#i love mr benedict so fucking much

[bi-demon-ium]

nicholas & number two + building a dirigible

[fayes-fics]

Lessons in Breeding

Lessons Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: Fifth story in the Regency Lessons series and it's time-jump time. Things have progressed with our throuple and the Bridgerton Bros are in a race to impregnate their lady…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, BREEDING KINK off the bloody charts, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, oral sex (m to f), light bondage, filthy baby-making vaginal sex, dom/sub dynamics. Emotions, talk of marriages, established throuple dynamics.

Word Count: 5.4k

Authors Note: This is set in Lessons universe, but at least a year after the previous instalment. If pregnancy or babymaking isn't your thing, please don't read this. This is a very belated birthday request fill for @iboopedyournose. I hope you like the way I've interpreted your request for breeding kink threesome with bondage. Thanks to @colettebronte and @chaoticcalzoneranchsports for betaing. Enjoy! <3

You pause in front of the portrait of a naked pregnant woman, taking a sip of your champagne. The intimate parts of her are mostly obscured behind translucent silks. Her pregnant belly is bare as she cradles it proudly, her skin glowing; everything about her looks almost ethereal yet so earthy and powerful. It is such a provocative piece you can understand why it is only being shown at private parties such as this one, hosted by Mr Granville.

“Like what you see?” the dusky voice suddenly at your right ear asks.

You inhale sharply, instantly responding to the mere sound of his voice, something very Pavlovian in it. “Yes, I think she looks beautiful,” you reply quietly, tamping down your need to throw yourself into him, begging for his fingers in your mouth.

“She does indeed,” he is standing so close behind you can feel the heat radiating off him through his shirt. “Would you like to look like that? Swollen so beautifully with a baby?”

It's not something you have thought about much beyond the abstract idea that you wish for children someday. But then, so many things in your life are about to change, and this could be one.

“Maybe,” you deflect.

Large hands encircle your waist. “Mmm, just imagine,” he begins, his chest pressing warm on your spine. “How beautiful you would look, your belly all rounded,” his hands slide up and cup your chest as you moan lightly. “Your breasts so full, and oh gosh,” one hand slides down to the apex of your thighs, cradling it through your dress, “the smell and taste of you, so ripe, so juicy. You would be divine,” he assures.

“Stop,” you scold gently, but it's too breathy, the carnal images he so easily paints with his words haunting you as you rock in his arms.

“Would you like me to impregnate you, my darling?” he murmurs, his teeth pulling at your earlobe. “I could fuck you so hard and deep and leave my seed inside you. Over and over. And you know my brother would do the same in a heartbeat.”

Your breath quickens at the thought. They have always been careful to ensure they do not release inside you; it's a strict pact you have in place that they have always respected and obeyed. But perhaps that may change with what is impending.

“My husband-to-be, you mean,” your eyes cut sideways, and he stiffens.

“Yes, of course, I sometimes forget you are soon to be the Viscountess,” he bows his head, a flare of something in his eyes you know is jealousy.

“Benedict…” you sigh, sensing he needs reassurance; you pull him into a quiet alcove. “You know this is the only way the three of us can be together, for always. I love you just as much,” you vow quietly, touching his cheek. “But you know well I cannot marry you both, at least not in the eyes of the law. There would be many questions if Anthony were to remain unwed much longer. You know it is much easier for you to live with us as an apparent bachelor at Aubrey Hall than any other arrangement.”

All the facts you lay out, well known to you both, don’t stop the imploring look he gives you. 

“I will marry you symbolically in a ceremony in the woods, down by the lake,” you whisper, appealing to his bohemian romantic side. “I will wear your ring proudly, too,” you promise. “I am as much yours as I am his. And always will be. I cannot be without either of you.”

He beams and crowds into you, sliding his lips down your neck.

“And yes, I will bear your children, my love,” you sigh as his actions make you pliant in his hands, as they always do. You grab his face to ensure he meets your gaze, his eyes dancing. “Nothing would make me prouder than bearing both of your babies, so yes, my love, the answer is yes.”

You moan gently as he kisses fire across your skin, and your eyes drift back to the painting, the idea of being fertile, ripe, burgeoning with life somehow suddenly so alluring. 

