#but out of all the bridgertons he’s most chill with Benedict

[nico-di-genova]

Bridgerton strollonso idea is winning.

[grugruel]

The Artist and the Flower

Pairings: Benedict bridgerton x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Sexpollen

Masterlist

Summary: A mysterious flower brought back from Colin's travels put you and Benedict in a curious predicament. Resulting in sex and other things.

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: sexpollen, friends to lovers, passionate sex, pinv sex, oral sex (female recieving), rough sex (blink and you'll miss it), choking, praise, pet names (princess, girl, woman, lady.), "I love you", mating-press, missionary, creampie. (Think that's all)

AN: not yet proofread! Hope you guys enjoy!

Approaching footsteps roused my mind. They thudded dully against wooden floorboards–pausing only to whisper mutely, 'This is not funny. Where are you?'

I tried to focus on my breathing, fingers working sluggishly as they wiped themselves clean against the bottom hem of my dress.

'Woman!' The voice was shrill and urgent this time, ringing terribly in my ear. The sounds of it's accompanying steps diminished as they hurried past my position on the floor, all dizzy on my knees.

'Benedict!' I hissed. The bright interior blurring as I made to stand up, legs wobbly beneath the unsteady weight of my torso.

There was a muffled squeak through the wall, shoes whirling against polished wood. Indicating him turning on his heel. 'Most, esteemed woman?' He tried again, punctuating the words as he half joked, half not. Simply hopeful hollow flattery would spur me into giving further clues to my whereabouts.

'Get in here at once!' I threw my finger toward the floor, as if he could see me do it and I'd sucesfully conveyed the sense of urgency. But the world spun suddenly, and I staggered a few steps until I caught myself on the nearest wall. The window I'd opened wasn't doing much except chilling my damp skin with the occasional draft.

With a last few steps, he darted to the door that separating us and four quaint knocks rapped aginst it. I gritted my teeth, annoyance taking over the hand. 'Yes, come on in.' Still, I willed my voice into the least irritable tone I could muster. This was not his fault, after all.

'Ah–' he sighed and pushed the door open. '–godess. . .' There was a mocking tone to the word and a satisfied grin on his lips, but it quickly fell as his eyes scoured over my appearance and utter devastation replaced it.

I wiped my forehead free of the beading sweat, and it too, began to tingle just like my fingertips had–to my horror, I realised–I'd probably just added more of whatever that dust was into my system. Now seeping through my skin and diluting my blood, impairing my usually keen senses with whatever toxins it provided.

He hurried to my side in big, worried strides to lay and arm around my back, steadying me when I couldn't steady myself. 'Wha-' He couldn't even form a word of surprise, his jaw slack as he gestured with his free hand to my dishevelled appearance. 'Why are you in Colins room? In this, state?' He quickly added. If I wasn't mistaken, which I might very well have been considering I didn't have full use of my mind. But, I could almost detect jealousy in his tone.

He would get the wrong idea, about Colin. 'Well,' I tried being nonchalant, tried to act like the places he made contact with my skin did not burn for him. I screwed my eyes shut and pulled all my focus into an answer. 'The wine got to my head, and I realised,' My words came out sluthered and slow. 'I hadn't been in here before, and. . .' My head began nodding of its own accord, already finding my unsaid words agreeable. '. . .it had to be remedied.'

'Of course, of course it did.' Benedict sighed, his shoulders shrugging in exasperation as he began looking around, presumably to find something for me to sit on, but his eyes fastened on something else instead. I cringed, for his eyes darted from the open rucksack, then back to me. The look he gave me was nothing but disapproving. But goodness, he was stading so close. His breaths warm against my cheek and mildly stained by alcoholic bevrages, much like mine must've been. But oh, the fire in his eyes gave me quite a start, not that I was fearful of it. In fact, I found the opposite to be true. It almost felt as if I had abaorbed it, and it traveled downward. . . 'You went through his belongings?'

My mind froze, the newfound aching in my body too distracting. 'I. . .' I felt my eyes narrow and forehead furrow, my dull reflexes attempting a poor pretence of thoughts. 'I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry. But there was this box, with some strange flower inside. . .' I trailed off. An amused, tipsy smile making it's way onto my face as I noted his incredulous expression.

His hands slid down my arm, and the sensation traveled straight to my core. Causing the need to stifle a moan arise.

'And you thought it a good idea to touch a foreign plant of which you know nothing of?' He spoke fast, too fast for me to keep up. Especially when goosebumps ran rampid in the wake of his touch, when my core ached for him to continue, to push his body further into mine. My heart beat too fast, his hand too close to the pulse point on my wrist.

My hand found it's way beneath his jaw, a wide grin splaying across my face. 'Wine will do that to a gentlewoman.' I explained, sluthering slightly. But feeling no more explanation to be necessary.

He screwed his eyes shut and stood completley still for a moment, I could almost see the thoughts swirling in the crammed space of his mind. 'Well,' he looked at me once again, searching my eyes. 'What gentleman would I be to leave a woman in need to her own devices?' He opened the box and grabbed the flower without hesitation, feeling its vevelty petals, rubbing the dust between his fingertips and then- tasted it.

Currents of static electricity zapped beneath my chest, spreading throughout me body. Everything happened so fast. And all I could do was watch, very intently, as the pads of his middle- and index finger made contact with his tongue, swiping clean against it. Lips then closing around them to suck whatever remained off. The heat building in my body was nothing short of sinful, and the thoughts–my thoughts–were even worse.

'Let's go.'

'Pardon?' Precious air left my lungs, leaving me breathless.

'Dinner with the Bridgertons.'

'I figured it to be out of the question.' My expression confounded.

'Colin is already downstairs, and we must find out what exactly that plant is-' He stopped. Eyes all of a sudden distant as they grazed over my features, landing on my lips. He still held my wrist, stroking the inside with gentle circles.

'Ben?' It was summer in the country, this much I knew. But surely, the temperature could not rise as fast as it just did. Sweat was pooling at my back, beneath my bust. And I began to wish, that he would simply. . . Lick-

'We must go.' I declared, clearing my throat. Hoping the words would snap us out of our trance.

'Right, of course.' He nodded, a blush sweeping across his cheeks. His eyes suddenly keen to examine the floor. But he kept his han his hand on the small of my back, urging me down the halls of the big house. Ocassionally, he'd scrunch the fabric of my dress, feeling the flexing of my back beneath the tips of his fingers. It pulled my attention to the sensitivity of my skin, and the pleasure his small, simple action gave me.

The next thing I knew, I was being helped into a chair at the center of the dining table. Benedict laid a hand on my shoulder that was meant to be reassuring, but it had an impact much more wicked on me. He took the seat across from me, and oh so conveniently placed himself next to Colin. Conversation grew heavy as Violet became quite inquisitive with her children. Eloise's debut, Anthony's proposal plans, and who he was planning on the recieving end. I would usually have been elbow deep in the gossip and drama, but my mind was elsewhere, muddled or perhaps tainted, as I couldn't focus on much of anything. Their voices grew sharp in my ears, the candlelight too bright for my eyes.

Ben leaned in to whisper in Colin's ear, who's eyes grew wide. Looking at me with growing worry, in fact, he almost looked like he would be sick.

I could understand why. Slouched in my seat, looking generally ill and doing more drinking than eating. Which was most likely only adding to the growing problem rather than subduing it. But oh, was he handsome. Flushed, he combed a hand through his hair. Slicking it with the dampness from his forehead, his eyes darting over my figure every now and then. Whatever that flower was, it seemed to be getting to him too. Colin opened his mouth to answer Ben.

'How are you dear, you look a little I'll.' Violet asked with genuine worry, interrupting the boys hushed conversation and turned them onto me with anxious eyes.

'I'm well.' I smiled, feeling as though my own voice was not mine.

Ben's eyes creased, a grin spreading over his lips, and then began giggling.

The conversations cut, and everyone stared at him. 'Are you quite alright, dear?' Violets eyes were full of concern, now placed upon him instead. I didn't yet know if it was warranted or not. But I was glad he pulled any lingering eyes from my current state.

'I apologise.' The words were strained as he pushed them out between more fluttering giggles, leading him to cover his blushing face. 'Her lady just told me something stunningly funny, that is all.' Benedict gestured to me, his eyes glinting with mischief. That little-

'Truly?' Violet smiled expectantly, something like understanding in her eyes. That cunning look she always gave her children when she knew something they didn't. Perhaps she'd taken my demeanour as that of a girl with a hidden crush, only anxious under the gaze of her love. She wouldn't be entirely wrong. Long had I known the Bridgertons, and even longer had I liked Ben.

I cleared my throat, blinking away the haze in my eyes. 'I'm uncertain of its propriety. . .' I tried to redirect, a drop of sweat sliding down my temple as I nervously glanced around at the members of the family. And ufortunately, I felt a bubbling up inside my chest, a composition of my own laughter. 'It was, uhm. . .' I paused, working hard to keep a smile from creeping onto my lips. Trying desperate to think of something to say. Anything, really.

'Well, let's hear it.' Anthony said with a grin, and the rest of the table agreed. Eloise being little more than a heap of snickers, Colin seeming to be the only one who gained little to no amusement from the situation.

Watching my struggles and deeming them incredibly funny, Benedicts giggles evovled and he burst out laughing. I was second behind him, but the table quickly joined in with a chorus of incredulous chuckles and wild looks of incomprehension. 'What is the matter with you two?' Eloise asked, her eyes watery as she clutched stomache.

We locked eyes, Ben and I. Both now scorching, judging from the trickling sweat on his neck and the tickling down my back. Warmth spread throughout my chest, and something fluttered in my stumache. Something was terribly wrong with the flower for me to feel so deeply, so suddenly.

Colin took his chance when Benedict had calmed himself, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Ben's face offered an array of reactions ti every word spoken. Confusion, surprise, anger. It was enough for me to conclude that something was not right, and that was when his eyes went wide. 'Then why would you not keep a lock on it, brother?' He shouted, his voice much louder than anticipated. Worry grew in me as I carefully studied their expressions, replacing all my previous feelings of joy. Colin whispered again, his lips moving eratically as he shook his head, clearly distressed and displeased. Ben's eyes locked on mine a second time, again, they were full of fire. However, something told me it was not of the same sort I'd seen earlier today, this was not anger. No, it was something else entierly. 'Pardon us, drar family. But the lady and I must be excused.' He claimed suddenly, turning to his mother and Anthony. 'We have urgent business that need tending to.'

'–my parents estate. . .' I cut in, sensing the graveness behind his words. It cant be good if his mood had changed so quickly. The family gave me an odd look, and I scrambled further, not wishing for them to get the wrong impression. 'The art- the art in their estate. We had a Lively discussion before dinner. . . Hence the art. Because he's an artist.' I paused my rambling lips, they did me more bad than good. I stood hastily, the rich pulsing around me as I did so, almost knocking the chair to the floor. I smoothed my dress out and exited the diningroom with an "excuse me" and a unecessary curtsy.

Rushing down hallways, I brushed my hand along the wall for support. Benedict's footsteps only a pace behind my own. He placed a hand on my hip, to brace me or simply because he wanted to fell me, I did not know.

Stopping outside my rooms, I urged him to explain. 'Apparently,' he began, rubbing the nape of his neck. I knew that tell. 'It's not, good news. . .'

I leaned back against the doorframe, my body drenched in sweat. The wafting of my fan doing nothing to help. 'Benedict Bridgerton, tell me immediately.' I growled.

'Its an aphrodesiac. It means-'

I expelled a strained breath. 'I know what it means, Ben. Continue.' The air blew against the exposed skin of of my chest, cooking it effectively.

Benedict hesitated, none of this was proper. Yet, his eyes lingered on the growing goosebumps over my breasts. His gaze sliding to my throat, watching it bob as I swallowed a big breath of air. 'We are friends Ben, discussing such things educationally does not betray social rules.' I tried to convince us both.

He nodded absentmindedly, his eyes snapping back to mine with a newfound reverence. He himself staggering as his balance perception had been knocked down a peg. It was really starting to get to him, so I grabbed his jacket to steady him. 'Its pollen is poisonous in large amounts, If consumed and left untreated, lethal.'

I swallowed again, the world spinning as my mind fumbled his words, turning them over and over in my head. 'Considering the side-effects,' I gestured with the fan between the two of us. 'I gather we have large amounts in our blood.'

To this he nodded, the uncertainty in his eyes replaced with a wicked smile spreading across his lips. 'Clever girl.'

His praise felt like a punch to the gut. Although not knocing the air out of me, it did leave me in pain. 'And how do we cure it?' I tried to distract myself, my breathing was growing uneven, my thoughts a haze. And Benedict Bridgerton, looking more and more like something I'd like to devour.

His hand braced against the doorframe above my head ti stabilise him, his tall frame nkw looming over me, our faces stopping only a few inches appart. 'By working it out of our systems, by executing certain activities,' he murmured, studying me under hodded eyes and parted lips. 'The burning needs to be sated. If not, it will develop into fever, the throat will close and-'

'Alright, that's quite enough.' I gestured for him to stop. My lip trembling, my body burning as I looked at him through my lashes. 'What exactly are these activities?' I had a feeling, a hunch, where this was going.

'You must forgive my crudeness.' He took my hands in his free one, managing to wrap his considerably larger one around both of mine. 'By love making.' He was even closer now, his nose touching my cheekbone as he whispered in my ear. 'Sex.' His breaths were ragged, on edge. His tongue darting out to wet his lips. He stopped himself, closing his eyes. His forehead lulling against mine. Most likely taming himself jusy like I had to, trying not to think of the multiple worst case scenarios.

'We cannot stay out here, somebody will see us.' I warned, my nose rubbing against his. My body so taunt, tense, it needed desperate release. My spine was still recovering from that word. It had shaped a ball of anticipation in the pit of my stumache. It could ruin me, my prospects. I only just debuted. But- sex. . . That was all I wanted in this moment, and I wanted it with this man.

I looked him in the eyes and opened the door to my bedchamber. 'I love a tragedy, an epic story of true love ending in death.' I whispered, moving my hands around his. 'But we are not lovers.' Taking a few steps back, I led him inside. 'So, lets make this count.' He followed me willingly, his eyes loyal and round like a puppy's as he gazed at me with adoration. And the door fell shut behind him.

'What if we were?' His voice was low and burdened with lust. One hand coming to stroke a few strands of hair from my cheek.

I blinked, barely comprehending his touch. 'We shall not perish, Benedict. I refuse.'

'No, but we could love.'

'What?' My brows furrowed.

'Perhaps, you could find it in your heart to love me, as I have always loved you.' He paused. The next words were heavy as they hung from the tip of his tounge. 'Let me make love to you.' His voice vibrating from the strain of on his chest. He took a step closer, his chest pressing flush against mine. 'Let me teach you.' His voice was pleading, and I had to crane my neck to keep his eye contact. 'Marry me. . .' His hands cupped my face. '. . .marry me.' he leaned in, whispering the words against my lips.

I nodded slowly. 'Teach me.' And our lips clashed together.

Years worth of structural limitations evaporated, society and politics a thing of the past as Benedict raised my skirt, found purchase under my thighs and pulled me into his embrace. His skilled tongue finding its way into my mouth with ease.

He walked us backward, gently laying me down on my bed despite the urgency of our lust. 'What do you need?' He asked through muffled moans, his lips busy with mine. I could not think, nothing about my being would work with me. 'Talk to me, what do you need?' He breathed, voice almost a whimper as his hands squeezed my hips, urging me to answer.

'You,' I managed. 'I need you.' I could feel him smile against my lips.

'Do you trust me, love?'

'Always.'

He pushed off me, hooked his hands under my knees and pulled me to the edge of the bed.

Then kneeled.

Benedict, the man that he is, stood on his knees before me. Between my legs, he smiled a wicked smile. My body was limp in his touch, completely at his disposal. The aching cravings of my core did not care what he did, as long as it was he who did it.

His hands dove under the hem of my skirt, tracing my legs upward, hitching the fabric on his wrists. He stopped above my knees, kneeding them thoughtfully as his eyes searched mine. It took my mind a second to wrap around his request, it was already so painfully clear to me that I would agree at any given moment of our time together that I could not fathom him wanting further confirmation. 'Yes. . . Please.'

He wasted no time. He was hungry. He flipped the skirt over my abdomen and got to work. Immidietly lowering himself onto my mound, lipping a stripe from my core to my clit and he moaned.

A shuddering whimper left me, if it was from his reaction or the sensation of his tongue I would never know. Proudly, he wrapped his lips around me clit and vegan sucking, licking and nipping. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before, my fingers could never compete with his expertise. My body wriggled involuntairly, compelling him to hold my hips down with one hand, and taking it as a sign to slide the other along the inside of my thigh and burry a finger inside me, pumling it in an out.

I cried out, covering my mouth as my free hand dove into his hair. Pulling and scratching, I urged him to continue. But somewhere inside me, worry built. What about him? My eyes glanced over the still beading sweat on his forehead, afraid it might be the fever Ben had spoken of. 'What about you?' I whimpered, stroking his hair in a gentler fashion as he continued his contrasting assault on my mound.

'What about me?' He moaned, voice muffled by my skin and shrugged, sliding another finger inside me. His eyes studying my reaction, the way my body moved. I cried out again, biting my lip this time to stifle it as my other hand entwined with the one he held at my hip.

'Is it enough for you?' The words were expelled on an exhale, my voice pitched from continously pleasure, but beneath there was worry. And he noticed.

He chuckled breathely against my clit. 'I do not care about me.' His eyes met mine, and a strike of lighting shot through me, a whimper escaping me with furrowed brows. And he continued with a groan. 'Giving you pleasure is all I need.' And added a third finger, curling them inside me. Their size was admirable, especially as they hit some special spot inside me.

My back arched and a tidal wave of pleasure rolled over me, the pressure that'd been builing in my stumache finally released.

He watched me intently. 'Let me hear you.' He requested, continuing to move his fingers as he helped me through my orgasm, palming himself through his pants with his free hand. I obliged him. A string of curses unbefitting of a lady left my lips in whimpers.

'It takes talent to make such vulgar words sound pretty.' He licked another stripe along my folds, gathering my orgasm on his tongue and swallowed greedily. A strained grunt left him, and he collapsed into my lap, a shiver running through his body. My hand left his to brace myself on my forearm, gathering a better view of him as I combed my hand through his hair soothingly, and that's when I noticed the wet spot on his pants. I gasped. 'It was truly enough for you?' I ovserved him in awe, the aching beginning to roar inside me yet again.

'I told you,' He panted, sucking his fingers clean between his attempts to catch his breath and tilted his head to look up at me. Such a sinful act embedded so innocently. 'You are enough for me, pretty girl.' Now it was not only mor core which ached, but my heart also. Still on his knees, he let himself regenerate in my lap whilst his adoring eyes romaed my face. A show of devotion, of resignation, of love.

I moved to sit, his head still in my lap as he circled his arms around my waist, gaze still locked on mine. 'I love you.' I whispered, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

His eyes softened impossibly more. 'I've always, always been in love with you. Since the first week of our meeting.'

My chest ached. 'Why have you never told me so?'

'Throwing our friendship away based on chance was not odds I was willing to risk.' He hugged me tighter, then stood up. 'But im afraid, that were not out of the woods yet.' He said, un buttoning his shirt and pants. 'Im feeling quite feverish.' His eyes glistened with mischief, and let the coat fall from his shoulders.

'If you want me again, you need only say so.' I smiled, now it was my time to look up at him with loving eyes.

'I want you again.' He removed his shirt, and I hade to collect my breath for a second. 'Stand, my love. We will do this properly.' He took my hands and helped me to my feet, turned me around and undid my dress and corset. Again, It made me realise just how much experience he had.

When I stood in only my chemise, feeling naked and vunerable. He stood in only his breeches. Nothing my nervous state, he said. 'We can leave it on, love.' Searching my eyes.

But I shook my head, if I was to have all of him, he was to have all of me. 'Please.' I whispered, motioning for him to take it off me. And he did, it slid down my body easily. Gradually exposing every inch of skin only me and most likely my maids had seen.

He stood struck for a moment, unmoving, unspeaking. Until- 'I do not deserve you.' He awed, 'Beautiful, beautiful woman.' Reaching his hand out to stroke my biceps, my abdomen, eyes searching mine before they traveled further up.

'You do, if any man ever was to. It would be you.' I promised him, and at this he blushed. I grabbed his hand and laid it atop my breast. With a groan, he stepped closer. His free hand cupping my face as the other massaged my breast, and his lips met mine. Softly, his hand slid around my back, guiding me back knto the bed, laying me carefully down on the pillows. 'Princess.' He breathed, sat back and removed his breeches. I did not have time to fawn over his size until he was on me again. Hooking my leg on his knee, he spread it wide. Bracing on a forearm, his face was inches from mine as he lowers himself on top of me. His thick length grazing my clit. Sensitive and burning, still–I noticed. The polled had yet to leave our system, perhaps it deadliness had subdued, but it's symptoms were yet in full effect.

Benedict nuzzled my cheek. 'Tell me what you want.' He whispered in my ear.

'You, all of you.'

'Be more specific, dearest.'

I swallowed, my breathing growing heavier. 'Sex.' I murmured, and his lips formed a smiled against my jaw. 'I want sex.'

'I would want nothing more than to give it to you.' He breathed, and lined himself up with my entrance. Then pushed himself in, gently, but consistently. My whimpered only spurring him on, not stopping until he reached the hilt. He'd done his job well, since I easily adjusted around him. 'Good girl.' He whispered, tracing kisses from my lips to my neck. 'Taking me so well.'

I ached, arching my back, I needed more. My skin was growing more and more sensitive. 'Please, Ben. . .'

That was all he needed to hear. He pulled out and thrusted into me again, moving my entire body with each stroke and it was like nothing I've ever felt before. 'Holy-' I interrupted myself with a moan.

He chuckled, but truthfully it was more of a moan. 'Feel so good.' He murmured against my skin, kissing the tender spot between my shoulder and throat. 'Like I imagined.'

