked you best, though that was of little comfort right then. After all, Benedict’s very posture crackled with rage and it looked like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you or simply snatch his sister away and lock her in a tower until she was forty.

Either way, you were both in trouble. 

“Oh f-”