——

“Anthony…” you call, but he does not respond; he probably cannot hear you above the whirlwind of activity around him. “ANTHONY!” you repeat, raising your voice, and suddenly, the hubbub of movement and noise in the room ceases.

His eyes meet yours and flash. “Everyone leave the room at once,” he orders to the hordes of people doing god knows what, “my fiancee wishes to speak with me.”

You watch as all the people scurry from the room as if burned.

“There was no need to send them away quite so abruptly, my love,” you state gently.

“Is this not an occasion where you wish me to throw you upon my desk and rut you so hard you scream?” he flirts outrageously.

“For once,” you respond airily, “it is not.”

“Tis a pity,” he smirks, then perches against the desk, crossing his legs and arms. “Then what can I do for you, my love?”

“I want you to make me with child,” you just go straight to the point. He usually appreciates bluntness.

He drops the heavy accounts ledger he is holding, and it slams to the ground with an echoing thump.

“Correction, I want you AND Benedict to make me with child,” you amend.

“What on earth brought this on?” his tone warm but intrigued, ignoring the ledger completely.

“That art party we went to last night?” you offer casually. “There was a scandalous but beautiful portrait of a pregnant naked woman.”

“Did he fuck you in front of it and give you some ideas?” Anthony sighs with fond exasperation.

“No,” you giggle, “for once, he did not.”

“But Tuesday is your night alone together?” Anthony frowns. “Don’t tell me he shirked his duty? I am his older brother. I can have words….”

“Oh, he more than performed his duty, just not in front of the painting,” you clarify.

“In front of one of his paintings, then?” Anthony guesses.

And you giggle again. “Carriage, on the way home.”

“Figures,” Anthony rolls his eyes, “does he ever do it in a bed?”

“Not if he can help it,” you wink, and he laughs.

Then schools his face more serious. “So you want a baby?”

“I want both of your babies. I’d certainly be open to us all getting some good practice in tomorrow,” you shrug playfully.

“I have absolutely no problem with that,” his voice drops low as he raises a sultry eyebrow. “And the desk offer still stands if you want a warm-up?” he concludes, breaking into a handsome smirk.

“It’s Wednesday, our rest day; I have dinner plans with my dear friend Lady Eleanor,” you shake your head fondly. “Plus, I cannot give you a head start, darling; that wouldn’t be fair to Benedict,” you tease. “You can sort it out between yourselves for tomorrow.”

“Why do we have a rest day?” he pouts.

“You know full well, with three people, it is much easier to schedule around six days. I can go one day without either of you, you know,” rolling your eyes lovingly.

“Such a pity,” he sighs in mock annoyance.

“It is just for today, darling, and tomorrow you may complete inside me, so there’s that to look forward to…” and you breeze out of the room, blowing him a kiss.

——

Thursday night is one of your two nights a week with both of your wonderful men. 

You spend the early evening bathing in luxury soaps with your favourite scents, readying yourself for a night of untold pleasures. Sometimes you all meet in the bedroom, sometimes in the blue room, and other times, like tonight, you agree to al fresco. You cannot wait to play by the lake under the mid-summer moonlight.

You slip on an ivory silk robe and nothing else except the lariat body chains they each gave you. Dainty gold chains with their initials that wrap around your waist, the A and B matching charms hanging low over your belly, grazing your thatch of hair below—a secret you wear every day unseen beneath your usual clothing.

It’s a balmy evening as you approach the water's edge. There is already a soft blanket laid out and a decanter of brandy with three glasses—Anthony has ensured the staff have prepared for the evening. But neither man is to be seen yet. You settle on the blanket and pour yourself a snifter, enjoying the gentle roar of oil lantern flames dancing in the breeze set out on surrounding stakes.

This evening will be a first, letting them both leave their seed within you. Even though you have been together as a threesome for more than a year and done countless wonderful sensual things together, this is a huge step towards something new. You don’t expect to get pregnant on this first attempt, but the idea is beguiling nonetheless.

You pull open your robe and massage your as-yet-empty belly. Running your hands in swirls, imagining what it might be like to watch it grow and swell with a child—the ability to bring life into the world something so elemental and heavenly all at once. To sustain life through the wonder of your body swirls in your mind as you untie your robe and grab your breasts. 