Pause. He's thought of me? In this way? With. . . women, by himself?

'When, tell me when.'

'Always. I thinn of you when I lay with other women, I think of you when I touch myself.' His hand ran down my body, squeezing my breast as he drove himself deeper. And I had to wonder–were those acts specific details of his dreams, desires? 'You occupy my mind, always.' He said quite breathlessly.

'Show me, show me how you want me.'

He pulled out if me, hooked my legs over his shoulders and thrusted back in. Every rut of his hips hitting that sweet spot inside me, wrecking me over and over again. Strained breaths against my throat became the outcome of his efforts, as the power behind each thrust pushed me deeper into the mattress. 'What else, show me what else. I'm yours.' I moaned.

His lips found mine, and his hand my throat. Gently, he enveloped it. Softly, he squeezed. 'Say it again.' His lips murmured against mine, kissing them between every breath he labored.

'I'm yours.' I whispered, and he groaned. A particularly forcefull thrust was made into me. He was never rough in anything he did, but he put his back into it. Always the gentleman, never the brute. I've never been happier for a man to be so contrasting.

The burning, the aching, the pressure. It was all towering, waiting to be pushed over at any second. 'Mine,' he moaned. 'My love.' His pace quickened and ruts hardened. He was as close as I was. 'I love you. . .' He whimpered and spilled himself inside of me. And I came a second later, irregular thrusts carrying me through my blinding orgasm. 'I love you.' He told me over and over again as he let my legs fall to his sides, and collapsed onto my smaller figure. With his head on my chest, I held him. 'I love you too.'

'Marry me, then.'

'Give me a ring, then.' I giggled. He made to stand up, to slither out of my embrace. 'Not now!'

'Tomorrow, then?' He laid back down, this time wrapping his arms around me and pulled me close.

'Tomorrow, then.' I confirmed. Id never been so happy as in that moment.

[jimblejamblewritings]

love letters and second sons | part 1.

Summary: The princess is finally ready to debut in society. But before she does, she decides to disguise herself and see the true faces of the ton.

Author's Note: Hello! Yes, I'm here with a wip before finishing my other stuff. The Bridgerton girlies have got me. Congratulations to you all. So before you read this, please read: I Hate Accidents by @i-hate-accidents AND Over The Garden Wall by @homeofthepeculiar AND The Ultimate Deception by @maximoff-pan. These stories are some of my favorites and really inspired this fic.

Warnings for the Series: light sexism in line with the times, light classism in line with the times, mental health stigma, shitty doctor care, smut, suicide attempt (will get it's own warning when the time comes),

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x princess!reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Author's Note: To those who have read my other works, you'll notice that the author Mercutio's stories are something special

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

I am pleased to welcome you all to the start of another social season. Of course, people love and look for love all year round but each year the season just seems to invite love to blossom. I hope all of you find the match to your souls. Marriage is a business but can it not have love as well? A business built with love surely must be a business that tries to last. I ask our respectful citizens and subjects of the United Kingdom to make love a part of their search. 

I would also like to ask about businesses that do not involve marriage or love. How are you? In the business of health, is everyone safe from all sickness? In the business of finance, does everyone have enough to eat and clothe themselves without falling into poverty? Are businesses afloat even if only by a small margin? How are you? Truly, I want to know. If you would like to write to me, please do so. The royal mailboxes should still be in perfect condition. 

Of course, if you have something urgent then I am sorry but you must come to the palace and request an audience. My valets hold all letters for a day or a few out of safety for everyone. But rest assured, I read every letter once received. 

I would also like to say that I can feel the winds of the ton calling me to grace their presence and to stop being rude by ignoring them. Naturally, the wind is very rude to say this and then cut through my dress and chill my bones even when it is snowing. But I digress, the wind is right. The time for introduction must be soon. And a lovely time that will be. I cannot wait to meet you all. 

Yours truly, 

A Not So Young Anymore Youngest Princess Y/N Hanover (Truly, I need a proper surname and not just the name of my father’s house)

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

Would you like to know what I have learned yesterday? I know the Americas are still a touchy subject for some but I hope you don’t mind me talking about it, just to share my studies. Philadelphia is the center of American debate. So many great men (and women that have probably gone unnamed but aided their counterparts in their quest of education) have lived and are currently still living there. 

Going to America simply for a debate sounds terribly dreadful. But what if we had one here that wasn’t relegated to just the universities. An entire city becoming a center of debate seems incredibly foolish, not to mention disruptive to its current residents, but buildings of debate do not seem like a bad idea. 

Even if some feel like they aren’t smart enough, they should participate. Ideas are nurtured by sharing them. May some debates lead to great compromise and understanding and maybe even propositions for laws. 

I, for one, debate with my father every day on which science is the most important to teach to young children and which science can wait until university should they like to pursue that path. He believes all of it. I believe that medicinal science is too much for a young mind and they only need to be taught how to mind their health until they can understand better. What do you think? I am delighted to hear your opinions. Maybe mine will be swayed. 

Yours Truly,

Youngest Princess Y/N Buckingham (I am trying out new surnames until one I like sticks)

My Dearest Ton and Wonderful United Kingdom, 

I apologize if my stance may be radical but nothing in society ever got done if the start wasn’t a little radical. I believe that young women should be properly taught about relations… let me just say it, sex. Not when they are children, no, but when they are about to debut. Consider it. You all know that as a royal, despite being a woman, I have been taught all things. Everyone is aware that I know what sex is. But if I and my sisters were taught sex so that we may be aware of malicious advances and be able to protect our virtue first rather than waiting for our virtues to be saved by someone and risk them being too late, then others should as well. Therefore, I implore all mothers and governesses to teach their young ladies about to debut what sex is. And to fathers who may be without wives, please find any woman to teach your daughters.

I shall return with more radical ideas for a better and more prosperous United Kingdom. 

Yours truly, 

Youngest Princes Y/N Kew 

The printed letters delivered to London, had everyone enthralled in the early morning. Some people that lived close enough to the central town square didn’t bother with the prints and went straight to the wooden pin board there to look at the princess’ handwriting on the original letters. Whenever the Young Princess or the author Mercutio Quick wrote, people stopped and paid attention. 

Princess Y/N was the people’s princess. The one who listened to their complaints and wasn’t cheap on her charitable acts. She was so much like her father, Farmer George. Even with his illness he still ran a good country… when he was in charge. So much better than her eldest brother, George IV. Then again, any royal sibling was better than their eldest brother, even if only by a very small percentage. Everyday the public hoped another child would challenge George the Younger. They would rally their support behind them. 

They were hoping that any day George IV’s daughter, Charlotte, would have an heir. If she was pregnant then it would be so easy for the public to support her and convince either George IV to step down or convince Parliament to present a motion to King George. They would have a ruler and an heir. Charlotte the Younger would be the easiest transition for George IV to understand.

But neither her father nor husband seemed to care about the lack of heir. But the thought of succession and coups and duels was forgotten for a moment to read the Young Princess’ letters welcoming them to the new social season with new balls, debutantes, and drama. 

In the Bridgerton house, the family ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. They were trying to get ready to present Daphne to the Queen while also trying to read the Young Princess’ letters. Benedict laughed as he slapped his copy of the letters. 

“Mother would have a fit if she had to speak with Daphne about sex.” 

“I’m surprised she would even suggest such a thing,” Colin said as he returned to reading the first letter, thinking he might actually write to the Young Princess about his familial concerns and wanting to travel desperately but being unsure about leaving them. 

Eloise finally smiled as she came downstairs with the rest of her siblings. “I for one think it’s rather refreshing. She is right. Our mamas should be teaching us more than just how to meet the Queen… Daphne! You must make haste! Do you think she heard me?” 

Colin rolled his eyes. “She most certainly did. But on the matter of the princess, what is wrong with a woman’s husband teaching her about sex?” 

“Everything is wrong with that.” 

“Hmm.” 

He looked down to reread the paper, wondering if he could understand what the princess actually meant. Even though the letters were left at home, talk of the princess never ceased. How could it? The monarchy’s youngest princess might actually be joining them. Everyone wanted to know what she would look like, not in the face of course. Even her fourth brother didn’t take off his mask until after five months of being introduced to society and he was the shortest time it took to see the royal children’s face. 

“Do you think she will be tall like her eldest sister or short? Plump?” Eloise asked as their carriages started their way towards the palace. “I’d imagine I’d be very lovely and plump if I could be stuck in a palace all day with the most wonderful food imaginable. Not that anyone should ever value a woman based on her body but Penelope has stated that her sisters are terribly upset because all the dress makers have started saying that plump is going to be in fashion once again in only a few years time and by the time they become plump it’ll be out of fashion again.” 

Daphne looked out the window. “I wonder if she’ll look like the Queen or the King. Oh, what makeup do you think she’ll wear? What mask did she have created for herself? When do you think we’ll actually see her face?” 

Violet touched the knees of all her girls. “Whatever she is like, do not be rude and gawk. The poor thing will already have the vultures’ eyes on her all night. If she even comes out tonight. Perhaps it will be at a ball this week. That would be quite a fantastic introduction. I do hope she at least meets us this season.” 

Francesca smiled. “I imagine her dance card would be quite full.” 

“She’d have bracelets of dance cards going up to her arm,” Daphne agreed.  

“But she isn’t coming into society yet. She’s just introducing herself to us,” Eloise said. 

“She’s still a princess royal. A very well-known one at that. There’s no way the men would pass on an opportunity to dance with her. They’d want to start making their intentions known now, get ahead of everyone else.” 

The boys’ carriage was speaking of a different matter entirely. The princess and Mercutio had written to the ton at the same time. With the presentation to the Queen taking up so much of the day, most people wouldn’t be able to read his work until later that evening. Colin and Benedict simply couldn’t wait. Colin sat with his brother as he drove the carriage and read the story out loud: 

“Arsehole,” Cecilia muttered. 

Ignoring the sharp stinging of her backside, she hopped off the bed to find something to put on. All she needed to accomplish was getting back to her room, clothed. She knew there must have been some spare clothes in their dressers. It was just a matter of sorting through which garments were hers and which belonged to the others. She had been sorely mistaken to ignore the three members of nobility behind her, thinking they hadn’t heard her. 

Lovell scrunched up his face, resembling a rat. “Is receiving another punishment something you really care for? Because this attitude you’ve acquired is going to earn you one.” 

“Piss off.” 

“Is that any way to talk to your dominants?” Madison asked, adjusting herself in Tommy’s arms. 

Cecilia scoffed as she walked towards the door, placing one hand on the doorknob. “Lavender.” 

The other three faces fell at the use of that forbidden word. Cecilia’s hand reached up ever so gently and wiped away tears. She wondered if the tears were for her former lovers or for finally realizing her mind was deluded to think she would be with anyone above her station such as Lovell. 

“I don’t want this anymore.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“You never believe that I don’t enjoy breaking our established rules. You only listen to Madison.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“It is clear you both like her more than you desire me. I am down.” 

“Cecilia.” 

“You shall see me around this manor, doing my job as I always have. But that is the extent of our relationship.” 

“Please, just give u—” 

“Good day, Lord Parham. Lord Newall, Lady Wilcher.” 

“Riveting,” Colin said as he finished reading. “Mr. Mercutio has done it again.” 

Benedict nodded. “Indeed he has. I was a bit worried when he announced that he wanted to dabble in the themes of erotic pleasures in his stories but this was just as enjoyable as all the others.”

“Agree… Oh, it says here that they have earned a publishing deal. The penny stories will still come out once a week, chapter by chapter but readers can also purchase a book if they would like to keep the story properly or are in a rush to read it. I for one will be buying the books.” 

“I second that.” 

“I wonder what his next story will be about. Actually, no, I wonder what our dear sisters and mothers can be talking about.” 

“The princess, no doubt.”

”Do you think any of our brothers will approach?” Eloise asked in the women’s carriage, more to herself than anything. 

That made Hyacinth’s face light up. “If one of them marries the princess does that mean we get to be princesses too?” 

“As if any of our brothers even could or want to.” Francesca pulled her face away from the window.

“If anyone is going to bring them to the marriage mart,” Daphne started as she fanned herself. “It would be the princess. Anthony would be a good match for her.” 

Violet laughed, thinking of the idea. “A viscount and a princess are a perfect match.” 

All talk of the princess stopped as they approached. The worst thing that could happen could be a footman overhearing them and mistaking their speech for malicious gossip rather than light-natured and report it to the princess or the queen or even worse, King George himself. They would forever be ostracized from society. 

From upstairs, you watched from a window where you knew no one could see you even if they looked up. How you desperately wanted to be down there. All the men were dressed up and looking like penguins. Handsome they were but still penguin-like in silhouette. And the women’s dresses. Some, while upper class, were of a lower social standing and wore older dresses that looked just as gorgeous as the empire and rather shapeless dresses of today. 

But today was not your day. You actually weren’t sure when your day would be. Your mother and father let their children choose when they would be introduced to society. Of course you all had to wait for a certain age and it had to be a date at the start of the social season but you could pick the day. And unlike your last sibling, you wanted it to be at a ball instead of the selection of the Diamonds. You didn’t even care which ball it would be. Perhaps it was selfish but you did want a day all to yourself or at least a day with you as the main focus. But that wasn’t this year. Or any year perhaps. 

You were excited to finally leave the walls of the palace if you were allowed, having proven yourself capable of not causing an incident. Unfortunately, you couldn’t say you had proven yourself without illness. You weren’t that lucky. You and all your siblings were locked inside until the royal physicians could observe and confirm that you weren’t sick with whatever madness your father had. They didn’t have to observe you. That was also why you picked a ball instead of today. You wanted to prove you didn’t need a chaperone literally holding your elbow. You wanted freedom like your siblings. Freedom to explore that you weren’t sure would get because of your illness. 

After a nearly fatal drowning in the lake — an event your siblings still get chewed out for at least once a month — you started showing symptoms like George did. For you it wasn’t about if you would be as sick like your father. It was about how bad and how quickly the illness would get. 

You didn’t get to see George as often as the others. The doctors thought you shouldn’t be around him for prolonged periods of time unless it was after an episode. They thought that too much exposure would make you more like him instead of better. They wanted to send him to Kew but you promised that you wouldn’t go to his quarters as long as he got to stay at Buckingham. 

Charlotte, silly as it may have been, had hope. They caught your sickness early. Nine was a very young age to almost go mad. Maybe you could be saved from a cruel fate unlike George. They were too late for him but not for you. Of course this only brought jealousy from your siblings who didn’t feel like they got as much affection anymore. Every time you even twitched, it became about you. They could never hate you. It wasn’t like you asked to be sick. But it was hard to be around you. Everyday visits became once a week. Still, you cherished those visits. Like the one yesterday. They expressed their sympathies and hopefulness that you would get to introduce yourself and maybe it could even be this year or maybe this month. 

You could have scoffed. After what you did just two days ago, you were unsure. The daylight came into your room before you were prepared for it and you had been convinced that Buckingham was on fire. You couldn’t be calmed down until you jumped into the water fully clothed. Immediately, you pulled yourself out of the trance but no one really cared. The royal physician had been called anyway and you had ruined all chances of attending the presentation to the Queen. 

“Your Highness!” a voice disturbed your thoughts and your eyes from looking at your siblings’ carriages leave in the morning. Your lady-in-waiting approached you with a paper, an entire pamphlet. “It’s already spread through the ton like a fire. We haven’t read it yet. We figured new literature would be a treat for you.” 

“Thank you, Pandora. Shall we read it in the kitchens this morning when we return home?” 

“Not your room?” 

“I’m so terribly sick of my room and the washroom and the balcony and the bedroom.” 

“You are getting restless.” 

“It’s only a matter of time. Maybe even tomorrow it’ll happen. And soon it will only be a couple of years at most before the mask is gone. By the way,” you said as the two started to leave. “Did you hear about the Feather girl that fainted? Is she alright?” 

“Oh yes, she’s fine.” 

“Good. Have someone send flowers to her tomorrow with an inquiry about her wellbeing after taking such a tumble. Oh and no flowers to the Diamond. I want to meet her myself one day. Now, let’s read about this… Lady Whistledown. She already sounds like an interesting woman.” 

Interesting it was indeed. The maids and kitchen staff hung onto your every word as you read the pamphlet. You weren’t exactly sure how you felt about the pamphlet yet but Pandora was right about one thing. It was literature. Lady Whistledown seemed bold enough to list subjects by name. By their entire name as if she wasn’t afraid of any repercussions. You supposed she wouldn’t be since Whistledown was obviously not her real name. 

It wasn’t the subject of what she published that bothered you. A lot of it was standard gossip that goes around during the social season but it was her personal opinion. She almost seemed to want the ladies she wrote about to have miserable ends like inquiring about Daphne Bridergton’s flame burning out quickly. The lady must know that what she published could ruin a reputation. Gossip is no longer gossip when publicly written down. It has the potential to become fact. 

You slapped the pamphlet against your hand. “Well, I suppose Mercutio Quick from York will no longer be the entertainment of the ton. Sad, and right as I earned a publishing deal too. Perhaps, I should take up a different art. Like making dresses for all my days or learning to play the harp and cello properly so it sounds better than a dying whale according to my brothers.” 

The cook shook his head. “Your stories are very entertaining. Even Lady Whistledown couldn’t stop that.” 

“Thank you for saying that. I am rather jealous that she is penning under a woman.” 

“But you have chosen a name based on your favorite characters, have you not?” 

“I have but maybe I should’ve chosen better. This Lady Whistledown might be making more change for women then I hope to accomplish.” 

At this, the staff scoffed. Pandora cleaned up your dishes from the kitchen island in front of you. 

“Your Highness, with the utmost respect, you are the one who is going to do more for women than this Whistledown. Everybody already wants someone other than your kind brother on the throne. They’re all praying your niece gives them any child so they may protest for her with the added benefit of an heir. They love her and what you write about in your letters make her seem even better. Hell, they love you and they don’t even know you. They listen to you. And with your words, Princess Charlotte the Younger will be on the throne and you will prove women are more than capable of whatever and we might have real change. Is she still on board?” 

“Yes. She hates her father as much as anyone else does. George is nice once you get to know him… sort of. But Lettie approves as long as I agree to be in her court. I said yes of course.” 

“Then it is settled. Thank God we might actually get change in our wretched lives. Now you must wash up and oversee the Bridgerton gowns before they are sent off. Shall we pick certain ones from your wardrobe?” 

“Give the Diamond the one with lace and her family’s colors. Pick whatever you want for the rest of them. Oh and patterns must be on the Feather mother’s dress. I noticed she wears the most ill-favored ornamented dresses but she seems to like them. And put in an order with the modiste, I should like to do this often if this first gesture goes well and the gift wardrobe will need more clothes than it has at present. Clothes for the lower classes as well, nothing that could get them attacked and the clothes stolen off their bodies.” 

“Yes, Your Highness.”  

“And, by the way, I already washed up.” 

“Yes, but now you’ve been sitting amongst smoke and smells.” 

You gave up your fight and nodded as you jumped down from your stool and began the walk to your room. No one was around today. They wouldn’t be for most of the social season as they had other duties, including watching your siblings. Despite your madness, you weren’t the biggest concern at all. It was your rakish brothers in brothels, your sisters constantly leaving their husbands or suitors, and all of them sneaking away. You paused for a moment before walking quicker until you reached your room. 

Why couldn’t you sneak out? Now would be the perfect opportunity. And no one was looking for you. It would be so easy to scale the vines up the garden wall and just have fun for a moment. You washed up quickly and put on a very simple dress — one more like the style of today rather than your father’s time. Grabbing a cloak and your mask, you put them down on the bed before sitting down at your writing desk to pen a letter. The slam of the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. You calmed as you realized it was just Pandora. 

“Oh, good. It is just you.” 

“I have the Bridgerton and Featherington dresses but what do you mean it is just me, Y/N?” 

You stood up, abandoning the letter now that someone was around. “I am going out to see the ton.” 

“What?” 

“It is still dark. I have a map, my cloak, and the mask. And I have a very clear destination with vehicles that will get me back in the most discreet of ways should I need to use them.” 

“Your Highness.” 

“Pandora. I am nearing my introduction to society. You will all have to let me go at some point. I know everyone cares for my wellbeing but my happiness is gone. I am seen as nothing but my illness. Before I have an episode in public like the king, let me meet the ton. Let me not be Farmer Y/N for a brief moment of my life before I am a farmer forever, before I stay in that garden just like Father.” 

Pandora’s mouth shut. She simply locked the door and unlocked the window. “You must return before your midmorning promenade and snack. Since you ate downstairs, I can convince them to overlook your absence of a breakfast request. And don’t take your mask. It’s better if they don’t know who you are at all.” 

She gasped as you hugged her. 

“Thank you, Pandora! Thank you! You are truly the bestest friend a woman could have.” 

“Just go so you can come back quickly and I can have my sanity back.” 

You closed the window, shocking Pandora as you pulled a picture frame off the wall to reveal a staircase that led outside. The door was hidden behind the trellis covered in vines and flowers. You pulled the hood over the cloak over you. The last thing you did was check for your bracelet and if your papers were inside. Until you were introduced to society, all the royal children had bracelets that couldn’t come off unless cut off. There were just in case measures with the eldest two but became necessary after so many nights sneaking out. The bracelet wasn’t going anywhere but you didn’t want to lose your birth certificate. It was your first safety measure. Even if you were kidnapped or harmed, you’d be returned to the palace for a pretty penny. You did pull your sleeves down so your bracelet wouldn’t be noticed.  

You couldn’t contain your smile at the excitement of being out. London was so different without all the noise. The brothels and pubs were starting to close down for their few hours of rest and relaxation. You stuck to streets where you could see all the action but wouldn’t be easily spotted. No one bothered you until you arrived at your destination. 

The footman stood to attention. “May I help you?” 

“Yes, hello. I bring a package from Buckingham House for the Bridgertons, courtesy of Princess Y/N.” You handed him a letter with your official stamp at the end of it. 

The footman’s eyes went wide as he handed you back the letter and ran inside. The Bridgertons looked up at the frantic knocking, pulling slips over Hyacinth and Daphne before telling the footman he could enter. The Bridgerton boys came upstairs after hearing the heavy pounding of their employee’s footsteps running up the multiple stairs. 

“Is there a problem, Marshall?” 

He panted before taking in a deep breath. “The Young Princess’ lady-in-waiting is here, bearing gifts.” 

“WHAT?!” 

The Bridgertons collectively yelled before the scramble happened. You tilted your head when you saw the windows open and a maid shake out some bedsheets. She squeaked when she looked down to see you. You laughed as she ran back inside. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before you were escorted into the house by a very out of breath footman. The Bridgertons stood on the steps at the end of their entrance hall in chronological order with their mother starting the line at the very bottom step. Nervous smiles graced their faces when you finally reached them. You curtsied to which they curtsied or bowed back. 

You gave them a second to assess you before speaking. Even though it wasn’t true in the slightest, everyone thought the ladies-in-waiting and manservants were reflections of the royals themselves. Not in character or value but in appearance. They figured they could form some sort of picture as to what the young masked royals looked like. If you were ugly then surely the princess was too. You hoped they at least found you to be average looking in appearance. 

Anthony Bridgerton — the new head of house from what you remembered of your studies — stepped from behind his mother to greet you formally. He bowed once again, deeper, before offering up his hand. You settled yours in it to receive a chaste kiss. 

“To what do we owe this sudden pleasure, Mrs…” 

“Beckett,” you lied, just using Pandora’s last name. 

“Mrs. Beckett?” He didn’t recognize the name as one belonging to an upper class member of the ton. He wasn’t sure he recognized the name at all. 

“Apologies, I should explain. The princess doesn’t distinguish in her court, we are all there to work. All women are ladies-in-waitings, all men are valets. Regardless of station, regardless of marriage.” 

“So, I am to take it that my earlier statement was incorrect.” 

You nodded. “Simply Miss Beckett.” 

“Well that sounds like very forward thinking actually. All the same, it is our pleasure to meet anyone in her highness’ court.” 

Violet smiled as she watched the interaction. If her son was close to anyone in the princess’ court, especially someone that seemed so close to the princess as to be sent here, then he would be able to meet the princess with good graces. He’d be ahead of any man by leagues. 

“Princess Y/N has sent me on her behalf. She extends warm greetings to the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons whom I will meet after our encounter. The princess congratulates Miss Daphne Bridgerton for earning Diamond of the Season as well as congratulations to the Dowager Viscountess for raising such a fine woman and to Viscount Bridgerton for chaperoning and keeping the family together therefore allowing his sister to shine.” 

He cleared his throat and started to smile. “Please give the princess all of our thanks for the most kind of compliments.” 

“And she would like to assure Miss Bridgerton that I have not been sent on behalf of any princes. Her brothers will not be bothering you today.” 

They all chuckled when you laughed. 

You set the first box down on the table next to you and opened it. “The princess has brought new dresses for the ball. The Diamond and the rest of her family should have the opportunity to shine with the utmost and wholehearted respect and support of the Crown. Please, enjoy them.” 

The family ran to the table, picking out dresses and suits and matching them to the person’s name on the paper pinned to each garment. They kept singing praises and admiring the outfits. Violet turned back to you. 

“When are you planning on visiting the Featheringtons?” 

“In an hour or so, I must be back before the princess’ morning promenade. She has a very busy day afterwards.” 

“Will the princess be introducing herself this season?” 

“Hyacinth!” Anthony and Violet yelled at the same time. 

You laughed. “It is no trouble. I’m at liberty to answer as the princess’ head valet.” 

“Valet? I thought you said they were all men. They are usually all men.” 

“If the princess should become heir to the throne then she will receive a male valet alongside me. For now, it is just me. The Crown believes someone of the same gender should always be with her should she need to confide in someone about very personal matters.” You took a breath before testing the waters. “Such as affections of the heart.” 

It had dawned on you in that moment that you could spy on the ton. When the time came, you would still have to dance with all the bachelors of the United Kingdom but you at least you would have a better picture of them. You’d have to apologize to Pandora for the countless strokes she was about to earn from you but you couldn’t make this your only time sneaking out.  

Violet smiled, knowing she was right. “Well, would you like to stay for breakfast?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“It would be no trouble at all. We have more than enough room. Eloise, dear, if Penelope is to come over please request that she do so now.”

(part 2)

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[pensbridge]

1 thing that the Bridgerton siblings all have in common is that they are going to act in the most innane, chaotic, borderline animalistic of ways.

Anthony: speed runs toward Daphne and Simon without thought to pry them off from fucking in the garden only followed by bitch punching Simon square in the face; schemes to find the "perfect" wife (one who fits his checklist) to only later realize he feels for her sister....but doesn't stop there, and continues his plan as if he doesn't realize that his perfect wife is actually right there, therefore he should not have to attempt to marry the other in his escape that can only be described as a self-destruct endeavor to not accept happiness; ruins the plan AT the wedding; also smells his future wife as she passes (and gets caught); the gazebo..nuff said

Benedict: is generally a little shit (see him at dinner tables, in large gatherings, and just around his siblings); criticized an artist in front of their own work. he wasn't aware, which just adds to the chaos. walks into spaces without a clue to what is going on before him (i repeat: criticizing the artist's painting; also his chaotic arrivals at sibling councils calling for immediate action); in an ongoing frustration over his artistic expression that is meant to be expression of his feelings; proceeded to get high and took the whole bottle of substances; almost jumped out of a window fr

Colin: proposes to a woman he barely knows in a mad dash impulsive instinct that evades kissing her; walks out from the dinner with his fiancé without notice on the sole basis that he does not want to hear his future in-law sing badly. yes she is indeed terrible, fyi. failed engagement -> impulse flee from the country; ahh (sigh) he is feeding the ducks; loudly proclaims his "mis-affections" for a woman who is actually his future wife, then lends himself to help her find a husband like he doesn't see the big yellow sign flashing to reveal himself as the spouse in question

Daphne: is ½ of the couple about to desperately fuck in the garden; previously was involved in a scheme to fool the people of their surroundings that she was on her way towards marriage; ran away from a prince who was about to propose to her. I understand, but we are in dire, desperate times here. fell for the garden-fuck buddy, and became obligated to marry him, but he doesn't want kids oh no.........married him; in the "I know something my brother's fiancé doesn't know" club of 3 (peace-out, staying out of the drama; c u @ the wedding)

Eloise: trots into a room full of her mother and siblings LOUDLY inquiring how a lady becomes pregnant; accuses a maid of writing a gossip column as if she does have much time on her hands to observe and overhear the secrets of those in her surroundings, and further write about it with an internal sassy voice like she doesn't have chores and duties to tend to everyday to survive; does everything in her power to avoid men, marriage, and anything to do with the opposite sex... except one (which is scandalous no matter how cute/innocent). tears apart her bff's room in haste after the shock effect of Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Bonus) 'Mother' Bridgerton: nearly asked a servant to lie on her in need for her "garden" to be tended to

Here's some more events from Season 3 that is added on to Bridgerdums malfunctioning:

Benedict: insults someone again/talks without thinking; generally has no idea what's going on; shit's (ship's) going on right in front of his eyes and he has no idea (tbh this is everything that I expected from him and this is EVERYTHING (he's chilling); so obvious trying to escape the desper-taunt; sooooo obvious trying to chat it up with L.D./Aggie Danbury, my girl

Colin: where do I start...playing 'Where's Waldo' with his bff for half an episode; LYING LIAR WHO LIES, 17 cities...you went to 17 cities?! (i'm just shocked); perhaps we should go somewhere more private??? /rushes to apologize with full sentimental remarks (good); rushes to offer the help as previously mentioned; kisses his best friend to help her out it's only fair; "OF COURSE!"...back on the hunt for pretty bff; *ooh watching bff eat a pastry, malfunction ahh* -> buys the pastry; the entirrreee hot air balloon scene (he waits, he rushes...he's definitely a fight mode with mental gymnastics flight in the lead up); can't speak in the middle of a ball; downbadism yellow sheet drop; crashes a proposal, cuts in the dance, literally so obvious, *angry* "perhaps that is for the best"; chases down a carriage ON FOOT; the (in)FAMOUS carriage; chaotic proposal

Eloise: she hates socializing with men and she's gonna shout it; cracking jokes with The Plastics; oops loud queen...let the cat out of the bag; /forever the accuser (now w/Cressida, former queen of The Plastics); she HATES society, guys, I don't think you understand; "MY BROTHER?!???" x2 (3x04 deleted scene + 3x05 tick tock Lady Featheringdown)

Francesca: the most sane, but living up to her name; dun dun dun piano; introvert escape room expert; finds a man without talking to him; rushes out of the new boyfriend hang to play her piano

Gregory: fell and broke his arm being nosy AND faaaaaailedddd; dummy was just fascinated by a balloon

Hyacinth: she's gonna be trouble, we just know, ok/always always always right

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 3 - C’est Un Gars

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

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

Warnings: none... just some instant attraction and flirting ;)

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is when reader and Benedict finally meet. Yep, that's the whole chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

Paris, September 1939

Benedict doesn't turn up the next day. Or the day after that. Some snag with travel arrangements that Eloise doesn't explain, and you don't pry. You suspect she championed any excuse for him to delay his trip. But it does mean his arrival is not particularly front of your mind as the days slip by.

It's a week later - after an exhausting workday in uncomfortable shoes - when you get home and notice the door is unlocked. Assuming it's Eloise, you enter the apartment distractedly, reading a flyer you picked up on your journey home.

“El, did you see this?” you call out without looking up, dropping your bag as you unbuckle your T-strap heel, the relief to your foot palpable, flinging the first aside. “There is a new jazz night in Montmartre… I think we should go, seeing as your troublesome brother is never turning up…”

“He is actually…” a refined, resonant voice calls out from across the room with a wry tone. There, silhouetted by the bright window, is the outline of a tall man.

You stumble in shock, twisting your ankle quite heavily as you remove the last shoe, and he rushes forward to your aid, large hands grasping your waist, stopping you from falling down and righting your stance. His hold is gone as soon as you are stable. 

Discombobulated and embarrassed, you find yourself staring up into the most handsome face you have ever seen in your twenty-two years on earth, tongue-tied and awkwardly holding your right shoe. Not the introduction you would want with anyone.

“Benedict?” you squeak, mouth rapidly running dry.

“The very same,” his acknowledging smile is crooked, and something gallops hard through your chest. “Y/n, I presume?”

All you can do is nod. You can see the family resemblance - chestnut hair, blue eyes, a proud jaw - but damn if this is not the most fetching male version of Eloise’s prettiness. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looks very dashing in a royal blue three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and burgundy and gold striped tie. 

“Are you alright?” his forehead creases in concern as he nods to your ankle.

“I… I think so?” you stutter. There is a slight throb there, but it's almost background to the riot in the rest of your body at the very sight of this man. 

Oh god, Eloise is going to disown me…  

Her warning from last week is ringing in your ears as you attempt a step but can't hide the wince at the bloom of pain as your weight transfers.

“Hmmm, I think that's a no,” he hums. “Come, take my arm, let's get you seated and this foot raised…..”

And so you find yourself clinging to the arm he offers, feeling the latent power under the layers of fabric as he provides a solid brace to lean on. Still a touch mortified, you drop onto the sofa as elegantly as you can, raising your ankle onto the coffee table and sighing with relief. You don't miss how his eyes linger briefly on your stockinged leg before he bustles over to your refrigerator and grabs a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. 

“Here, this should help,” he explains as he walks back. 

“Drink until it doesn’t hurt anymore?” you guess drolly. 

His responding laugh is warm and crinkles his eyes so beguilingly. “Stop the swelling,” he explains as he slides to sit on the coffee table next to your leg and presses the bottle against your ankle. 

You hiss gently behind your teeth, the coolness seeping through your stocking. Your eyes meet, and you swear his dilate a fraction, the hand not holding the bottle wrapping around the inside of your ankle to align your foot better, long elegant fingers cupping your arch. Just that simple touch is enough to make your pulse race. Something about this man feels electric. Like standing beside a humming pylon, an energy coursing through you.

“It’s nice to finally meet the artist,” you murmur, gesturing to the artwork you know so well now.

His eyes track to the painting, and his face lights up. “You like it?” his tone so hopeful.

“It's beautiful,” you confess, a tingle where you can feel the warmth of his fingers flexing around your foot, contrasting to the cold of the bottle.

“Thank you,” he demures, bowing his head and looking up at you through his lashes, a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“What the….”

You both twist to see Eloise standing in the doorway, mouth agape. Benedict’s hand flinches away from your foot, and you realise it must look more incriminating from her angle, unable to see the cold compress. All she sees is him sitting on the coffee table, grasping your leg as you talk softly to each other….

“El! Hi!” you call, attempting a breezy tone, “I tripped on my way in, and Benedict here was just helping me. I’m okay,” you add preemptively.

He jumps up from the coffee table and indeed indicates your injury. Eloise nods to acknowledge it, then narrows her eyes at him before walking over and giving him a quick embrace, kissing his cheek.

“Hello, brother. I was hoping you would never show up,” she greets sardonically.

“Hello, little sister, always such a warm welcome…” he drawls.

You can’t help but giggle at their exchange, and both seem pleased to have entertained you, twinkles in their similar eyes.

“Well, this rather scuppers tonight’s dancing plans…” Eloise motions at your ankle.

“You and Solene go without me. Why not take Benedict, too?!”

“I’ve had a full day of travel. I’d rather not…” he confesses when Eloise looks at him expectantly.

“Spoilsport,” she rolls her eyes. “Where are you staying?” 

“I haven’t booked anywhere...” he confesses, looking a touch sheepish. as you clock a suitcase against the wall. 

“Well then, your choices are to find a hotel now or sleep on our sofa,” she shrugs. 

“If it means it will get you packed quicker, I’ll stay right here,” he answered pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

“Brother, have you ever been to Paris before?” You can tell Eloise is winding up for one of her persuasions with that opening gambit, so you chuckle and relax back into the sofa, crossing your arms, about to enjoy the show.

“Is this going to be a two-minute or a ten-minute Eloise soliloquy?” he misdirects dryly, catching your eye and winking, which makes your heart skip.

Undeterred by both of your reactions, Eloise launches into her argument. “I know for a fact you haven’t, so let me say this. You are an artist. This is the art capital of the world. It would literally be irresponsible for you not to stay a while. Enjoy the galleries. Soak up the atmosphere. Get inspired. Hell, y/n here works in a gallery and has quite the encyclopedic knowledge of all the artists on display in the city - a literal font of knowledge…” As she extols your virtues, his eyes cut to you, an admiration and curiosity in them that makes your lungs feel tight, “…I would personally judge you for not staying. At least a week? Maybe two…”

“Delay tactics, El,” he sighs, but even you can see him wavering.

“Paris may not always be here, at least not as it is now,” you append, unwilling to look at him as you say it, looking out across the rooftops wistfully. “The art truly is spectacular, and if war comes to its doorstep in the next few months, who knows what could happen? You may regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t experience at least some of it.” Your focus back in the room as you look upon his art again. “Someone who paints something that beautiful deserves to see the old European masters up close…” you end on a shrug.

His gaze feels heavy like a cloak as Eloise waves her hands towards you. “Yeah… THAT,” she adds with finality.

Benedict sighs and tips his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows heavily.

“Fine. Three days,” he capitulates. “But, Eloise, you must be packed and ready to leave by then. I mean it. I don’t need Mother’s wrath about this…” his warning avuncular.

“Promise,” she smirks, before grinning and whooping in victory, doing a little jig as he shakes his head with exasperated affection.

“Prêt à partir?”  Solene's face appears around the doorframe, her face made up for a night out.

“Not for me,” you pout as she opens the door fully. “ I twisted my ankle. But I’m pretty sure Eloise wants a bit more victory dance time,” you smile as Eloise nods furiously, still swaying. 

They all offer to help you to your room, but you steadfastly refuse, confident you can hobble to bed when the time comes. Wishing them all well, you’re looking forward to some quiet alone time after an eventful day. 

—

Half an hour later, you are reading a book and feasting on brie and crackers when there is a soft knock at the door.

“Come in?” your call is tentative, unsure who might be knocking this late.

You frown as a key jangles in the door, then a warm flush down your spine as Benedict appears in the doorway, suitcase in hand.

“Eloise gave me a spare key. The hotel is fully booked for tonight,” he grimaces apologetically. 

“Sofa it is?”

“Appears so…”

“So there’s only one hotel in the whole of Paris, then?” you tease softly as he removes his hat and drops his case.

“Only one in close enough proximity to ensure Eloise doesn’t have time to pack and up and abscond to god know where before I can intervene, yes…” that crooked grin reappearing.

“I’d never let her do that!” you gasp in mock outrage. “At least not without taking me too….”

He laughs heartily and moves to the counter to grab two wine glasses and a bottle opener, asking silently with an eyebrow raise if you want to join in, which you enthusiastically agree to.

“What will you do? When we leave?” He asks over the glugging sound of the glasses being filled. 

“My family has told me to move up my return sailing to as soon as possible…” you can’t hide the disappointment in your tone. “I know I should do it… I just…”

“…Don’t want to give up on something before you even know how much you need it?” He guesses as he hands you a glass.

You are momentarily floored by how accurately he has pinpointed your feelings.

“Yes,” your reply is quiet but emphatic, a jolt to your being as your fingers brush while taking the drink, “that’s exactly it!”

“I understand…” and there is a world of empathy in his tone, raising his glass in silent toast, which you mirror. “But time isn’t on your side…” he reminds after a sip, “a few weeks, months if we are lucky, and Paris may well be invaded.”

“England too…” 

“Perhaps, indeed. So you should go. Be safe. Back home to America…”

“What if that’s the very last thing I want?” your whisper is more fervent than you intended.

“That sounds more like a reason you don’t want to go than a reason you want to stay,” he surmises, again frighteningly on target with his assessment of your feelings, almost as if he’s in tune with them somehow. “But yet… Eloise said you’re engaged?” he aims for nonchalant, but you could swear there is dejection too.

“Sort of…” a wave of guilt crashing into you as your thoughts slide to Stanley. Good, reliable, comfortable, safe Stanley.

“How does one become ‘sort of’ engaged?” he frowns bemused, using air quotes. 

“Growing up down the street from someone your age whose father happens to be your own father's best friend and business partner?”

“Oh…” there’s a pause, “you’re not being pressured, are you?” his query filled with concern. It makes your ribs glow that he might even care.

“No… just… a life plotted out,” you echo the words Eloise threw at you on your first night here.

“And it’s not the life you want…?”

“I used to think so…,” you sigh, eyes cutting to the side as you feel a swell of a tear forming.

“You have the right to change your mind,” Benedict attests softly as you twirl your glass between your fingers. “You don’t owe anyone else your happiness.”

You want to climb into his lap, grab his jaw and kiss him senseless. The impulse so strong you can feel a tingle where his stubble would abrade your lips if you did so. Suddenly worried you'll act recklessly if you stay any longer, you rise to your feet, make your excuses and limp mildly to your room… laying in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time before sleep claims you.

–

It's the middle of the night when you awaken thirsty and decide to get a glass of water, your ankle much better from the laydown. Half-asleep, you wander out of your room, fumbling towards the kitchen area, when you almost trip for an entirely different reason. Well, perhaps the same reason you tripped in the first place.

There on the sofa, in a shaft of moonlight, is Benedict, fast asleep; his face is so peaceful in repose. But that is not where your eye lingers. He is topless, a blanket pooled around his waist, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. And you cannot look away. He is all smooth planes of skin peppered with occasional moles that your fingertips itch to trace patterns between. His shoulders are indeed broad without a suit, and it's obvious he is somewhat of an athlete; the play of muscle and ribcage as he breathes deep utterly entrancing. It's so completely different to how Stanley looks - hairy and stout - that you drift closer without realising it, drawn to the sight. It's the closest you’ve seen to a breathing Statue of David, a shape you didn't think real humans came in…. until now. 

So much so you don't even realise when his eyes flutter open, just transfixed by how his breathing pattern appears to change the flex of his abdominals.

“Are you alright?” his voice is a rough whisper and you startle. His eyes seem to focus, and you notice they flit down your body before he seems to stop himself.

“Sorry,” you stumble in apology, feeling your face flushing violently as your eyes fly to his face, then look away, embarrassed to be caught ogling so obviously.

“Do you need anything?” 

Yes, to run my tongue over that divot right there… your mind screams.

“No, no... I just came out to get some water and worried you might be cold uncovered,” you bluster. “I was going to cover you up, but you awoke before I could….” 

You are mildly impressed you can come up with an excuse as your heart pounds in your ears. Benedict’s face morphs into an intriguing mix of knowing, lopsided smile and bashfulness, pointedly pulling up the covers until they are tucked under his chin.

“Better?” he rumbles, and you could swear it is with a teasing lilt.

“Much…” you nod before awkwardly turning away.

“Y/n…” he calls softly, and you look at him over your shoulder, a flutter in your belly as you catch him glancing at your bottom.

“What…?”

“I'm glad your ankle seems better,” he offers softly.

“It is, thanks to you…”

“De rien…” his response, low and deep, in a flawless French accent, makes goosebumps break out over your arms.

Damn you, Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 10: The Orangery

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: 18+ - explicit sexual content Word count: 3.9k

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Author's Notes: Well folks, we're 1/3 of the way through this story. You have more than earned your smut 😉 Enjoy 💙

Sophie managed to reach her quarters without encountering anyone who would see the state she was in. She cried for what felt like hours, muffling her sobs with her fist until they eventually subsided into whimpers. She kept fearing that someone would knock on her door either because they heard her, or because Benedict had sent someone after her. But mercifully no one appeared.