“I see someone started the party already, brother,” a familiar silky voice rings out, and your eyes pop open to see both of them standing there, watching you lasciviously. They are shirtless and only wear britches slung low around their hips, acres of lithe muscle and supple skin.

“Is that not our job, darling?” Anthony chimes in after his brother, already unbuttoning.

“Not that we aren’t enjoying the show,” Benedict adds pointedly, nudging Anthony as if to shut him up, and follows suit, removing his trousers.

When they both let their britches fall to the ground, you moan, seeing them both in all their resplendent naked glory, already half hard and looking so utterly delicious part of you wants to get on your knees and take them into your mouths. You go to crawl towards them, but Antony holds up a halting hand. 

“Stay right where you are, lay back; tonight is about your pleasure, darling,” he practically purrs. 

Your eyes flash with desire, and you do as told, removing your robe and laying back again, fully nude, running fingertips down the centre line of your torso, fingers playing with their jewelled charms that rest atop your lower belly.

“Then get down here,” you exhale, knowing their gaze is locked on your fingers as you slip them between your thighs.

They drop onto the blanket with you, the light breeze ruffling their chestnut locks. Both are so achingly beautiful with those strong Bridgerton genes. You can’t wait to bear a baby, babies, that look just like them.

They exchange a glance, and it’s their shorthand again—where they silently communicate how they will destroy you masterfully moment by moment. Benedict surges up and captures your lips in a passionate all-consuming kiss as Anthony slips between your legs, pulling your hand away and throwing your feet over his shoulders. Forcing your legs out wide, he laps a determined, deep plough of tongue all the way from the base of your slit up to your pulsing clit. It has you calling loudly into his brother's mouth.

“You taste fertile, my darling wife-to-be,” Anthony groans lewdly and pointedly, and you can’t help but giggle across Benedict’s lips. 

“I am certain he is right,” Benedict smiles affectionately, swallowing your noises. “I swear I can smell the difference when you are ripe for us. Your scent is just a little headier, muskier; it makes my cock even harder than normal,” he ponders, kissing across your face as he utters his trademark filth. He knows just a few choice words can have you ready for him—every single damn time. 

Anthony’s hand strays up to play with your belly charms as his tongue unfurls its magic. It doesn’t matter that you are with these two men, individually and together, multiple times a week; they never fail to arouse you to the point of aching with just a few expertly deployed moves. Their tongues, whether talking dirty or teasing your body, are your favourite part of them. Benedict shuffles lower and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth. Oh god, yes, it’s definitely their tongues. 

“Darling, are we playing tonight, or are we just us?” Benedict asks, looking up from your chest with gentle eyes. Sometimes you like to play with your power dynamic and use your titles, other times since you have grown closer, you are just yourselves, no masks, no games, just you, Ant and Ben, your affectionate shortened names for them.

You stop Anthony’s ministrations between your legs with a tap on his shoulder, wanting his full attention on this question that Benedict poses.

“What would you prefer, my loves?” You ask them, ruffling Benedict's hair, enjoying the feel of its thickness running between your fingers and squeezing Anthony’s shoulder lovingly.

“I want to be Ben, just your husband-to-be,” Benedict says quietly, and you can’t help the little smile that breaks out. “This is where we will get married,” he asserts, looking around, “under the stars, just like this.”

“Yes, my darling,” you confirm happily, “I want that.”

“How about you, Ant, my love? Would you like to be you, or perhaps my lord or my beautiful boy?” you inquire.

“I want to be Ant, your fiancé,” he nods in agreement with Benedict’s idea. “Tonight, my darling wife-to-be, the only lesson is how to breed you like the wondrous Bridgerton you are about to become.”

“Breed me?” You inhale, wanting to be insulted by the term but finding it makes your clit burn hot.

“Oh yes,” Benedict chimes in, “we are going to breed you, darling. You will sire a whole house of Bridgertons. You will never be without our seed—it will be dripping from you every day.”

“Ben,” you stutter, grabbing his bicep as your whole cunt is suddenly slick and pulsing at his crude language. “Tell me more.” 

His responding grin is predatory as Anthony chuckles and slinks back between your legs.

“Do you know how many bedrooms there are in Aubrey Hall?” Benedict’s voice is a gentle tease as his nose runs teasing patterns over the swell of your breast.