Once she had lost the energy to cry she stared at the ceiling, lost in the turmoil of her thoughts. Benedict had kissed her, had said he’d dreamed about her, had made it clear he desired her. It was everything Sophie had ever wanted, but it was also the most painful reality she could imagine. She had known he desired her at the masquerade but that made sense. He had assumed she was a member of the ton and someone worthy of his attention. But as a housemaid he could only see her as a dalliance, a pretty plaything that he could easily discard.

Should she reveal her identity to him? What did she think would happen if she told him about the masquerade and her true feelings? He’d probably be incensed that she had not explained it earlier. Then what? Would he confess that he loved her too and run away to marry her, breaking all the standards of society and risking a lifetime of reproach? No. More likely he would turn her in to the authorities or laugh her out of the room. She was no better than a girl with a silly infatuation. He was a man from one of the most dignified families of the ton with wealth, power, and prestige. She suddenly felt incredibly small. Small and stupid. 

She needed to leave Aubrey Hall. Hell, she could sneak out tonight the same way she had from the Cavender’s. She had the same amount of money in her purse, not having been paid yet by Benedict. But she didn’t relish the idea of hiking through the dark alone, especially now that she was even deeper in the countryside. The money from Aubrey Hall would spare her so much misery, and poor Benedict would probably assume that she saw him as no better than Cavender if she took off in the middle of the night after being subjected to his advances, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

No, she would wait until morning and ask to collect her wages from Mr. Dewitt. Then she would formally take her leave and board at an inn until she found a new position. But should she speak to Benedict before she left? What would she say? Would he even want to see her?

Her thoughts continued to race until she noticed the grey light of morning brightening around her door. She felt wretched, tearstained and dazed. She splashed water on her face, changed her dress and donned her cloak. Fresh air would help her clear her mind and formulate a plan before the rest of the house woke up.

The morning air was chilled and misty. It soothed her lungs and brought her a degree of energy despite her sleepless night. Sophie had always enjoyed cooler weather. It reminded her of her childhood at Penwood Park, set on a windy heath. She moved from the back doors of the house across a lawn and into the statuary garden. She wandered among the hedges and benches observing the likenesses of cherubs, muses, mythic heroes. In the pre-dawn shadows they looked more ominous than inspirational, but Sophie found that appropriate, considering everything she was feeling.

She was inspecting a statue of Artemis with her bow drawn when she heard footfalls behind her. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped around to find Benedict. 

“Sophie,” he greeted her softly. He looked about as good as she felt with his hair a tousled mess, dark circles under his eyes, and clothes disheveled as if he had thrown them on in a hurry and only bothered with half of the buttons.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, though there was no one outdoors but the two of them.

Benedict shook his head. “I couldn’t sleep.” That explained his appearance. Sophie wasn’t sure what to think. If he hadn’t slept either, what had he been thinking about? He had clearly followed her to the garden. Had he been watching for her all night?

They stared at each other in silence. Sophie couldn’t fathom what to say. Benedict looked her over. “You’re leaving?” It was more of a statement than a question and there was a hint of defeat in his tone.

Yes. Sophie should have said yes. But seeing him there, looking distraught and being as exhausted as she was, her true feelings came out. “I don’t know.” She felt as if she was being pulled down into the earth. She wanted to cry, she wanted to collapse, she wanted someone to tell her what to do.

Benedict’s eyes were impossibly sorrowful. He walked toward her, hands extended in a plea. “I’m so sorry if I did anything that upset you. I took liberties.”

Sophie shook her head. “No. You didn’t do anything I did not want.” Her voice was breaking. She couldn’t tell him why she had pulled away but the last thing she wanted was for him to feel like a villain.

Benedict stopped short, his brow beginning to furrow. “And yet you do not want to stay?”

She shook her head again and looked at the ground, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think it would be appropriate.” More meager lies. It was all she had. She hoped to appeal to his reason and class sensibility rather than tell the truth.

He scoffed and crossed his arms, arching a brow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed how little regard I give to propriety.”

Sophie rooted herself to the spot. She couldn’t let this go on. She wouldn’t be charmed by him again and dragged down a path to heartbreak. Mustering all of her courage, she gritted her teeth. “We agreed this would only be a few days until you were well again and then I would move on.”

“Sod the agreement!” Benedict threw his arms in the air and stalked even closer. He wasn’t holding anything back now. “I know you don’t have anywhere to go yet.”

His words cut into her. He was right, but she wouldn’t be manipulated. She looked up at him, glowering. “Once Mr. Dewitt is awake, I will collect my wages and go.” She hoped that if she said it aloud she would actually follow through.

Benedict balked, blinking at her in surprise. “I see.” There was a snideness in his tone that she had never heard before. “So you will simply take the money and leave. You are that desperate to get away from me?” 

Sophie felt torn in half. Of course she wasn’t desperate to get away from him. Quite the opposite. She wanted to melt into his arms and never let him go. But he was being flippant, acting as if he were entitled to dictate what she could do. He had no idea what it was like to be in her position or to face any real challenge at all. He was starting to make her resent him. “This isn’t just about you,” she growled. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand!” He shouted, closing the distance between them. He grasped her by the arms, pale eyes alight with desperation. “If you don’t find me repulsive, why don’t you want to stay?” His grip tightened and he all but shook her. “Why?”

Sophie could barely breathe, seared through by his gaze. She wanted to scream the truth at him, to tell him who she was, to tell him she loved him, to tell him he deserved better than her. Just as equally she wanted to chastise him, to tell him he was a rich fool who couldn’t simply take whatever he wanted, particularly when it was a person. And she wanted to turn and run. It was all too much and she shouted back into his face, “I just can’t!” Hot tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Her reaction clearly rattled him and his eyes regained their characteristic softness. He released her arms and brought his hands to rest lightly on her back, holding her as if she were made of glass. He steadied himself, eyes searching her face. At last he spoke, his voice devastatingly tender, “I won’t see you cast adrift.”

Sophie could feel herself breaking. Entitled as he was, his heart was pure. She had known it at the masquerade and she knew it now. He was pompous as a circumstance of the lifestyle he had been born into but when it mattered, he cared for people. He cared for her, and it felt so good to be cared for. 

She had run out of defenses. She could only confess the truth through her tears. “I have been adrift all my life.”

Lifting a hand to her chin he tilted her face, questing deeper into her eyes. “Let me be your anchor.”

Then Sophie’s heart was lost. He was her anchor. He was all she had to hold on to for so long, this marvelous, wonderful, infuriating man who had haunted her dreams for years. Meeting him was the best thing that had happened in her toilsome and lonely life. Now he was with her again, wanting her, holding her, his touch painfully sweet. She was tired of hiding, tired of resisting, tired of denying the inevitable. She couldn’t fight it anymore.

She surged up and seized his lips with her own, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him tight against her. Benedict froze, caught off guard but only for a moment. Then his arms held her back just as tightly, his mouth caressing hers, his breath hot on her skin. Her hands moved hungrily, raking through his gloriously soft hair, tracing the breadth of his back, feeling the warmth of his neck and the angle of his jaw as they pivoted to explore each other’s kisses more deeply. He was strength; he was bliss; he was comfort; and in this moment, he was hers. He was so delicious and so beautiful, tears continued to run down her face from pure joy.

With a gentle nibble at her bottom lip, Benedict eventually pulled back. Grinning breathlessly, he took her hand. “Come with me.” 

He led her through the garden and Sophie realized they were headed toward the massive stone orangery. She cast a quick glance around to find the grounds empty and the sun just barely peeking over the horizon.

As soon as Benedict closed the door behind them Sophie was overwhelmed with the sweet scent of citrus and jasmine. She hadn’t yet visited this building and was instantly entranced. With marble floors and vaulted ceilings, it was a veritable jungle of potted tropical trees and vine covered trellis walls. She only had a moment to observe it before she was back in Benedict’s arms, his hands entangled in her hair as he kissed her with a soft moan. She felt giddy, heady with the perfumed air and the breathlessness of his attentions.

They clutched at each other as if fearful to let go, and all the while, they were pressed so tightly against one another she was certain she’d melt into his skin.

“Sophie, Sophie,” he murmured. His lips moving gently along her face until they found her mouth again. “I need you.” He pressed one of her hands against his chest. Even through all of his clothes, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps. “Do you feel how I need you?” 

“I need you too,” she whispered. And she did. She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the sound of his voice. There had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her company. She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t want to lose this one just yet.

He pressed her back into a wall of cool stone and kissed her with a newfound fierceness. His tongue swirled around hers while his slender fingers held her face. She gasped as his kisses traveled down her neck and his touch moved across her body. Every sensation seemed to rob her of the ability to breathe. His hands were on her breasts, kneading, teasing, sending a rippling shiver across her skin.

“Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair. There was a fire burning within her that had been simmering quietly for years. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene, sending her into a conflagration.

He groaned, crashing his lips against hers again, locking one hand on the back of her neck and another around her waist. Sophie was dimly aware that they were moving, that he was pushing her somewhere deeper into the artificial forest. Then somehow she was lying on a bench and he was on top of her while his hand reached to lift up her skirts. 

He seemed so dominant, so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s mind was still functioning, and she knew that she should tell him to stop, to put an end to the madness, but god help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.

His hand stroked her knee then inched upward, squeezing the soft flesh of her thigh. She began to pant with anticipation. She knew where his fingers were headed but was surprised to find that it did not make her nervous. She trusted him implicitly. She wanted this, whatever it was he was about to do.

Benedict smirked as he deftly shifted fabric to expose her womanhood and the cool rush of air made Sophie realize how very wet she was. She would have been embarrassed but before she could even form the thought, Benedict’s fingers were on her and he inhaled deeply with a satisfied grin.

Sophie stared up at him, agape, unable to form words.

“I daresay no one has ever touched you here,” he rasped. Sophie shook her head. No one had touched her there, not even herself, not in the way he was doing it. It was a strange, intensely intimate, and entirely enjoyable feeling.

“Do you like it?” Benedict whispered, still smiling down at her. His nimble fingers switched from smooth stroking to rapid circling, spreading her slickness upward and focusing right on the center of her ache.

He may as well have set a match to her blood. She cried out uncontrollably and arched off the bench, gasping. “Yes! What are you doing?” Her every muscle tightened as he moved his fingers in a particularly wicked manner.  

“Everything,” he returned, capturing her lips with his. “Anything you want.” 

Sophie’s breath grew heavier, her heart started to pound. His fingers continued to dance, relentlessly circling. Something was building inside of her, deep in her gut, coiling, pulsing, making her rigid. She clung on to Benedict for dear life, not knowing where he was taking her but desperate to reach the destination. Anything to quell the ache, the burning that never seemed to stop growing.

“Do you want more?” His voice was husky in her ear.

She had just enough control over her body to nod and choke out a “Yes” as she gripped the back of his neck.

He smiled wolfishly. “Then lie back and let me pleasure you.”

Sophie didn’t know how he could possibly pleasure her more but she was willing to find out. She had to consciously remind herself to breathe because she felt as if she were drowning - drowning under the pressure of Benedict, the heat of his gaze, the thrill of his touch and everything it did to her. As she panted he began to move down her body, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, her throat, her chest. His fingers were still teasing her crest, pressing and circling as she squirmed.

He moved himself lower and lower until he settled between her legs, kneeling on the floor as she lay sprawled across the bench. Now he could see the marvelously slick evidence of her desire. Sophie could feel the heat of his breath against her entrance. It made her shudder and filled her with the most wanton craving. This was so terribly wrong, so terribly naughty. But she didn’t want it to stop. She trembled and gripped the edges of the bench as his fingers twirled faster. 

Benedict delighted in watching her writhe. Every signal from her body was pleading with him for more - her ragged breath, her hums of anticipation, and the way her hips had started to gyrate, ever so slightly, in a waltz with his hand. When he began to feel guilty about the torment he took hold of her quivering thighs and leaned in to taste her, running his tongue up and down her opening. 

Something like a sob escaped Sophie’s throat as she lifted off the bench again. She moaned his name and he moaned back into her flesh. His tongue moved methodically, exploring her folds slowly, repetitively, stopping on sensations that made her whole body tense as she groaned. She tasted like a plum crossed with an orange, or maybe that was just the scent in the air around them. She was sweet and he would polish her off like a dinner plate. He continued moving languorously, savoring her and letting her adjust to the sensation. It was only when her muscles relaxed and she started to push herself back against him that he moved his mouth over her sweetest spot, flicking his tongue across her aching bud.

A cry tore itself from Sophie’s chest, animal and needy. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined being kissed like this, tasted like this, teased like this. The indecency of it all shocked her, but her shock drowned out by the wave she felt spreading upward through her body. It was heat and tightness and hunger and she would do anything to fulfill it, to hell with decency. Benedict’s mouth was so warm, especially against the cool air of the orangery. All she could feel, all her mind could focus on were his movements, small but incendiary, on the most sensitive part of her. He began sucking at her, massaging her nerves with fluctuating pressure punctuated by quick darts of his tongue. She whimpered, too overwhelmed to exclaim any louder.

The steady cadence of suction and licking made Sophie’s mind start to cloud. As tormenting as her need felt, she wanted to stay there for hours. She fell into a trance which was only broken by a wholly new sensation. She gasped and looked down to find Benedict slowly pushing a long finger to enter her. Dear god, he was inside of her. It was an odd pressure but rather than feeling painful it simply felt…correct. She knew that a woman’s body was designed to take a man’s and while they weren’t engaged in the full act, this was her first small experience of how that might feel. And it felt wonderful.

Mouth still latched onto her, Benedict raised his eyes to meet hers and it was the most frightfully arousing image she had ever seen. Never breaking his gaze, eyes somehow darkened, he started to slide his finger slowly in and out. The pleasure she felt made Sophie choke and fall back against the bench. His teasing her on the outside and moving steadily inside was too much to handle. Heat pulsed through her core and she felt a sudden spasm deep within.

Benedict released her from his lips and rasped her name. The speed of his probing increased, gliding into her rhythmically. “You feel so bloody good.”

All she could do was moan in acknowledgment, eyes clamped shut. The tightening, coursing feeling was building steadily within her but with his mouth removed it had slowed. She ached for it. She wanted to ride it out before she went mad. 

“Please, Benedict, please,” she could hear herself whining but didn’t care. “I don’t…I don’t know what…this feeling…”

The grin was evident in his voice as he replied, “Don’t worry, you will see.” 

She lolled her head in the semblance of a nod.

“Tell me what you want,” he purred, hand beginning to press into her more forcefully. “What feels good to you?”

Sophie could barely comprehend speech at this point. How could she explain? “I…everything,” she sighed.

She thought she heard a small chuckle. “You like me inside of you, I can tell.”

The cheeky devil. Sophie just mewled with another half-nod.

“Do you like my mouth on you?”

“Yes,” she squeaked, beginning to writhe in desperation. “Benedict…I need it…”

He granted her wish immediately, hot mouth descending on her once again, sucking furiously while his hand began to pound at her entrance. The caresses of his finger and tongue worked together to magnify each other.

Sophie hissed and gripped his hair with both fists. The wave was surging within her, burning her, lifting her out of her own skin. Her toes curled. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to explode, but all she could do was hold her breath and hold on.

Then Benedict did something with his finger, bent it in just the right way that it added to the pressure, massaging undiscovered places within her depths, and it was more than she could bear. The wave broke, roaring to a crescendo and crashing over her every muscle, rippling outward with the most glorious feeling of release she had ever experienced. And it persisted. She had no choice but to submit to it, lying breathless as her body clenched over and over. Benedict groaned against her sensitive bud causing her to spasm harder, drawing out the aftershocks as the sensation slowly ebbed.

Sophie was limp, astonished, and utterly without her faculties. Her body was left trembling and her mind was left entirely blank. She felt as if she were floating, softly held in the weightless embrace of bliss. She had never known such an incredible feeling.

The only thing that drew her back to earth was the gentle attention of Benedict’s tongue. He had withdrawn his finger and was kissing her reverently between her legs. He kissed her crest with a parting lick then moved to her opening, eagerly lapping at her and cleaning her of her slickness. He was so thorough that he entered her with his tongue. It was warm and sweet and absolutely the most sinful thing Sophie could imagine. All she could do was lay back and let him feast upon her.

At last she felt him pulling down her skirt, then he was on top of her, pressing her down with his entire body as he nuzzled and kissed her neck. Sophie weakly wrapped her arms around him, still dazed and panting, filled with wonder and gratitude that the man she loved had just gifted her the most ecstatic experience of her life.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903 @sincere-sarcasm @kmc1989 @makaylan @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

[thekatebridgerton]

Au where Ben is slightly older than Anthony, but still bohemian himself. However as the heir he's unavoidably pushed to choose a wife and being unable to find Lady In Silver who stole his heart a year ago he decided to just trust the tastes of a tone and marry The Diamond.

Entering Edwina with Kate in tow who has nothing against Ben himself but heard enough about Bridgerton brother to put an effort to prevent this marriage. And then here's Anthony who even though a second son is always playing the hen and overprotective to the absurd level of belief that Sharmas are for the family fortune.

So kanthony are now in a battle of contradictions where they both don't want this marriage to happen but also "how dare you to assume that my sibling isn't good enough for yours?!"

Ben and Edwina are just enjoying each other's friendly company, chilling and matchmaking... But also saving cute housemaides from an abuse in a spare time.

I love the idea of Benedict being the Viscount instead of Anthony, because that would create a whole set of trouble nobody wants to deal with. He wouldn’t rake around, it’s true, but he would totally push most of the family responsibilities to Anthony and Colin, because he finds it too much pressure to deal with. So Anthony would still grow up feeling responsible for his idiot brother, who only cares about painting and finding himself. Theres taxes to do Ben!! The family estate won’t run itself.

But well, nevermind that, because it’s time for Ben to marry and forget about his imaginary Lady in silver, which Colin affirms, has to be imaginary, since Ben hasn’t found her by now. In Anthony’s opinion, the very logical conclusion for Ben to marry, is obviously, Penelope Featherington, who is of the right age, the right bearing and the right level of intelligence to shoulder the burden of being a Viscountess, additionally she is a family friend, knows all there is to know about how to handle a court presentation and their mother adores her.

But Ben aint feeling it and yeah Colin is against that, VERY against that. For some reason he would rather not think about too deeply. So Colin looks for the diamond of the season and practically pushes Edwina in Benedict’s direction. Anything! For Ben not to start courting Penelope out of a misguided sense of duty drilled in by Anthony. Except Edwina Sharma comes with a pair with Kate Sharma. The most Bridgerton woman Colin has ever met outside his family…And she instantly hates Anthony. Good, that ought to teach him not to meddle in Penelope’s business. Colin hopes Kate and her corgi bite Anthony, hard.

Anthony low key thinks the Sharmas are gold diggers, looking to make a fortune and take advantage of his kind, but super clueless brother. And Kate thinks that Anthony is a unruly idiot who really should mind his own business. Meanwhile Ben and Edwina are making friends, sharing poetry and looking for Ben’s lady in silver while Kate and Anthony bicker, because really, what else can two people do when they’re going to be inlaws once those two hook up anyway?.

I like to think that it’s Edwina who finds Sophie and takes her home with her, they become friends and when Sophie confides in her about how she once went to a masquerade in London and it was the best time of her life. Edwina realizes she found Ben’s true love and conspires with the rest of the Bridgertons to help her and Benedict reuinite. Because she’s really a romantic at heart.

Benedict finally feels complete, over the moon, ready to call Anthony and tell him he found her….And then Benedict finds Kate and Anthony kissing in the library…yeah that just goes downhill from there.

And that’s the tea

[thebabblingbrookenook]

I had a bit of writer's fun tonight with a talented bunch of gals. It was all inspired by this lovely Benedict Bridgerton edit by the @bridgertontess

The game was to write a 500 word (most of us went over 😜) ficlet that told the story of what turned sweet Ben into Eeyore. The results were hilariously diverse. This was my attempt to explain his melancholy.

Thanks for playing ladies. I had a blast! @fayes-fics @eleanor-bradstreet @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @colettebronte

He waited. He waited as long as he could and then stayed an hour longer. Even after the rain soaked through his clothes, chilling his bones - he stayed. He would always stay for you. The problem was that you always seemed to be leaving him.

Each time he had to say goodbye, it hurt a little deeper for a little while longer. But then, one day, he'd hear the knock at his door and find you on the other side. He never hesitated to let you right back in, even though the chances of you walking out again were easily foreshadowed.

He knew he should stop, but he couldn't help himself. That's what addicts do. They give in to the desires of their flesh. Not because they aren't strong enough to turn away, but because somewhere inside them, they don't want to stop. The suffocating lows can be justified by euphoric, blissful highs. Eventually, decisions can be rationalized. You were his vice, and he had no intention of quitting.

His culpability in his own pain made it even worse. He held no pity for himself. He deserved it all. He literally signed up for it. You had always been a bit of a free spirit. Untamed and wild behind the eyes. That's part of what drew him to you. But the same thing that brought you close was the thing that took you away.

You were terrified of the metaphorical cage from staying in one place for too long. He knew you were running from something, but that same fear always sent you seeking stability in his presence.

Inch by inch you would let him see new pieces of your soul, and he was humbled by it every single time. That's what he had found himself addicted to. The small hits of intimacy you would allow him before the inevitable retreat.

That's what was happening now. The wall you let him breach was a big one, and he saw it in your eyes the moment you realized he had seen too much. It was his fault. You begged him not to say it. You begged him not to love you. Your words rang in his ears on repeat.

"Don't Ben. Please don't say you love me." your voice broke in a plea.

"Why not? It's true. What's so wrong with that?" he asked.

"Because I might not say it back..." You couldn't meet his eyes.

"Might not? If you're not sure, that's okay. Love is a big thing. I don't want you to say it if you don't feel it. But are you saying you could feel it? I can wait. You know I can." He knew those were the wrong words the moment he heard himself saying them.

"Right... always waiting for me to grow up. Waiting for me to stop being so selfish. Aren't you tired of making excuses for me yet, Ben?!"

"That's not what I meant. Please... please don't do this. Stay with me. I'm not going to hurt you or try to change you."

"You already are changing me! I'm not ready for this. And I can't keep doing this to you. I have to go." His eyes widened with panic as you strode towards the door.

"Darling, please! Just think about it. For me, just say that you'll think about. We can meet tomorrow by the park to talk." He was prepared to grovel.

His hands cupped your face, holding you in his gaze. But when you couldn't answer him, his fingers fell away.

"I'll wait for you there. 3pm by the pond." He took a deep breath to steel his nerves. "But if you don't come... don't come back again."

That was the last thing he said before you walked through his door. And now he was sitting in the rain, regretting every word. What had he done?

What had he done?

[bridgertonbabe]

With the violet meddling au I’m assuming Benedict is one of the first to get his shit together. Michael and Sophie are just chilling in Scotland, Michael patiently waiting for Francesca to arrive (cause I feel he would have clocked what was happening quicker then the others) while Sophie is missing Benedict but is also “at least I won’t get pregnant now 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️” just for there to be a knock at the door and a very out of breath Benedict, whose ridden for days from London barely sleeping and then ran a mile to the Kilmartin estate after his horse finally had enough of him spotting Sophie and immediately, while still very much out of breath, saying “you. Me. Gretna Green. Tonight.”

Anon asked: Just imagining Benedict panicking and accidentally resorting to kidnapping Sophie from her new job in Scotland. (Also the Bridgertons men being the most devout whores to their wives so true)

Benedict would have for sure ridden non-stop all the way to the Kilmartin estate and upon the butler answering the door would have panted out his name and that he was there to see the earl and the two Lady Stirlings.

Upon entering the drawing room where Michael, his mother and aunt, and their lady's maid are sat, Benedict greets the Stirlings cordially before walking straight up to Sophie and passionately kissing her right there in front of everyone. She's left utterly breathless and flushes pink that he's just kissed her in front of her employers but before she can even react he's thrown her over his shoulder and without another word marches out of the drawing room.

Michael and his mother and aunt don't even bat an eyelid, having fully expected such a scene to occur, and simply get back to their reading and embroidery. Several members of staff exchange bewildered looks, wondering why the Stirlings aren't ordering them to do something or stop the mad gentleman who's just snatched up a maid and walked out with her. However Benedict returns seconds later, Sophie still flung over his shoulder as she squirms and flails her limbs as she demands Benedict to put her down. He goes to open his mouth when Janet Stirling beats him to it.

"I take it you've remembered you need witnesses for Gretna Green?"

"Yes, Lady Stirling." Benedict meekly nods (all the while Sophie is still thrashing for him to put her down).

"Well it would be our pleasure." she smiles. "However the marriage can wait until tomorrow. You could do with a rest after what I imagine was your tiring journey. Shortbread?" she offers him.

"Thank you." Benedict says, accepting the biscuit before dropping down into a sofa, manoeuvring Sophie so she's sat comfortably in his lap and with an arm affectionately wrapped around her he takes a bite into his snack, while Sophie stares at him in disbelief as she processes the fact that she's now apparently betrothed to the idiot man she loves.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Of Fire and Feathertingtons: Chapter 3

Well hello friends, and welcome to my second Polin fic! This one builds on The Polin Fic (I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights on Ao3) so be sure to read that before diving into this one!

Like the other one, this fic is safe for work, but a few warnings do apply! If house fires, house fire injuries, mild gore, and mild blood aren't your thing, then don't be afraid to give this fic a pass. I'll be updating it every week here and on Ao3, so check back for updates.

I hope you enjoy this Polin fic, I had a blast writing it!

Colin was typically most at ease at family dinners, but the omnipresent unease he had felt since Felix had come to stay with him and Penelope had significantly increased in the carriage, and he was finding it difficult to relax. He and Gregory had planned to finish an ongoing chess game before Gregory went away to school, but he was too tightly wound, and found himself pacing slowly across the room, untouched glass of scotch in hand. He would be glad when Pen had finished reading the children stories and rejoined them.

The entire family—with the exception of Francesca, who was in Scotland—had gathered, and since Colin had not been feeling up to playing, Gregory had attached himself to the knot comprised of Anthony, Benedict, Simon, and an extremely animated Eloise. Sophie, Kate, Hyacinth, and Violet were chatting and laughing around a small coffee table, embroidery hoops in hand. Felix was slouched in a chair approximately equidistant between the two groups, a book at the end of one outstretched arm, and his glass dangled loosely from his other hand. He was close enough to technically be part of the gathering but just beyond the comfortable radius of functional inclusion of either of the small groups. Colin was puttering past the window that looked out into Number 5’s back garden in daylight when the reflection of the small fire in the fireplace to ward off an unseasonal evening chill caught his eye. As he watched the flames dance in the glass, his mind drifted to Pen’s afternoon project.

Mapping out the location of the fires in Mayfair was an interesting proposition. There was no discernable pattern he could see to streets or house numbers, but if Pen was right about there being a single arsonist rather than a pair, then he would be limited in how far he would be able to travel to set fires. Particularly if he was preparing beforehand and was bringing his supplies with him to each house. Perhaps there would be a way to see if there was a particular distance between fires. That might give them some sense of how far the rogue could travel to set fires, and then they could begin to pinpoint where his home or workroom was.

The sooner they found the blackguard, the sooner his Pen could stop getting up at all hours of the night and putting herself in danger to ensure that no women or children were left out in the cold or trampled by the very people attempting to help. And the sooner she would stop displeasing the queen. Colin sighed quietly; only Penelope Bridgerton, née Featherington, could manage to infuriate a monarch a second time, particularly not after she had been brought into the royal fold because she was too dangerous to be left to her own devices. He did not think that Penelope knew that after the third fire, when she had been visiting her mother, a concerned Lady Danbury had invaded his study. Lady Danbury had informed him in no uncertain terms that the Queen preferred her ladies to listen and to pull their strings without making a scene, and in her estimation, appearing at fires violated that mandate.

He had attempted to talk her into staying home when he helped fight fires, but the flat look she had given him had told him in no uncertain terms that she would not stand by and let her peers and their children be risked if she could do anything about it. He had given up that line of argument because he knew as well as she did that she was safer if he knew what her plans were and did not accidentally work at cross-purposes. If there was one thing that not even the wrath of the Queen could do, it was force him to act in a way that would make Pen less safe.

They needed to find this cad quickly. He would offer to help Pen with her work the next afternoon; two heads would be better than one.

Colin’s thoughts were interrupted by a brief coughing fit from Violet. He turned to see Kate hand his mother a cup of tea. Anthony’s and Benedict’s heads had also craned about to check on their mother. A few sips later, the cough subsided, and Violet chuckled in that quiet way of hers.

“The rain shower we had yesterday evening must have gotten into the woodpile,” she said. “Colin, dearest, would you open the window for a moment or two? We can let the smoke clear out a little. How you men put up with this at your gentlemen’s clubs, I shall never understand.”

Colin opened the window and stepped away from the chill breeze as Anthony and Simon made polite comments about sending someone ‘round to ensure her wood pile was properly cured and not minding the smoke, respectively. Sophie pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders as Kate rose and moved closer to the warmth of the fire. Anthony looped an arm behind her back, pulling her close to help keep her warm.

The smoke cleared for a moment once the window opened, but then it grew thicker. Within minutes, everyone was coughing on and off from the smoke. Anthony and Simon were attempting to see whether there was a closed flue or blockage in the chimney. Benedict had wrapped Sophie in his jacket for warmth and walked her and Eloise to the window, where the air was fresher. Colin’s unease rose as he set his drink down to join them. Before he stepped toward the fireplace, however, the scent of the smoke changed: burning grease. Just then, Gregory’s voice piped up.

“This wood isn’t wet; it’s perfectly cured.” Colin’s heart turned to ice, and his stomach fell through the floor.

“Mother, we must get out now!” Colin’s voice was raised and terse. Anthony looked at him as though he was speaking gibberish.

“Colin, what on earth—” The housekeeper burst through the door, panting and coughing.

“Lady Bridgerton, we must go. There is a fire!” Colin had Hyacinth under one arm and his mother’s hand in his in less than a second, shepherding them toward the door as smoke billowed in through the open door. Benedict was close on his heels, with arms around Sophie and Eloise. Simon had Daphne’s hand in his, Anthony had Kate and Gregory’s hands in his, and Felix slouched behind. As they passed the hallway that led to the kitchen and nursery, Colin heard Sophie behind him ask Benedict, “What about Charles?” Colin’s head flicked back; the hallway was already in flames.

“The nanny and the maids surely got the children out. We will find them outside,” called Benedict over the crackle of the flame. And Pen was there, Colin thought. She’ll make sure they get out. She has to get out safely. He looked up briefly. The ceiling above him was largely obscured with smoke, but he could see bright glowing spots that he was sure meant the upper floors of the house were already on fire. The roar he associated with house fires was growing, and he began to hear wood creak and groan. He sped up, pulling his mother and youngest sister through the house and out the front door with him into the cold, blessedly smoke-free night air.

Colin did not stop until he had crossed the road to the small huddle of household servants. Violet and her housekeeper immediately began a head count to ensure that everyone in the household had made it out. Colin had turned to face the house. The roof was already in flames. There was no doubt in Colin’s mind that the same arsonist had struck his mother’s home. His fists clenched. When they found the man, Colin was no longer sure that he would live to face the crown’s justice. He might be beaten to death by at least five and possibly as many as eleven Bridgertons.

As he imagined pounding the arsonist to a paste, he scanned the small crowd. He wouldn’t be able to see the children in the press of people, but Pen’s hair, as she reunited the boys with their parents, would reflect the light of the flames; he’d be able to see her. He was on his second scan of the crowd, palms perspiring. Surely, surely, he would see—

A flash of red curls. He eeled through the crowd, headed for the flaming hair. But when his hand landed on the shoulder, he found suiting wool beneath his fingers, not the soft satin of Pen’s dress. Felix whirled to face the person who had grabbed his shoulder. Colin would have expected any number of expressions—fear, anger, and many flavors of disgust—but in the flash of expression beneath the startle on Felix’s face, Colin swore he saw euphoria. Then Felix’s face resolved into something reminiscent of bored distaste.

“Have you seen Penelope?” He would worry about that expression later; right now, Pen and the boys were the priority. Colin needed to know they were safe. He had to calm the pounding of his heart and swallow the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. He would not lose all of his nephews and his wife in one terrible night. He did not think his siblings would survive the loss of their children, or that he would survive losing Pen.

“What do you mean nobody has seen them?” Colin whipped around at the anguished tone in his mother’s voice.  

“We can’t find the nanny, the children, or Mrs. Bridgerton, ma’am!” Violet Bridgerton’s normally stoic housekeeper was crying. “They must still be inside.”

Kate’s cry was wordless and immediately followed by a yell from Anthony. Colin watched, frozen in place, as Kate sprinted back toward the front door, Anthony on her heels, but somehow unable to catch her. Somewhere behind him, Colin heard Daphne screaming at Simon to let her go, and Simon telling her that she would do no good if she got herself killed. Sophie’s sobs were muffled in what Colin assumed was Benedict’s chest. From the house was a deep creaking groan that Colin knew all too well from watching too many houses burn to the ground this summer. A support beam was coming down, and Kate was nearly at the top of the steps.

“Stop, Kate!” bellowed Colin. Kate did not look back, but the miniscule hesitation in her step let Anthony catch up to her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around to shield his wife with his body as a support beam fell diagonally across the doorway, thoroughly blocking it with debris and flame. The back of Anthony’s jacket was singed, but did not catch fire. Colin saw his brother’s face as Anthony realized that there was no way he could get to his sons. Anthony’s face on the day their father had died had lived in Colin’s nightmares for years. This was inexpressibly worse. Kate’s face was blank as she slithered bonelessly to the ground, legs simply refusing to support her.

Daphne and Sophie had gone silent behind Colin as he started toward the house. Kate and Anthony had to move; they would be burned. He himself was moving on instinct, his mind refusing to think, to process what had just happened. Wordlessly, he lifted Kate in one arm, holding her up by main force, and reached up to take Anthony by the shoulder, pulling him down the stairs away from the flames. At the bottom of the steps, Benedict scooped up Kate, and Simon took Anthony’s other side. Violent had Sophie and Daphne under her arms, with Hyacinth on Daphne’s other side. All four women had tears running down their faces. Gregory was standing between the crowd and his older brothers, looking small and lost.

If it had not been for the absence of the fire brigade—and where the bloody hell are they? Colin thought, furious—and the silence that had fallen over the stunned household and family, then the young, high voices yelling, “Mama! Papa!” would have gone completely unheard.

Colin wasn’t sure whether Benedict dropped Kate or if she launched herself to the ground, but she was the first of the three mothers to reach the children. She was talking a mile a minute in Hindustani as she quickly but carefully took baby Charles from the sling around Augie and handed him to a still-sobbing Sophie before propelling the older boy into Daphne’s arms and clutching her two to her. Within moments, all the men had shucked off their jackets, wrapping the children in them against the chill in the air.

Sophie had collapsed to the ground entirely, Gregory’s jacket and her shawl around Charles, and Benedict’s jacket over her shoulders as he held both his wife and son. Colin’s and Anthony’s jackets were wrapped around Edmund and Miles as Edmund chattered at his mother, rapid-fire, in the same language she was speaking. Despite Augie being arguably too big for Daphne to comfortably hold, he had been wrapped in Simon’s jacket, and Daphne had him in her arms, with Simon holding both of them. Violet was trying to keep a hand on each of her grandchildren at once while trying to comfort Daphne and Sophie.

Edmund was increasingly alarmed, wriggling in his parents’ grip and yelling at his mother. Anthony wasn’t even trying to ask for an explanation in English. Miles and Charles were simply crying, adding to the hubbub and confusion.

Between the fire, the voices, and the crying, Colin couldn’t make out any sensical phrases, and did not truly expect to. He was scanning the crowd again because if the boys made it out, then so had—

“—Penelope!” Augie was typically a serious, soft-spoken child, something that the Bridgertons collectively agreed he had gotten from Simon rather than Daphne. His soft-spoken voice was often overlooked when the Bridgertons got together, particularly since both Edmund and Miles had inherited the general Bridgerton boisterousness, in addition to Kate’s outspokenness. Colin should not have been able to hear him over or under the noise, but when his nephew said his wife’s name, all other sounds fell away, and Colin zeroed in on his sister’s child.

“Auntie Penelope got stuck taking us out the back and told me to tell you and Papa,” Augie finished telling Daphne. Daphne’s eyes met Colin’s for the split second it took him to process the implications of Augie’s words. Then, he bolted for the back door of Number 5.

The door was billowing smoke, and there was a threatening orange glow but no flames around the actual door itself, so Colin had no trouble getting in the building. He could see Pen when he entered. She was on the floor, unconscious, apparently pinned under a burning beam, barely twenty feet from the door itself. She had gotten so close to getting herself and the children out; she had gotten the boys out. The beam she was trapped beneath was burning, but her dress didn’t seem to be. Skidding to his knees beside her, he saw as quickly as she had that there was no way to free the dress, which had actually begun to burn, but not the parts next to her skin, just the train of her skirt. She had managed to get almost all her buttons undone, had gotten so close to freeing herself. He wasn’t too late.

“The deal was,” he growled, as he undid the two absurdly well-stitched buttons that had nearly cost Pen her life, “that you would never, ever go inside a burning building!” Sliding her shoulders and arms from her sleeves, he dragged her free of the overgown. “I’ll stay outside, Colin. I’ll just make sure that the women and children are safe,” he said, in a mockery of Pen’s earnest voice. “Hang the bloody Queen and Lady bloody Danbury for being right. I should never have let you risk your life attending fires.” He lifted Pen into his arms, feeling lightheaded. “You are going to breathe, Penelope. Do you hear me?” He ran for the door.

Had he been a hair slower, neither of them would have survived the fire. Colin could hear the death throes of the structural supports of the house, could hear pops and crashes as more and more pieces of the house fell. Another beam—smaller than the one that had trapped Penelope but burning merrily and falling from a much greater height—slid from its mooring and dropped on Colin’s shoulders, knocking him clean off his feet. Somehow, he managed to slide one hand beneath Penelope’s head and neck to protect them and caught himself on a straight arm. That he managed to hold himself on that arm and not collapse atop Penelope when he felt the bone snap and felt the burning across his shoulders as the beam pinned him was nothing short of a miracle. Colin bellowed as the pain swamped him; he would swear his skin was melting, but he couldn’t let go of Pen, and he couldn’t clear the beam from that position through brute strength.

His head swam. He had to move, had to find a way to get up, or they would both die. His vision was blurry, and he was having trouble thinking straight, so he didn’t dare curl his head down and let the beam roll forward off him; he couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t hit Pen. How it hadn’t already slid down his back and pinned his legs he didn’t know, but if it did that, he would be well and truly trapped. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get them out. His body trembled with exertion.

“I’m so sorry, Pen,” he whispered, letting his head drop.

The beam lifted away.

“Come on, Colin,” grunted Anthony, in his ear. Colin clutched Penelope to him, sure he was hallucinating Anthony and Simon. Instead of wasting time trying to take Penelope from Colin, the two men lifted the pair bodily and ran with them the final ten feet of the hallway, through the curtain of fire that had covered the door, and far enough into the lane to be safe from the building as it collapsed in on itself.

Colin clutched Pen to him with his good arm, watching her face, willing her to breathe. She had breathed in so much smoke; had it been too much? People were yelling at him, trying to take Pen from him, but he ignored all of it, watching as Pen sucked in a breath and began to cough. She’s breathing. She will be all right, he thought. That was when something heavy but soft landed on his back, followed by a flurry of blows. He yelled again at the pain in his back and his arm. As his vision swirled and the strength drained from his body, Benedict was in front of him, catching first Pen and then Colin, as his consciousness fled the pain and noise. Before he was completely gone, Colin caught a glimpse of Felix’s face as Benedict passed Penelope—her eyes were fluttering open!—to her cousin, and the violently reverent expression on his face disturbed Colin to his core and undoubtedly contributed to the horrific nightmares he slid into.

Once the nightmares subsided, Colin simply drifted, not awake by any means but also in too much pain to truly sleep. All he could do was float in the sea of his own pain, enduring as waves crested and broke. Sometimes he thought he heard voices: his mother’s, his siblings’, Pen’s. He could make sense of any of it, but they became his beacons, the lighthouses that promised him he was not lost, and that the tide would bear him back to consciousness and sensibility. He simply had to wait and keep his head above water.

Pain flares made that difficult; he imagined he heard Felix’s voice during one spike, and suddenly Penelope’s cousin’s face, as he had seen it at the fire, filled the sky. Colin nearly went under; only the thought that Pen had breathed, had opened her eyes, and was undoubtedly waiting for him to do the same made him hang on rather than sink into the comfortable oblivion he knew was below.

Slowly, so very slowly, the world solidified around him. The nebulous but overwhelming pain became sharper, located in particular places in his body, rather than being the end-all, be-all of existence. The universe shrunk from an endless sea to something that had definable, understandable edges and dimensions. His left arm throbbed dully, like when he had broken his leg as a child. His back and shoulders burned, but were simultaneously cooler than the lower half of his body. That was the worst pain, the burning sensation—he knew intellectually that he was not on fire, but his nerves and skin seemed not to have gotten that message. The arm and shoulders hurt more, but the irritation of the crick in his neck was what finally clicked reality fully back into place. He was lying on his stomach, so his head was turned, explaining the crick in his neck. He was fairly sure that he was only covered in a blanket to about the bottom of his ribcage, which would explain the odd sensation of being cool and burning simultaneously. His left arm felt compressed and oddly heavy—splinted? The desire to check led him quite naturally to open his eyes.

This was his room, his bed, but not the ones he shared with Pen. This was one of the two rooms he had grown up in, and a near-twin for the one at Aubrey Hall. He was at Bridgerton House. Were that the case, however, he should be faced with a wall, not the door. He couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He was sure his head was faced away from the door; why could he see Penelope’s head bent over something in her lap, and his mother’s head bent over an embroidery hoop? The information from his eyes and the rest of his body were contradictory, and Colin was too thirsty, pained, and tired to reconcile the contradiction. Instead, he just looked at his wife.

A stray curl was tucked behind her ear, with the end bobbing around the level of her chin. She was sitting in a sunbeam, highlighting the softness of her skin and making it glow subtly. He knew her face so well; most people would think she was focused on whatever she held in her lap, but the focus crease between her eyebrows was missing. She was distracted. She was beautiful. And she was gloriously, wonderfully awake and all right. That eased a tension deep within Colin, and his shoulder muscles relaxed infinitesimally, setting off a fresh wave of burning across his back and shoulders.

As though she could feel his eyes on her, Pen’s chin lifted, and she met his eyes—through the mirror, Colin realized. She had put a mirror next to the bed, so he would be able to see her when he woke. His mind was still moving slowly; by the time he completed that thought and processed the swoosh-crackle sound of paper falling to the floor, Pen had bolted around the foot of the bed and was next to him, one gentle hand on his cheek, seemingly oblivious to the tears streaming down her own.

His mother was over Pen’s shoulder, her hand on his hair. “Welcome back, dearest,” she said. In the mirror over his mother’s shoulder, Colin saw Hyacinth’s head poke around the doorframe. His youngest sister’s bellow rivaled Anthony’s when she called out to the house that he was awake.

“Hyacinth,” Violet sighed, shaking her head. Penelope still hadn’t spoken or moved, just watched his face. As the thunder of feet bore down on the room, Colin attempted a grin.

“If you’re going to do anything scandalous, Pen, I’d do it now, before the entire household is here as an audience.” He was sure the grin was not up to his usual caliber, but it nonetheless broke the mask on Pen’s face, and she smiled that half lovestruck, half lovingly chiding smile that his best roguish grin never failed to elicit from her. She leaned down and kissed him gently. He lifted his good arm—admittedly somewhat awkwardly, from the angle, and painfully, as the burns on his shoulders pulled—and cradled the back of her head, reveling in the silky feel of her curls and the softness of her lips. They were both safe, both here, and Colin took a long moment to simply savor the fact.

They broke the kiss just as a chorus of “Uncle Colin, Uncle Colin!” filled the room, and Augie, Edmund, and Miles bounced in the door. Violet scooped up the enthusiastic Miles to prevent him from leaping onto Colin, and Penelope hugged Edmund around the shoulders to the same effect. Augie was practically bouncing, but not a danger of tackling his uncle. Kate and Daphne were hard on their children’s heels; Colin imagined that neither had allowed their children out of eyesight since the fire. All three boys spoke over each other, filling Colin in on what had been happening as Sophie—Charles in one arm, the other looped in Benedict’s arm—and the rest of the family squeezed into a room that was objectively too small to hold them all. Kate and Daphne had taken up positions on either side of Penelope, their arms around her shoulders.

The pain and pull in his neck and shoulders was more than worth it, as Colin ruffled his nephews’ hair and grinned as he listened to their stories about what they had been up to since the fire and declaring him and Auntie Pen heroes. For all he had just woken up, Colin found himself tiring fast. A rapid series of glances between Pen, his mother, Kate, and Daphne resulted in a veritable stampede of grandmother, mothers, and sons heading for the dining room with promises of treats. Penelope stayed at Colin’s side, and Anthony, Benedict, and Simon remained in the room. Benedict quietly brought Penelope’s chair around the bed so she could sit on it rather than the floor or the bed itself and avoid jostling Colin. Once she was settled, Colin took her hand in his good one, hiding a wince as he addressed Anthony.

“Everyone’s here. They couldn’t save Number 5?” Anthony hesitated, then muttered, “The hell with it,” and sat on the floor against the wall, putting himself on Colin’s eye level. He was quickly joined by Benedict and Simon.

“Number 5 burned to the ground, and so did one of the neighbor’s houses,” Anthony said. “There was another fire on the other side of Mayfair, and the fire brigade was called to the other one first. By the time they got to us, there was no saving either house.” Colin’s hand tightened around Penelope’s.

“Did everyone get out?” he asked.

“No. The children’s nanny was trapped trying to get to the nursery. A couple of maids in the neighbor’s attic didn’t make it out, either.”

“Damn,” said Colin, tiredly. “How are the boys? They seemed themselves.”

“Augie’s had nightmares,” Simon said, quietly. “But that’s no price at all for his life.”

“Edmund and Miles coughed a bit that night. They didn’t breathe enough smoke to really harm them, though. We owe Penelope an enormous debt,” added Anthony. “The house went up so quickly. By the time we knew the boys hadn’t been brought out, it would have been too late. The roof came down less than five minutes after we got you two out.”

“You gave us a hell of a scare,” said Benedict, quietly. “Your back was on fire when Anthony and Simon pulled you out of the house and holding yourself up on that broken arm nearly sent the bone through your skin.”

Penelope’s face was calm, but Colin could feel her hand tremble in his.

“And how long am I stuck in bed?” he asked. “How long have I been in bed?”

“Just a couple of days from the laudanum. Dr. Walker said you could get up when you felt strong enough, but wearing anything heavier than a shirt will be unpleasant for a few weeks,” said Anthony. “If you had had your jacket on, you might not have been so badly burned, but as it was, there wasn’t anything left of your waistcoat back, and your shirt wasn’t even fit for rags.”

“The doctor isn’t worried about infection,” Penelope chimed in. “He was fetched quickly enough. He was in this morning and says everything looks well.”

“So will you finally get some rest yourself?” Anthony asked her.

“Pen, you haven’t sat here for two days!” Colin exclaimed.

“We did feed her while she was here,” said Benedict, dryly. Simon snorted softly.

“Speaking of feeding people,” Penelope broke in. “I imagine if we sit here much longer, Colin’s stomach will make itself known.” Simon and Benedict hauled themselves up off the floor.

“I expect that means us, then,” Benedict said, cheerfully. “Come on, Viscount. Let’s give them a few minutes while we find some sandwiches.” Benedict hugged Penelope around the shoulders as Simon and Anthony each clasped Colin’s good hand in turn in that quiet way the Bridgertons had of acknowledging the emotions that had suddenly thickened in the room. Benedict finally released Penelope and clasped Colin’s hand before the three men left the room. 

Penelope slid off the chair as soon as the door closed, nestling her head in next to Colin’s without jarring him. There were tears on her cheeks again, he noticed. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she whispered. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Have you really been sitting here for two days?” 

“You cannot imagine for a moment that I’d leave you.”

“Pen, you breathed in so much smoke. You should have been resting.”

“The coughing stopped after the first day. I couldn’t leave you, and I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t my fault that you had to come back in for me. That if I had been just a little smarter, a little quicker, that you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” Penelope saw the change in Colin’s eyes and leaned in for another kiss, stopping his protests before they left his mouth. “I know, intellectually, I know, it’s not my fault. But Colin, I woke up, and you were on the ground in front of me, on fire. I couldn’t have left.” Her entire body trembled at that too-raw image. 

“You got the boys out, Pen. Nothing is more important than that.” Colin’s shoulders were beginning to scream at all the movement, but he nonetheless reached out and curled his arm around her shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to her lips, her forehead. He could taste her tears. 

“I sent Anna home in the wee hours of the morning to get my file on the arsonist. I couldn’t leave you and I couldn’t sleep, so I sat here, and I worked. I mapped out the locations of all the fires that followed the pattern.” She stopped suddenly. “Do you want to try sitting up? It will make eating easier.”

“That was quite the shift in conversation,” Colin said, pulling his head back a bit to try to see her whole face more clearly and wincing at the crick in his neck. “What don’t you want to tell me? My God, Pen, I’m not the arsonist, am I?” A genuine smile split Penelope’s face in spite of herself. 

“If you are, you’ve done a terrible job,” she chided. “But Colin, the fires are…well, my map is not perfectly to scale, and there is no way to pinpoint a location exactly. There is room for human error and…” Her eyes went distant and worried. “You cannot tell anyone about this; it’s just a theory, and I have not yet shared it with Lady Danbury or the Queen.” 

Colin frowned. He knew Penelope’s work was secret. He had been there when the Queen had surreptitiously named Penelope a dame and made her a clandestine member of the inner court. That Penelope felt the need to remind him of what had to remain secret spoke volumes about the stress she was under. She had found something significant. 

“You know I will keep your secrets, Pen.” 

“The fires form a circle, and at the center of that circle is our street. I think I was right, Colin. There is only one arsonist, and he isn’t some disgruntled tradesman or worker who resents the ton. I think he’s one of us.” 

[1016anon]

Title: Tainted Love Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma

A/N -- Graphic depictions of violence, torture, bloody stuff. The section begins and ends with ***** if you'd like to skip. Other warnings: mention of miscarriage (first trimester). Best way to describe this: Regency Horror. Bridgerton, slasher film remix.

Buckle up.

-1-

Anthony, the Viscount Bridgerton gazed out into the jeering crowd.

He stared at the Viscountess Bridgerton, who was looking at him with pure hatred in her eyes.

"Any last words?" the executioner sneered through his black hood.

The Viscount smiled, unrepentant and triumphant.

"Darling, I'll see you in hell."

His voice rang out eerie like a decree and echoing like a benediction in this open square full of the curious and cruel.  Gasps rippled through the audience, all the nameless faces turning to stare at the Viscountess, soon to be Dowager Viscountess.

When she didn't reply, only raised her head higher in defiance, the crowd turned back to the gallows, shouting and cursing, yelling at the executioner to hang the bastard!

The executioner grinned, teeth broken and rotting as he grabbed the lever and--

A roar of approval ripped through the crowd and the executioner took a bow.

Weeks later, the executioner was found dead.

Folk began to whisper-- the ghost of the Viscount was out for revenge.

And he was coming for his Viscountess.

--

Everyone had been shocked-- scandalized!-- to learn that the notorious killer known as the Blind Man was from one of the most respectable families in all of England.

All the authorities in London had scoured the city to find him: the Bow Street Runners, the Home Office, private patrolmen, even criminal racketeering elements had taken up the search.  The Blind Man was considered a danger to all of London-- the killer didn't restrict himself to whores and the homeless.  No one knew how long he'd been killing, but he was called the Blind Man because he killed indiscriminately regardless of class, occupation, title, or sex.  No one-- except perhaps royalty-- was safe from his murderous reach.

And no one could guess his reason for killing.  None of the people he killed were related to each other; all of them were picked over for their material possessions, bodies found mutilated and naked.  But they weren't debtors.  Or if they were, it wasn't the reason they were killed.  No political leanings, no particular vices, maybe some were having affairs, maybe some were hated or had enemies, but many didn't.  If justice was blind, then so was murder.

Some speculated that it wasn't the work of one man, but several.  Because how could one man kill so many people?  In so many different parts of London, going unnoticed?  Perhaps it had once been just one man slitting throats and gouging eyes, but there might be those who copied his methods to deflect suspicion and add to the Blind Man's body count.

He was also called the Blind Man because he gouged out everyone's eyes.

But when the killings stopped after the Ninth Viscount Bridgerton was hanged (not even a child to pass on the title; his brother inherited the Viscountcy; the poor widow!), that speculation was put to rest.  As difficult as it was to believe, the Viscount was responsible for all the murders.

And good riddance!  London was safe again.

Then--

--

Did you hear?

They whispered in the pubs and clubs, a supernatural chill running through them.

Lord Hodge, the judge from Viscount Bridgerton's murder trial, was found dead yesterday.

His eyes gouged out?

That's what I read in the newspapers.  The Blind Man is back.

It's what my friend in the coppers was telling me last night.

No, everyone's saying his eyes were gouged out but word is they're just saying that to keep the public calm.

Keep the public calm?  They call this keeping the public calm?  Bad enough the Blind Man's back and killing.  They got the wrong man!

It's better than the alternative.

You don't really believe--

My brother, he's got an in with the Bow Street runners, see.  Said Ole Hodge's eyes were wide open and his face was frozen.  With terror.

Like he saw a ghost?

That's what some in the Runners are saying, and I believe it.

My Sally told me one of the maids in that house said she felt an evil presence that night.

You really think it was the Viscount's ghost?

The cook said it too.  Said her candle snuffed out right in front of her and the house turned cold as the grave.

You've been listening to too much womenfolk talk-- it's all from them runnin' their mouths, spreadin' superstitious tales.  They're scared of everything.

I'm telling you, it can't be anything but a ghost.

You told us your wife screamed because she thought she saw a shadow and it was only the curtains moving.  They jump at anything.  Just the other day, Doris nearly dropped Lady Kerr's favorite tea set because a spider dropped from the doorway.

Doesn't matter.

Maybe one of Viscount Bridgerton's brothers--

No, it weren't them.  Couldn't be a person.  No one heard a thing, see.  Not a single peep.  And that door to his bedchambers was locked from the inside.

It's heavy too.  Someone would've heard the door open.

But not a soul heard a damn thing.  It's his ghost, I tell you.  The Blind Ghost.  He's come back from hell to punish them that sent him there.

It's bad luck is what it is.  Maybe he had brain fever.

Yeah, or an attack of the heart.  My gran, she keeled over one day.  Healthy as a mule on Sunday, then she was grabbing her chest and dead the next moment.  Doctor said her heart just stopped beating, right there.

Then how come the door was still locked on the inside?  The room's got no windows-- can't be anything else but the Blind Ghost.

You're talking hogwash.  Someone must've had the key.

Did they find another key?

No one knows.

It's not a ghost.  Everyone thought the Blind Man was a ghost, and it turned out he was just a man.

What if the Blind Man was the Blind Ghost all along?

Then why did the murders stop after Bridgerton was hanged on the gallows?  He's deader than a doornail, not rising from the grave.  It's got to be one of the brothers, out for revenge.  They've always been a weird family anyway.

And around and around, until everyone was eavesdropping, eager and uneasy.

Listen, one of the men leaned in and everyone at the table gathered closer too, bound by the spell.

A hush fell over the room.

The man looked over his shoulder, as if the Blind Ghost might appear right behind him.

Ole Hodge died without a scratch on him.

He looked over his shoulder again.  The men at the table looked over their shoulders also, twitching like spooked horses.

They leaned in closer.

But there was writing in blood, right there on the wall.

They held their breaths, terror dawning.

It said,

Wait for me, my love.

I'm coming for you.

--

My Dearest Benedict,

I do not consider myself a hysterical woman prone to flights of fancy, but I must beg you to come to Aubrey Hall.  I know these rumors that Anthony's ghost is haunting London, seeking revenge, are nothing but rumors-- I do not believe in such superstitions.  If I should ever begin, I will know I have gone mad.

More than that, I cannot believe in them.  Even confronted with the terrible, incontrovertible proof that my husband did, indeed, kill all those innocents, my heart refuses to contemplate that he would harm me in any way, even from beyond the grave.

I am writing to you because I believe someone-- perhaps many such someones-- harbors ill-will against me.  I cannot say I blame them-- the death of a beloved family member or friend is always terrible to bear.  However, there are still those who think I must have played a part in carrying out Anthony's unforgivable crimes.

I know we agreed it was best for me to remain in the country until the furor receded, but I believe this person has taken advantage of the rumors in London and has decided to play a cruel prank on me.  That, or some among the staff are conspiring against me.

I will spare you the details of everything which has transpired in my weeks here.  You and the family have been so kind during this tumultuous time, I did not wish to be a burden by bothering you with these minor instances.  However, whoever it is that's orchestrated these vicious pranks has become bolder.

Please come as soon as you are able.

K.

Lord Benedict,

I hope you will forgive me the impertinence of writing to you, but Lady Kate has refused to take up her pen to apprise you of what has truly happened.

Her Ladyship was in an accident.  Woodrow has determined that the carriage meant to convey her to the village was sabotaged-- the axel broke while they were crossing a bridge and Lady Kate was nearly thrown into the river.  It was only by the grace of her Ladyship's quick thinking and nimble feet that she was able to avoid meeting a terrible fate.

She is unharmed for the moment, but we all fear that will not be true if another attempt is made in the future.  There is no question in our minds that someone nearby wishes her dead.

There are many who believe her Ladyship is now without friends or protection, and it has shaken us deeply.  Her Ladyship has always been a kind and fair mistress who has weathered this storm with unimaginable grace, and we fear that if her life is not ended by those who wish her evil, that she may fall into the same melancholia which beset Lady Violet.

If your Lordship is unable to come to Aubrey Hall directly, please send a person whom you trust and who may act on your authority.  The presence of such an individual at Aubrey Hall will demonstrate that your Lordship will not stand for such treatment of Lady Kate, and that those who would harm her must think twice before enacting their schemes.

Yours in service,

Mrs. Gilford

My Dearest Kate,

The entire family will be joining you in the country.  London has become unbearable for us all, thanks to the rumors.  I expect we may arrive before you receive this letter-- if not, you can expect us shortly thereafter.  In the meantime, I advise you brace yourself for the reprimand I have prepared to deliver personally.

You are our family, Kate-- you could never be a burden.  My brother may have been a murderer, but he loved you more than life itself.  Rumor runs rampant that he haunts London as a malevolent shade, but I know in my heart this cannot be true.  I know this because if he had really come back to haunt us, the first thing he would do is kill me for failing to uphold my promise to protect you.

I cannot believe you did not tell us what was happening.  I had to hear from Mrs. Gilford about your brush with death.

Please be careful.  I cannot bear to lose another family member.  I cannot bear to lose another piece of Anthony.  You are the only other person who remembers him and loves him so well.

Your Brother,

Benedict

*****

"Woodrow, Woodrow, Woodrow"

He clawed at the hand on his throat, strangling him.

"You would dare seek to kill what is mine?"

He gasped for breath.

"After so many years of loyal service, you would dare try to take what is mine?"

"No!  Please!  I beg of you, she was never meant to come to any harm!  She was never--"

He gurgled, eyes bulging out, choking.

"What is it that they say?  Ah yes--"

Woodrow screamed when the spike descended onto-- into-- his hand.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

First one, then the other, nailing him to the old carriage-house wall.  No one used it anymore.

"Who else."

He blubbered nonsense, not even realizing he'd pissed himself.

"Who else.  Don't make me ask again, Woodrow."

"No one, there's no one!"

"Where was this touching loyalty, I wonder, when they hired you to kill my wife."

A crowbar, pry end in his gut.

Torso ripped open and intestines spilling out like fat, glutted worms.

"Most men don't count loyalty worth this much pain, so that must mean--"

That malicious, spin chilling grin which made Woodrow forget his bowels were on the floor.

"How is-- what's his name?  Matthew?"

"NO!" he shouted with agony that reached into his very soul.  "Please my Lord, please not my boy, he wasn't mixed up in this--"

"Not mixed up you say.  I think I should judge that for myself, pay him a visit.  He married last year, did he not?  To Polly, if I recall."

Woodrow was sobbing now, spirit broken.  He had grasped the heart of it-- you cannot bargain with a ghost.

Yet he had to try.

"Please my Lord, I'll do anything, I'll do anything, just not my boy, not my Matthew, he's done nothing wrong, I swear to it, I swear on Lady Kate's life"

"Don't you DARE say her name"

"He came to me, my Lord, said he'd been hired by another person to scare her"

Blood dribbled down his hands.  The spikes were the only things keeping him upright.

"Any idea who?"

Shook his head, slumped forward, pinned to the wall, intestines dangling from the bloated hole of his belly.

"Describe him."

Hiccuping through the tears and despair and desperation

"I didn't see.  We met once, at the back of the tavern at night.  I've never seen him before, I've never seen him in my life.  I'd never kill her, it was just supposed to scare her a little, I'd never--"

There could be more agony.  It did not seem possible, that a man couldn't drown in that infinite well of pain.

"But you almost did.  You almost killed her.  You tried to take what's mine."

His world was made flat with the sound of his screaming.

"And that,"

There was torture-- a method in having his guts scooped out and burst open on the carriage-house floor.  Flies buzzing and descending, already attracted to the shattered entrails.

"That, I will not abide."

Woodrow didn't die until late afternoon.

When he was found, the maggots were already burrowing in his entrails.

The following day, Matthew's body was found under the bridge, head bashed in with a rock and 5-pound notes stuffed in the cracks of his skull.

It was the same bridge where Lady Kate had nearly lost her life.

*****

When Benedict arrived at Aubrey Hall, it was with a feeling of dread and foreboding.  The Bridgerton country seat had not fallen to disrepair-- Benedict was not that incompetent in managing the monies and estate-- but the grounds were not quite as well-kempt.  The pristine lines and orderly flowerbeds were not maintained to the same standard as they had been when Anthony was alive.  The gardens were overgrown; the woods encroached on the tidy lawn; trees needed to be pruned back or trimmed.

However, the undergardener had left their employ and Benedict had been too busy in the past few months dealing with the never ending list of literally everything else.  Hiring a new undergardener was very far down on that list of priorities.

A fair number of staff had left their service once Anthony's murderous habits came to light.  Benedict supposed they were lucky to have anyone left, but the fact remained that Aubrey Hall was a major source-- if not the only source-- of income for many in the villages and towns nearby.  Anthony had always known-- as Benedict was now learning-- that there was almost nothing disgustingly large sums of money could not buy.

And Benedict was now disgustingly wealthy; he'd inherited everything.

Anthony and Kate did not have any children.  In the last two years of their marriage-- before his brother had been discovered, incarcerated, tried, executed-- Kate had gotten pregnant twice and lost both before the fourth month.  The doctors and midwives were not particularly worried, as it was not uncommon for women to miscarry twice and go on to have children; Anthony and Kate themselves had themselves been in no particular hurry, having already raised their siblings.

His brother had even confided in Benedict that he and Kate had discussed the matter of children and decided they did not want them in their first three years of marriage (nine months of which had been spent abroad on their belated honeymoon, taken a year after they'd married).  Kate had some sort of remedy to prevent it.  They were thoroughly enjoying their never-ending honeymoon; even after five and a half years they'd behaved like newlyweds (and all the bed-sport that came with it).

Another, more practical reason was that Kate and Anthony, having both raised fatherless children of ten and twelve, very prudently thought it best to allow the children a period of adjustment.  Gregory had been twelve years of age when they'd married, Hyacinth ten-- both looked to Anthony as a father.

However, after they came back from their honeymoon, it became a point of contention with Violet, who insisted that her eldest son had been dangerously, impermissibly derelict in what she considered his all-important duty: to sire the heir and spare.  He and Kate had to have children as soon as possible and fix the situation, or people would start talking.

Anthony categorically refused.  The situation blew up when Violet went so far as to blame Kate; Anthony essentially banished his mother from Bridgerton House.  He even fired servants-- some of whom had been with the Bridgerton family since Anthony was a boy-- who'd allowed Violet to enter.

Violet was the former Lady Bridgerton.

Kathani, the Ninth Viscountess Bridgerton, was the lady of the house.

Sides were taken, battle lines drawn, Benedict ended up acting as a sort of unwilling envoy on behalf of his mother, a role he came to resent.  Benedict himself spent more and more time with Kate and Anthony; any time spent in the presence of his mother devolved into her making petty remarks about her son and the new Viscountess Bridgerton.  Mother needled Benedict and increasingly directed her ire at him.  Was it any wonder that he began avoiding her?

Meanwhile, his brother and sister-in-law flourished.  They were happy, in love, and never ashamed to show it.  Sometimes Benedict thought they glowed with joy-- and anger, and argument, and sadness, and the entire spectrum of human emotion to be found in married life, but first and foremost joy.

They never mentioned Violet.  Anthony conducted any and all communication through letters or their solicitor; he never once relied on Benedict to ferry unpleasant messages between Bridgerton House and Number 5.  In fact, Benedict had heard Kate gently correct Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth on multiple occasions for speaking unkindly about Violet.

Their mother had been raised differently, she told them.  She was taught that women must first and foremost bear children, and Violet had been lucky enough to have a loving, attentive husband who looked forward to being a father.  It was not surprising that she thought raising children was the ultimate happiness a woman could achieve; Violet did not understand that happiness could be found in many places.

Unspoken was the fact that raising children had been an experience fraught with grief, pain, and crushing responsibility for Kate and Anthony both, forced to take on the role of father and mother to keep their families afloat.  It was only after Anthony married Kate that Benedict saw how truly miserable his brother had been and how heavy the burden he'd shouldered.  Now that Benedict was Viscount, he understood how thankless the duties Anthony had carried out every day were.

Some days, Benedict did not blame his brother for turning to extracurricular murder.

Yet it was undeniable that no matter the contentious relationship between Anthony and their mother, he was the pillar who held the family together.  If the matter of children had fractured the Bridgerton siblings, Anthony's trial and execution utterly broke them.

The past months had hollowed the family to a mere shell.

It felt like a shock-- it was a shock-- and a betrayal of the highest order that their beloved eldest brother was a notorious serial murderer.  Benedict still did not know how he felt about it; the only things he knew were that he still loved his brother-- perhaps now more than ever-- and he did not blame Kate.

Benedict was like Kate.  He did not deny-- not that he could have even if he'd wanted to-- that Anthony had killed all those people for no rhyme or reason.  Benedict did not seek to excuse his brother or provide some sort of craven justification for Anthony's actions.  He did not even understand why Anthony did it; he wasn't sure if he wanted to; he wasn't sure it was possible.  Anthony was monstrous; Anthony was a monster; Anthony was the best man Benedict had ever known.  All of these things were true.

Perhaps he should have hated Anthony.  Perhaps he should have been angry.  Instead, he felt profound grief when Anthony was executed.  Justice, fairness, right and wrong did not matter.  Love confounded all of it.

This was not true of everyone else in the family.

It was far from true for everyone else in the family.

Kate was the only other person whose love for Anthony remained steadfast.  She understood what Benedict came to realize: the same Anthony he'd loved and admired for all these years was the same Anthony who'd killed all those people.  Benedict had loved a murderer all along-- the only difference was that now he knew his brother was a murderer.

Anthony's habit of killing had long predated Kate's entrance into his life.

Most of the family disregarded that.

[islemeadow]

Celebrating two weeks of "Aspire - Kanthony's continuation story" being out there for you to read! Here's the beginning of chapter 1, in case you missed it...

Aubrey Hall, June 1815

The game of pall-mall was quickly afoot after Hyacinth had recovered the runaway ball from Newton. Anthony faced his unprecedented third annual loss of the game after Eloise had knocked his ball way too far into the bushes to be able to get on top of the game again. Kate's ball met the same fate in Daphne's hands and Benedict's in Colin's, and after a fierce final fight between Colin, Eloise and Daphne, the third Bridgerton son emerged as the winner.

"Haha, look at that!" Colin rejoiced as he swung his mallet and his ball rolled neatly through the last wicket.

"Was this your first ever victory, brother?" Benedict teased and took a sip of his flask.

"Well, as long as Daphne or Anthony did not win, I guess we can all be quite satisfied." Eloise sneered. "Or perhaps we should have let the viscountess win the game, being the new lady of Aubrey Hall?" She chaffed and took a bow towards Kate.

"Oh, please do not insult me with such a pointless act! I am quite sure I shall beat you all next time, even if it will only be my third time playing this brutal game." Kate laughed, just as Anthony strode up the hill after finally finding his ball underneath a large hazelnut bush.

"Did Colin really win? Congratulations brother, though I do swear my line of losses will end with this particular game." He stated and patted Colin on the back.

"Well, your wife just declared that she will be victorious in the following game, so we shall look forward to a most interesting revanche." Daphne smiled.

"I would not expect any less from her." Anthony said, wrapping his arm around Kate's waist and planting a kiss on her temple. "Come along now dearest family, I believe the duke will arrive at any moment!"

The duke did arrive shortly after all the Bridgertons, Duchess Daphne and Lady Agatha Danbury had sat down by the large table decked outside in the garden.

"Hastings! I am glad you finally arrived, but I am sad to inform you that you just missed our game of pall-mall." Anthony greeted him, standing up and shaking his hand happily.

"Bridgertons, godmother." Simon smiled as they all rose. "Please, do not get up. I am glad as well to be here and see you all, after such a long time." He sat down on the empty chair next to Daphne. "And most of all I am glad to see you, viscountess. We met ever so briefly at your wedding and I am looking forward to getting to know another poor soul married into this crazy mallet-swinging family." He grinned and looked at Kate on the opposite side of the table that was filled with fruits, sweets and chilled beverages for the hot summer day.

"I am pleased to meet you too, Your Grace." Kate smiled. "Daphne has told me so much about you and little Augie is such a lovely child. And I must congratulate you on soon receiving another, Daphne just told us the wonderful news this morning!"

"Yes, congratulations to you both! Most wonderful news indeed!" Anthony proclaimed with a smile and stood up again. "I shall propose a toast; to my dear sister and my dear friend for being blessed with a second child!"

"Hear, hear!" Violet smiled, as they all joined in on the toast. "And hopefully that child will soon have a cousin." She added, with a wink of her eye towards Kate and Anthony.

"And with the great diligence put into that matter, I am sure it will happen quite soon indeed..." Benedict guffawed, mostly to Colin, but loud enough for the whole table to hear and for Anthony to give him a murderous – but also slightly amused – look. The corner of Kate's lip twitched as well and underneath the table she let her fingers absentmindedly caress her belly. She had felt the changes in her body already for quite some time. It was getting ready, making itself prepared for something new, something big to happen. She had noted the increase of her appetite, the swelling of her breasts, the peculiar fancies regarding different kinds of foods and the changing of previously well-known smells. And now at last, even the quite evident absence of her monthly courses. Nevertheless, she still felt like she did not want to get Anthony's hopes up, perhaps in vain, and had refrained from sharing these suspicions with him before she was undoubtedly certain of her condition. Soon she would call on a doctor and know for sure, this she had decided. She stopped caressing her belly through the smooth fabric of her purple dress and squeezed Anthony's hand instead, sending a quick smile his way. Simon smirked fondly at their affection.

"Now, please tell me. I must know everything about your travels to Bombay, Lord and Lady Bridgerton." The duke requested, as they had all settled after the toasting.

Read the rest of it (along with eight other chapters and plenty more to come) on either AO3 or WATTPAD, please leave a comment too! ❤️

[entertaining-two]

The weird double standard with fans and the Bridgerton brothers really shows how Colin is the underdog. Everyone screamed “EW CRINGE” when Colin flirts and has a new persona he put on. Everyone screamed “HE DOESNT DESERVE PENELOPE” when he went to brothels twice, and the last time didn’t even entertain it.

But for some reason no one understands that his character actually did these things as a mask for his softer true identity that his older brothers and society mocked him for.

But then, the hypocrisy is Benedict and Anthony were known rakes, going around and having sex with random women. When it came to Anthony no one batted an eye at his previous actions or the way he just ran through debutants judgmentally to find the most perfect one only to wind up with Kate frustratingly in the end.

And everyone loves and adores Benedict for how cute he is even though every season hes out sleeping with a different woman.

Why is the judgment only on Colin when he is actually the most chill of all the brothers? He is the most sensitive. He is the most caring. Doesn’t mean the others aren’t, but he shows it the most and still fans cut him down and claim he’s no good.

Violet to Colin: "You're one of my most sensitive children."

The fandom: "How can she say that! Anthony, Benedict bla, bla bla..."

Colin is ONE of her most sensitive children. ONE, just ONE of them. And she's right.

ONE OF HER MOST SENSITIVE CHILDREN

He was the only one who indulged Violet and let her introduce him to debutantes in s1, while Anthony fucked his mistress and Ben went to orgies.

He was a complete gentleman with Marina. AND defended her when Anthony implied something about her.

And when he learned the truth, he confessed that he would have married her if she had told him the truth. 🥹

He danced with Pen after Cressida bullied her.

He wrote dozens of letters that his family of 8 could not care to respond to often. There are 8 of them!

He worried about Ben in s2 and supported him on his application to the Academy.

He learned the truth of Jack Featherington and instead of simply leaving, he did something about it. Not only did he help the Featherington family, but he saved other lords from being scammed.

He apologized to Will, explained why he acted rudely AND made amends to repair the damage by bringing men to Will's club.

He returned with gifts for everyone, but he seemed particularly thoughtful to his sisters and mother. A perfume for Hyacinth, music for Francesca, and a book for Eloise 🥹. Violet was so moved by his gift and here we have a lovely headcanon on the watch:

Then with Pen...

He runs after Pen, despite other men wanting to know about his adventures.

He acknowledges his mistake and immediately tries to apologize to Pen in the Four Seasons Ball.

The next day, he comes back with a heartfelt apology.

Then, he offers her help, despite the risk of scandal and embarrassment for him. He knows Pen has no one else.

He goes to see Pen at night to make sure she's ok. And when she asks him for a kiss, he does it so sweetly.

He is brave enough to leave the men who just want to know about his sexual life.

HE WAS BRAVE ENOUGH TO ASK, as soon as he put himself together and understood his feelings. He didn't play jealousy games like others, he went and put his heart on the table. He didn't even know about Pen's feelings and he risked it!

Some extracts from Colin's journals show that his family is always in his thoughts.

You can see why Violet, as the good mother that she is, can tell how sensitive he is.

Colin travels during the summer and comes back during the season to be with his family. It angers me that people think he's selfish for this when Benedict also abandons the family to fuck.

And yet, both Colin and Ben are sensitive. BOTH OF THEM, Francesca too. I wouldn't call Hyacinth or Gregory sensitive right now, and before s3, I wouldn't include Eloise either.

Anyway, I needed to get this out because I am so fucking tired of Kanthonies and Benophies making tantrums about this line.

[themilkybarboy]

Random Bridgerton headcannons

Francesca was about 70% sure that pen was Whistledown. She really looked up to her as a kid because she noticed how observant and witty she actually was, and so she wanted to be like her when she grew up

For lady Danbury’s 90th birthday present Hyacinth attempted to write her own version of “Miss Butterworth and the mad Baron” …it was terrible, but Lady Danbury retains that it is her all time favourite book

After Eloise the best shots are Michael, Kate and Simon as they all had experience on what they proudly call ‘REAL hunts’ when in India.

After that it’s Phillip then surprisingly Sophie (Eloise taught her) she says it’s because she has steady hands after so many years of work

When hyacinth was pregnant for the first time Gareth reached out to both Phillip and Simon to ask for advice on how to not be like you father

Kate favourite Bridgerton in-law is Lucy. She loves all of them, she really does, but there is just something about Lucy that she feels so fond of.

Hyacinth called Anthony dad when she was really young and he cried for two days. He still gets teary when he thinks about it now.

When Eloise and Penelope were about 5 months pregnant they both got really emotional about missing each other and so polin went to stay at Romney hall for a month.

Colin claims that it was the most stressful month of his life. NOTHING is scarier or more irritable than a pregnant Eloise. And as it turns out his wife does NOT take his side when he eats the last of the Jam Francesca sent from Scotland that Eloise had been craving.

When they were younger violet walked in on Daphne washing Eloise’s hair with orange juice because Benedict told her it would make her hair the same colour as Penelope’s and she wanted to make pen feel better about her hair

Phillip is flirted with constantly at balls but the man is so socially in-adept that he doesn’t notice. Eloise however does notice.

Hyacinth casually mentioned the whole breaking and entering while trying to steal very expensive jewels from a baron during afternoon tea and Anthony grips he teacup so hard it shatters (he swears that is the closest he has ever come to a heart attack) violet was honestly unfazed

When Edmund was a toddler he tried to sit on Newton constantly. Newton was actually very chill about it as he adored the kid

Gregory had heard about how Michael made all of the woman swoon and was not looking forward to him meeting Lucy. Only for her to be totally unaffected and ‘not get the big deal’….She did however get quite flustered meeting Simon for the first time.

Unlike most people Anthony enjoys getting older it makes him happy to have been proved wrong and know that he won’t be leaving his family too soon

[fayes-fics]

Lesson Learned

Lessons Series Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x female reader, Benedict Bridgerton x female reader.

Summary: Sequel to The Lesson. Probably best to read that first. Anthony catches you and Benedict without him and teaches you both a lesson.

Warnings: So many. 18+, minors dni, smut, threesome (FMM), d/s relationships, discipline (caning), spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, fingering, handjob, edging/overstimulation, oral sex (f to m), deepthroat orgasm, vaginal sex. No incest. Please note this is not a marriage relationship.

W/c: 6.0K (wtf I’m so sorry)

A/n: Please read the warnings, like the first story, this one is spicy by request. This fic is a sequel request fill for @iboopedyournose and is dedicated to her. I hope I have fulfilled what you wanted for the follow up and that you enjoy. There are a couple of intentional POV changes during this story once to Anthony, once to Benedict denoted by “***”. Thanks to @makaylan for a quick beta.

The day after your first encounter - well, threesome - with one Benedict Bridgerton, you find a notecard in the pocket of your robe. A hand-written note in beautiful looped writing. Thou art too dear for my possessing. Above there’s an address printed. You store the card carefully in the pages of your favourite book.

Changing the route of your daily walk to pass the address doesn’t necessarily signify anything. That, five days later, you forget to plan for the unpredictability of London weather doesn’t indicate any premeditation. That you now stand on the doorstep of said address, looking akin to a drowned rat, well, again, not your plan or fault. These things happen. 

It’s the choices you make after the door opens that are of consequence.

“You’ll need to change, or you’ll catch a chill,” he says after ushering you in and ordering some tea.

“Change into what exactly?” You ask pointedly, assuming a bachelor's lodgings are woefully under-equipped with dresses.

“You’ll have to borrow some of my clothes” he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious solution. “Just until yours are dry," he adds. His assumption you will stay for that long isn’t something you wish to dwell on. 

He disappears for a few moments before returning, handing you a towel, some trousers and a white shirt, and shows you to a bathroom. Your dress is soaked, and your undergarments too. Great. You will be spending time in the company of a man who has done unspeakable things to you (within minutes of your first meeting) without underwear. That doesn’t seem like a recipe for disaster at all.

You pull on the clothes he gave you and laugh at your reflection. You look like an actual clown. At least being too alluring won’t be a problem. 

Luckily your hat stopped your hair from getting too wet, so you just towel it dry and leave it loose. What’s the point in attempting proper appearance when he has already pulled you around by the same hair, his fingers inside you?

Making your way back to his drawing-room, you see Benedict painting on his easel in the bay window. You pad in quietly and take a seat, seeking solace in the warm tea waiting for you.

Surprisingly it’s not a tense atmosphere. You are relaxed, oddly at ease. After about five minutes, you have finished your tea and wish you had a book to read.

“There’s a small library next door if you wish," he mentions without looking away from his task.

Hmm, a coincidence of timing; surely he can't read your mind. Lots of people like to read.

You wander into the library. After perusing some spines, you decide to use the ladder and look at the books up high. The trouble is, the clown trousers represent a trip hazard. You shrug to yourself and pull down the braces, and they fall to the floor. You’re sure no one will come in and see you, so what’s the harm? You’ll only be out of them for a few moments. 

You climb the ladder about two feet up and reach for a book that catches your interest. Not thinking about how far up the shirt may have risen.

“If you need a recommendation…” he stops mid-sentence with a growl.

You curse under your breath and hug into the ladder, just trying to ride out your mortification. You didn’t think Benedict would follow you in here.

It’s far too quiet now. Somehow you don’t think to move; provide some sense of modesty; you’re frozen in place.

“What is your colour?” he grinds out.

You look confused for a moment. What is he talking about?

“Answer me, girl.” 

Oh.  

Oh, holy fuck.

There’s a flood between your legs. Unbidden.

“Green," you stutter and hold your breath, staring at the bookcase in front of you.

You should have said red, red, RED; your mind is screaming. 

You hear long strides across the room then two large warm hands seize your bare ass cheeks. 

“You are all I have thought about for days," he groans, burying his face into your lower back,  “Now I find you in just my shirt, no underwear. Dear girl, are you trying to kill me?”

He slides one hand between your cheeks, ploughing heavily into your slit. His breath stutters as he finds just how wet you are already.

“I need you now, here," he pleads, his middle finger circling your clit.

“Oh god, yes," you hiss.

He bodily pulls you off the ladder. Pushing your face-first against the bookcase, he crowds himself into your back. He wraps his hand around your throat and kisses your cheekbone. The other hand trails up your skin from under the hem of his shirt you wear, tracing your curves, around your hip, up your stomach to your breast that he cups and squeezes.

“Please kiss me, sir," you plead; he groans on the last word.

He spins you around and gives you a devastating crooked smile before his lips descend to yours. His kiss is masterful and everything you hoped it would be since Anthony denied you. You moan into his mouth as his tongue teases yours, and with a snarl, he deepens the kiss and grasps your hips, pushing you up higher into the bookcase. A warm thigh is slotting between your bare legs to take your weight, the wool of his trousers catching against your clit. Your hands slide into his hair. Oh fuck, you could get lost in this.

His fingers start to unbutton the shirt you wear - his shirt - but he stops halfway. 

“I want to fuck you while you wear this, my shirt,” he hisses possessively, one hand slipping inside to pinch your nipple as his mouth slides down your neck. You can feel his cock pressed into your stomach; this time, you crave to see it, touch it, and taste it. There’s no Anthony to stop you. 

***

Unbeknownst to you, Anthony has a key to every Bridgerton property, the privilege of being head of the family. He is known to drop by unannounced to check on family occasionally. It just so happens today he decided to visit Benedict to discuss his country cottage. 

Anthony shakes the rain from his hair and enters the drawing-room but, finding no one, continues to the next room. He freezes in the doorway. 

There he sees Benedict with a woman’s hands in his hair; her bare legs wrapped loosely around his knees, she’s pressed against the library bookcase as they kiss hard and heavy.

Good for you, brother, he thinks.

Until he hears your voice.

“Oh, sir.”

And every nerve in Anthony’s body is alight at once. 

You have never discussed terms of exclusivity, but Anthony just assumed you were all his. Every night, he comes to you; he still has your smell on his skin from this morning. 

But here you are with his very own brother. Doing the one thing, he forbade you from doing - kissing. The incandescent rage broils heavy in his chest, and he goes to speak, but something stops him. 

The anger is joined by a more unfamiliar urge, a salty tang of desire. Dear god, but he wants to watch you. Watch you be pleasured, be fucked. Watch your face as you get eaten out; your toes and fingers curl as you are pounded by a cock. Maybe not today, but someday. And he supposes if there is one person he would trust to do so, it’s his brother. So fighting his possessive instincts, he stays silent. Biting his tongue. Watching.

He watches as your hands card through Benedict’s hair. 

He watches as his younger brother rhythmically grinds his thigh between your legs, making you gasp.

He watches as Benedict hauls you off the bookcase and slips to the rug on the floor, you underneath him. You writhing in pleasure, little pants of breath between fevered kisses.

He watches his brother slide his lips down your neck, your breastbone, moving the shirt you wear to wrap his lips fiercely around your nipple. 

But your cry of pleasure pierces Anthony’s resolve. 

This cannot go unpunished; the desire to bring punishment itches. He also wants Benedict to suffer for taking what is his without asking permission. Anthony may have granted it with knowledge, but this? This is unacceptable.

***

Suddenly you sense something in the room, and your eyes fly open. In the doorway stands Anthony, his hands balled into fists at his side. His eyes flash a maelstrom of emotions as they lock with yours.

“My lord," you freeze, your voice edged with panic.

“It’s sir," Benedict admonishes, biting on the bud of your nipple.

“No," you gasp, wrenching him from your body with a rough tug on his head, “your brother”.

He tracks your line of sight, turns his head, and sputters as he sees his brother.

“Why stop on my account” Anthony seethes “it appears both of you want to break all the rules.”

“Brother I….” Benedict begins, pulling off you and rolling to sit next to you on the floor.

“Save it” Anthony raises a hand. 

You scramble to make yourself decent, but you’re only wearing Benedict’s thin white shirt, and you sense Anthony’s gaze between your legs, noting your lack of underwear. You sit up and try to cover yourself up.

“Is that his shirt?” Anthony sputters in disbelief.

“Yes. I’m so sorry I got caught in the rainstorm and Sir-… Bened-… Mr Bridgerton…” you cringe as you correct yourself, “he kindly lent me some clothes while mine dry” your words are rushed and stumbling. Your cheeks are burning. 

There is no way around this. You’ve both been caught red-handed.

“Do you know how many lines you have both crossed?” Anthony barks.

“I’m so sorry, my lord” you hang your head, truly ashamed. “Please forgive me," you whisper.

Benedict is silent next to you. He also won’t look up; he’s just as complicit. Your hand itches to take his; take mutual comfort in your collective shame. 

“My girl, there is only one way I will ever forgive you. And that is to punish you so hard you never forget who you truly belong to,” Anthony grinds out, flexing his hands.

Oh. Your body burns bright with a potent mix of hope, desire and trepidation. 

It makes you strip off Benedict’s shirt and scramble closer to Anthony. Kneeling up on your haunches completely naked, adopting a submissive pose. Head bowed towards him.

“Please, my lord, please punish me," you implore, utterly enthralled by him. 

Anthony growls and strides over to you, grabbing your hair close to your scalp and tilting your head up to look at him.

“Oh, my darling girl," you can see the war on his face. You bury your face into him, rubbing your nose over his cock through his trousers, desperate for his forgiveness and power. His hand rounds the back of your head and holds you there. You feel his heat and hardness increasing against your face, making your clit burn.

“As for you," you assume he is talking to Benedict. “You will not go unpunished either.” You don’t know what he could mean, but you almost don’t care as long as he absolves you both.

“You are both going to do exactly what I say,” he intones authoritatively, “then maybe you will be forgiven.”

You nuzzle happily against him, opening your mouth and dragging your lips against the outline of his now rigid cock. He gruffs and pulls your head back.

“It’s not my cock you’ll be sucking, my girl," he warns.

You and Benedict both inhale sharply at that. 

“Brother, go get your mahl stick," Anthony instructs him. Benedict looks confused but gets up and leaves the room to fetch whatever Anthony asked him for. While he’s gone for a few moments, Anthony reaches down and tweaks your nipple. “I’m not going to go easy on you today," he warns, “you will feel some ache for this.” 

Benedict returns and hands Anthony something. It’s a long wooden cane with a round leather pad on the end. You instantly know what he plans to use it for, and you start breathing unevenly.

“Colour?” Anthony demands as he taps the cane against his leg.

“Green, so green,” you exhale.

“On all fours, my girl," Anthony orders, pushing you down, “face away from me.”

You slowly turn around and adopt the position he wants. He’s never punished you with anything except his hand before. Your stomach roils with butterflies and a hot, oily fear. 

“Brother, take off your clothes.” You know this is a power play; he wants both of you naked and under his control.

You crane your head slightly to watch as Benedict strips almost perfunctorily. Oh gosh, he is beautiful, you think, as more of his flesh is revealed. His chest isn’t hairy like Anthony's, but he is toned and lithe. Then he drops his trousers, and you stop breathing for a second. He has a gorgeous cock; it must run in the family.

“Sit down on the floor," Anthony commands, “right in front of my girl. Legs between hers.”

Benedict does as bidden, and your faces come into alignment a few inches apart.

“I’m sorry," he mumbles guiltily, “I should have resisted earlier.”

You are touched that he blames himself for this. You could’ve said red, knowing he would have respected your every wish. But you didn’t because you wanted him as much as he did you.

“No," you whisper in return, “we both couldn’t help it.” His blue eyes look almost soulful, and you want to kiss him again.

“Go ahead," Anthony prompts from behind you, “kiss him.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, but you don’t question the change of heart from last time. You lean forward, and Benedict does the same. Your lips touch, and he sighs; you instantly melt into each other. Just as his tongue teases your lips apart, there is a crack of noise in the air and a searing pain across your butt cheek. 

You scream into Benedict’s mouth at the sensation. It’s not just the leather pad; Anthony is aiming the cane to glance over you as well. 

Benedict pulls back, taking your face gently in his hands, “it’s okay, sweet girl, I’m here; just scream into me; I know you can take it.” His praise has you whimper against his lips. 

“Did I say to stop kissing?” Anthony bites out.

Your lips meet again, and you hear the whistle of the movement a split second before the pain blooms across your skin. Benedict kisses it away from the best he can.

“Take hold of his cock, my girl," Anthony orders, lightly bouncing the cane across your cheeks.

You wrap a hand around Benedict, and his groan is guttural. He is so hot and hard, and he’s already leaking enough to lubricate, so you start to move your hand slowly, even without Anthony’s command; Benedict hisses right next to your ear. The next strike causes your fist to tighten, and Benedict cries out at the pressure you exert. 

“That’s right," Anthony preens, directing you like a symphony. 

“Oh god,” Benedict moans against your cheek, “this feels so good; please don’t stop.” He kisses you fiercely while the next blow rains down. You just whimper quietly, tears pricking at your eyes; the ache is starting to meld into one hot, burning experience. You sense yourself falling into another space. 

You barely react to the next hit. Just a slow, halting exhale. Benedict kissed your cheekbone, your temple, but your response is muted, far away, your hand on him slackening.

Anthony senses your change in demeanour and stops. He doesn’t want you slipping; he wants you to be present. He drops the stick and reaches for your throat from behind, leaning over you and pulling your chin up to look at him.

“Stay with me, my girl,” he warns, “I need you to feel this. You look so beautiful with all these red marks. You’re doing so well, good girl.” He knows his praise grounds you in his presence. He watches as your eyes come back into sharper focus. He guides one of your hands between your legs. “I see just how soaked you are. Use that. Make him almost come, my girl.” Anthony’s voice is like velvet.  

You return your hand to Benedict, who groans at the slick sensation you bring. His breath speeds up as you start to move your hand up and down slowly, squeezing gently on the way up, a slight twisting motion at the tip. This always works for Anthony, and it's working for him too.

Anthony stays close to your ear, his voice low. “I don’t think you've learned your lesson yet. How is your bottom feeling, my girl? Is it too raw for a spanking?”

“No, my lord,” you demure, pushing back against him, rubbing yourself unashamedly, like a cat in heat. “please.”

“Nuh-uh, not yet, you greedy girl," he tuts. “You get my cock when you’ve earned it, not before.” 

Benedict is moaning louder now as you continue to work him. He is so hot and heavy in your hand, leaking slowly.

“Oh god, I’m already so close,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Take your hand away, my girl," Anthony commands as his open hand descends onto your butt cheek.

You cry out from the sting but do as you’re told, and Benedict whines instinctually from the loss of contact. You can see his cock pulsing.

Anthony pulls your hair and wraps it around his wrist. “You touch him again when I spank you," he instructs.

His hand rubs slowly over your butt cheeks while Benedict pants desperately in front of you, both of you on tenterhooks awaiting Anthony’s next move. The next blow hits your other cheek lower, almost at the junction of your thigh.

“Two," you begin counting instinctively and capture Benedict’s cock again.

“Oh, such a good girl," Anthony praises, grabbing your hair hard against your scalp, "today we are going for twenty.”

“My lord, that's so many," you protest, concentrating your movement on Benedict’s head.

“Then don’t misbehave again," he replied curtly, letting go of your hair “if you want to be with my brother, you ask my permission, do you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord," you respond breathily, realising he’s not entirely forbidding you from Benedict, who starts to squirm under your ministrations.

“Don’t let him come,” Anthony warns, “not yet.” His next hit is to one side.

“Three," you take your hand away, watching the ripples up Benedict’s shaft. The noise he makes is almost inhuman. You can tell this is agonising him, being brought so close to the edge and then denied.

“I’m sorry," you murmur to him, locking eyes and seeing his pupils blown so wide as he gasps for air. He looks alluring, so far gone. 

Anthony’s hand smacks right across the spot he caned your hardest. 

“Four.” You keen at the sting and latch your lips onto Benedict’s. He instantly responds, capturing your face between his hands and kissing deep.

“Five” is muffled against Benedict’s tongue.

“Grab him again, girl," Anthony commands, and you obey.

“Have mercy,” Benedict whines, his thighs shaking under the strain of continued teasing.

“Don’t take what isn’t yours," Anthony gruffs back at him, then spanking you twice, once on each cheek.

“Six, seven," the words are challenging to bite out, the sting so strong. Your legs are heavy from strain.

“Remove your hand, girl,” you reluctantly do as bidden.

Benedict cries out in frustration again, moving his hand to relieve himself of the torture.

“Brother, if you touch yourself right now, you never get to touch my girl again,” Anthony threatens.

Benedict seethes at his brother but slowly puts his hands back on the floor.

Anthony rains down three blows in quick succession; every time Benedict tries something, Anthony spanks you more as if punishing Benedict through you.

“Eight, nine, ten… Please, my lord, can I have a break,” you beseech.

“Only for a little while, my girl” Anthony’s hands rub gently over your abused flesh.

You hang your head to centre your thoughts, but Anthony has other ideas. One of his hands slips from your cheek between your legs; his questing fingers start to tease you. You mewl quietly, protesting slightly. 

“This is you being taught a lesson," Anthony imparts before sliding his thumb inside you and pulling again on your hair until your face is upright and inches from Benedict’s.

“Look at him,” he commands. “Look at him while I make you come, my girl. But don't you dare kiss him or touch him. You never get to do that again unless I permit it.” His finger harshly circles your clit. All you can do is whimper staring directly into Benedict's eyes. His breath on your face, transfixed, watching you as Anthony presses his thumb harder into you. Anthony flexes at the knuckle, dragging against your walls. 

“You look so beautiful,” Benedict mouths silently as Anthony’s fingers drive you higher.

“My lord, oh god, please don't stop,” you cry out for Anthony.

“I want you, sir,” you mouth back at Benedict. His eyes are just a ring of blue around black, and you intuit how much his fingers are itching to touch you, to touch himself.

“Watch her, brother, don't touch yourself,” Anthony directs, his grip on your hair tightening as he changes the angle of his hand. He knows he is torturing you both. Face inches apart, forbidden from kissing or touching. You push back against Anthony, wanting more; you want him deeper inside you, reaching that spot that drives you wild.

“Look at you fucking yourself onto my hand, you filthy girl,” Anthony coos. “What are you?” he demands

“A filthy girl,” you parrot, watching Benedict’s breath hitch.

“That’s right. And whose girl are you?” The possessiveness is biting.

“Yours my lord, always,” you respond, chasing the sensation so hard as it notches up your body from your core.

“And yours, sir,” you mouth at Benedict, intoxicated to rebel against Anthony even as he punishes you for doing precisely that. Benedict growls, unfulfilled, in response, leaking painfully, so red and swollen.

Anthony’s fingers drag hard against your clit, his thumb digging deep to hit that spot, and you start to see stars as he exerts pressure. Your breath becomes laboured, and you cry hard, begging him not to stop, to just keep going. It burns so hotly as you start to experience little shockwaves. Just as the crest of your orgasm approaches, Anthony wrenches away his fingers and spanks you forcefully on the ass, trailing your wetness over your reddened skin.

“No! Please, please don't stop, my lord,” you cry in frustration, tears pricking your eyes.

“I’ll stop when I want, if I want,” Anthony glowers. “You better learn the lesson who is in charge here. Now, what’s your count?”

“Eleven,” you say quietly, resigning yourself to being teased with no sign of relief.

“Tell me, girl, what would your colour be if I made him come in your mouth?” Anthony questions, almost casually, his hands rubbing your ass.

“Green, my lord,” you gulp.

“Good because it's going to happen,” he answers, one hand trailing up your back and into your hair, pressing your head downwards. “Brother, lie back,” Anthony orders.

***

Benedict lays down and watches, burning with anticipation, as his brother guides you closer to his leaking, aching cock. Just a few days ago, he watched from between your legs as you took Anthony into your throat, struggling beautifully as he pushed your limits. By god, he has had dreams of doing the same every night since.

His breath catches as you lock eyes with him. Your lips are resting on the very tip of his cock. Warm and inviting.

Ohhh fuckkkkk, he watches as your lips widen out and take him in slowly. Your mouth is so hot and wet, and the suction intoxicates. Benedict fights the urge to close his eyes from how good this feels, but he doesn’t want to break eye contact with you. Fascinated as your eyes grow wider as you sink down. 

He groans loudly as he bumps the back of your mouth.

Anthony exerts pressure on the back of your head, and you change the angle of your jaw.

Benedict shouts as he slides right into the tight canal of your throat. The pressure on his cockhead is intense and wonderful, and oh god, everything he imagined it would be and more. He feels your struggle for breath. Sees tears form in the corner of your eyes. Still, he can’t look away. You are the most beautiful debauched thing he has ever seen.

“Stay down, my girl," Anthony dictates, pressing his hand into your hair. Not giving you any reprieve. "I can feel how much your cunt is dripping for this, so don’t pretend you don’t love to choke on his cock”

Good grief, brother Benedict thinks.

Anthony spanks you forcefully. Your responding moan and attempt to count twelve make Benedict’s vision almost white-out, feeling the vibration all the way to his root. He was already dangling so close to the edge before you took him into your mouth, and he can't stop the inevitable now even if he wanted to...

***

Your lungs burn for air as Benedict's hand shoots out to cover yours on the floor as a warning, him incapable of speech. You open your fingers and allow his to sink between yours, lacing your hands together—a sweet gesture, a moment of connection, amid a debauched tableau.

Then you feel it. Waves of motion start at your lips, rippling under your tongue and through your throat—his cries of relief, the choking sensation of salty fluids running down your gullet. 

“Yes, that's it,” you hear Anthony say, finally pulling you up. You gasp for air, choking slightly, moving to rub your face as saliva and Benedict’s come streak across your mouth, your nose, your chin.

Benedict just lays prone on the floor, panting hard, his whole body twitching. 

“Well done, my good girl, look what you have done to him,” Anthony compliments; he leans over you to whisper in your ear, “Would you like your treat now?”

“Yes,” you croak, your throat raspy and sore. 

Anthony spanks you again, making you jump and squeal.

“Thirteen,” the counting on autopilot now.

“What do you say?” he scolds.

“Yes, please, my lord,” you correct yourself. 

“That's better. Move up a little, my girl,” he says, nudging your hips forward, your hand unlacing from Benedict’s. 

You crawl over Benedict, who still has his eyes closed. “That's it; I want your face right over his.”

You shuffle until you are in position, realising Benedict will be lying trapped under you while Anthony takes you. More punishment, you presume.

Benedict's eyes open as he realises what is happening. He looks up at you, his face still a haze of satisfaction.

“I know just how beautiful she is. You can touch her and kiss her brother,” Anthony permits. “Clean up her face from your own mess, why don't you,” he smirks as an afterthought as you hear him unbuttoning his trousers.

Benedict's hands reach up and cup your jaw gently. “Thank you,” his voice is quiet and reverential, his thumb sweeping through the mess on your face and into the corner of your mouth. You snag the tip of his thumb with your teeth, tasting him as Anthony's cock teases your entrance. 

“Now, I've been patient all this time while I punish you and you satisfied my brother, but now it's my turn, so just take it like the good girl you are,” he says through gritted teeth as he sinks in deep, his girth stretching you and dragging forcefully against all your walls. You know that means he will be hard and unrelenting in his mounting of you; he’ll probably leave bruises and bite marks. 

“You can take it, can’t you, sweet girl, for me?” Benedict’s voice is honeyed.

“Yes, sir.” You nod down at him, his thumb still caught between your teeth. His crooked smile catches your breath as Anthony sinks all the way in.

Anthony spanks your left cheek painfully.

“Fourteen,” your speech muffled around Benedict's thumb, that you suck in earnest to soothe the pain of the sting.

“Good girl, just six to go,” Anthony reminds you, pulling back out to the tip and sinking fast back to the hilt.

You cry out at the sensation, letting Benedict’s thumb fall out your mouth, your legs heavy, tensing, your arms aching from holding up on all fours for so long.

“Come here, my girl.” Benedict moves his hands and brings your head down until it rests on his collarbone, giving your arms a break. You wrap your hands around his shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief. His skin smells woodsy and comforting, and you kiss his neck gently in thanks.

Anthony’s apparent jealousy manifests in two rapid spanks across the most abused part of your butt cheek…

“Fifteen, sixteen,” you exhale shakily against Benedict's skin.

… then Anthony plunges in roughly, his thrusts smearing the moisture from your face onto Benedict's neck.

“I thought I told you to clean her up, brother,” Anthony cautions, his thrusts turning shallower.

You look up to see Benedict frown, turn his face towards you and kiss you gently, then kiss all around your mouth, sucking gently at your skin, cleaning himself off you. As he pulls away, it makes you realise Anthony has not kissed you once today; you suddenly feel bereft of his usual affections.

“Please, will you kiss me, my lord?” You plead, looking over your shoulder towards him.

“Not yet,” he bites out bitterly, his hands digging deeper into your hipbones “this is your punishment; only my very good girl gets to kiss me after I forgive her,” he says pointedly.

“Please forgive me,” you beg, desperate for his absolution.

“Take your punishment like a good girl,” he grits out, his movement becoming harsh, spearing into you, hitting the spot that makes you scream. He spanks you hard yet again, each cheek taking two heavy blows.

“Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty,” you yowl, your knees dragging on the rug from his movements, feeling your skin burn.

Anthony wraps an arm around your throat and pulls you bodily off Benedict. Upright and tight against his body, still buried deep inside you. He smells of his spicy cologne that makes you salivate, his clothing rasping against your skin. He didn't even strip down today, taking you fully clothed.

“Well done, my good girl. You did so well,” he praises. His free hand snakes up from gripping your hipbone to grasp your breast and pulls roughly on your nipple, making you shudder and keen. Your hands grab onto his firm biceps, anchoring you against him.

“Do you promise never to be with my brother unless I allow it?” He growls breathily into your ear.

“Yes, my lord,” you vow, drunk on the sensation of him wrapped tight around you. His fingers pinch your nipples, sending shockwaves through your body directly to your core. It makes you clench down on him, he snarls, and his teeth sink into the skin where your shoulder meets your neck.

“Do you promise always to be MY good girl, only mine, no one else's?” He continues as he gives a gentle thrust. You realise the implication of what he is asking, making your heart soar and your breath catch.

“Yes, my lord, only yours,” you respond fiercely, panting as his teeth dig in more and he groans intensely.

“Good, then I forgive you, my good darling beautiful girl,” his voice endearing as he turns your jaw and captures your lips with his. He kisses you deep, his tongue running into your mouth, battling with yours, stealing your breath. He pulls away gently, speaking against your lips “now you may kiss my brother again if you wish,” he smirks, “but remember who you truly belong to, my good girl.”

“Always you, my lord,” you whisper, enchanted, basking in the warmth of his forgiveness. 

His hand slide heavily from your breast, over your body, down between your legs.  “Do you want to come, my darling girl?” He asks, his voice sinful.

“Oh yes, please, please, my lord, I want to come so much for you,” you entreat, utterly in his thrall, watching his face as his finger gently circles around your clit, teasing, not quite hitting the spot you need “please, my lord please” you hiss. 

You glance down at Benedict, whose hands now run gently over your thighs, teasing the skin there with gentle touches, watching Anthony's fingers play with your clit. 

“Now you know how I like you in this position, good girl, head down, bottom up,” Anthony intones, pushing you out of his grip. “You can come with me,” he adds.

Benedict welcomes you back to him with a quick kiss on the lips but then shifts lower, encouraging you to drop down onto your hands above his head, your face against the rug. His mouth latches onto your breast as Anthony's fingers drag directly onto your clit, and he starts to move again.

Oh fuck.

It’s too much sensation at once. Anthony is unforgiving with his pace now, plundering hard, fast strokes that steal the breath from your lungs. His fingers rubbing hard on your bud. You cry with every push and whine with every pull back, just a constant stream of noise you cannot stop. Benedict uses his teeth; oh, he remembers from last time what you like and, fuck, if he isn’t so good at this. You feel yourself hurtling fast, your vision narrowing, every muscle tensing.

“My lord, this is too much,” you voice your thoughts plaintively, “I’m going to come soon.”

“No, not yet,” Anthony orders gruffly. “You wait for me.”

“Please, my lord, I can’t hold it anymore; please let me come,” you babble, your forehead dragging hard on the rug, the burn distracting you, hoping it can hold off. Your whole body strung taught, dangling over the precipice.

He removes his hand from your clit. “I said no,” he commands. But Benedict keeps his teeth dragging on your nipple, alternating each one, pinching the other hard with his hands. You’re legitimately screaming now, every fibre of your being on fire. Anthony fucks you so hard for what feels like an eternity, you just hanging there, over a cliff edge facing the abyss. He groans hard and leans over you, his teeth sinking into your neck, making you clench hard.

“Oh fuck yes, that’s it, my girl, come on then, come all over my cock, you pretty thing,” he growls against your ear, biting your earlobe, his fingers back between your legs.

It tips you right over the edge. Your orgasm, denied for too long all afternoon, hitting you with a blinding force. Your hands and knees are scrambling with blisters, your teeth digging to the rug, the strength of your pulsing cunt pushing Anthony out of your body as you scream a litany of my lords and sirs, feeling Benedict’s teeth and Anthony’s splash all over your shuddering overheated back. 

Your hips collapse, and you land on top of Benedict inelegantly, his arms wrapping low around your thighs as he gently kisses your breastbone.

“Oh well done, my darling girl,” Anthony pants heavily, hands smearing his come into your skin possessively, moving to soothe the ache on your bum. Reaching down to kiss between your shoulder blades, his face is on the other side of your body from Benedict’s.

“I believe this lesson went well,” Anthony opines a few minutes later as he rebuttons his clothing.

“Are you sure she doesn’t have more to learn, brother?” Benedict teases gently as he pulls back on his trousers. “I’d be happy to help with the teaching next time. If you’ll allow it, of course,” he adds hastily.

Anthony barks a laugh. “I’ll allow it. After all, there are always new lessons to be taught, my girl,” his voice full of promise, pulling you into his arms for a kiss as Benedict reaches out and grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips.

Oh, these wonderful boys and their ideas.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

I hope they include Phillip joining the brothers in the garden after ravishing Eloise in Sophie's office and is scared shitless because all of a sudden the Bridgerton Brothers have Guns.

What do you think Benedict would do if he actually found out what Eloise and Phillip had done on the sofa?

(Also, I like to think that the sofa is also THAT sofa from Benedicts old apartment. Do you want it to be THAT sofa?)

Hello Nonny!

Oh god, the thing I look forward to most in the show - Phillip meeting the Bridgerton brothers 😅 I absolutely want to keep their um....'gun-measuring' contest in the show, where Phillip is a bit shaken having to prove his marksmanship next to the brothers AND Eloise (who is better than all of them 😜).

And WOW, I love your idea that it's the SAME sofa that Benedict ravished Sophie on 😂 what on earth is in the upholstery of that thing?!?! That would be a hilarious little easter egg!

If Benedict ever found out that Phillip was having premarital fun with Eloise in HIS house, I think he would be threatening in the most chilling way. Benedict is always a champion of passion and romance, but when it comes to Eloise he is automatically protective. Whereas someone like Anthony would just sock Phillip in the face for taking their sister's innocence, Benedict would sidle over with a big smile on his face and tell Phillip he knew what he did, and while he understands that passion can overtake a man, if Phillip ever hurts Eloise or puts her in any compromising position, Benedict vows to go to his gardens at night and sow the earth with salt so that all of his precious flowers die and can never be grown again. Something really insidious 😅

I love this ask, thank you!