“I don’t,” you admit, honestly.

“Twenty-four,” Anthony answers for you from between your thighs as he sucks a line down from your inner knee.

“Even with all of our siblings and their future children visiting, that still leaves at least, hmm, twelve bedrooms just going to waste. Until we fill them with our little brood.” 

“Benedict, I am not birthing twelve children,” you gasp, half in shock at the very thought, half because Anthony’s tongue curls rough around your clit. 

“Maybe not,” he admits, kissing across to your other breast, “but I think we should at least try….”

“Six each, brother?” Anthony chuckles, joining in,  lifting his head and resting his chin on your pubic hair, shooting a killer smile.

“Get back there. Have you not heard that female pleasure aids conception?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Then we will have to make you come at least twice tonight; ‘tis the most prudent path to double our chances,” Anthony retorts with a wink sinking down with a devilish look on his face before his tongue makes you cry out, and Benedict's teeth graze over your nipple, making you cant up into his mouth.

“You’ll have to carry me all the way back to the house if I have many more than that, remember,” you warn, bemused.

“Darling, I would carry you to the ends of the earth and back,” Benedict pledges, the romantic poetry just pouring from him as he surges up and kisses your lips, plundering your mouth with his tongue. “You have bewitched me. Since that very first day in my brother's study, I have been yours.”

Benedict is always more emotional and partial to declarations of love than his brother, whose feelings run just as deep but does not effuse about it so openly—preferring to express his adoration privately and through beautiful, thoughtful gifts.

“Save it for your individual days, brother,” Anthony hums drolly over your flesh. “We have a very special job to do tonight.”

“Indeed we do,” Benedict concurs, picking up one of your hands and entwining your fingers with his.

Then their efforts become more focussed as Anthony sucks your engorged nub deep into his mouth, moans vibrating your sensitive bud as Benedict bites your nipple in just that way you like—an insistent suckling hold that pulls your skin taunt and is a line right down to your throbbing clit being so utterly wrecked by Anthony.

It always stuns you how quickly these two, working in tandem, can rocket you so high, so dizzyingly fast. You are vaguely aware your hands are in both of their hair as you climb so high. Eyes screwed shut as they both mouth filthy encouragements into your skin.

“Come on, darling,” Anthony pleads, “I want to feel you drench my face.”

“Do not stop,” you chant repeatedly, twisting luscious strands of chestnut locks around your fingers.

Benedict’s lips are hot on your ear, biting the lobe as he senses you are so close. “Break for him,” he breathes, “come on, my love, give him that sweet nectar to drink.” 

The filthy poet never fails to give you that extra nudge, and sure enough, with a staccato of breaths, they have to hold you down as you fight to buck against the convulsions deep inside.

Anthony growls at you to stay still, even though you know he loves it when you writhe over his face, his jaw clamped hard between your spasming thighs.

“Does that feel so good?” Benedict’s silky voice vibrates your ear.

“Yes, oh god, I need one of you inside me, please,” you twist to look into his face as beseeching as you can, still flushed and mindless from your orgasm. “But please tie my hands first,” you stutter breathlessly, offering your wrists up to him, pressed together. “Above my head.”

“I thought we were not playing tonight?” Anthony says quietly as he lands on the blanket beside you, his face shining with your juices.

“Please, just, please,” you beg, turning to him, “I need it. Use your chains.”

As they flank your body, both of them make a low noise at the idea of binding your hands with your golden chains that bear their initials. 

Benedict’s large hand slides down your dewy torso and into your thatch of hair. Then slowly, while you pant lightly and keep your eyes locked on Anthony’s intense stare, Benefict unhooks one chain and tugs it gently from around the dip of your waist.

“Your turn,” he says quietly to Anthony, and you realise they are removing their own chains. Somehow that choice makes you burn even hotter for them, squirming slightly. 

Anthony’s hand follows the same path as you breath heavy and hold Benedict’s gaze this time as Anthony unhooks the chain with the A charm and drags it up along your skin, a corner of the letter scraping gently over your flesh, catching your nipple as you gasp.

Then they take an arm each, raising them above your head. Both then bind your wrists as your gaze flits between them, watching their handsome faces.

“Thank you,” your murmur reverential, testing the hold and feeling the precious metal bite into your flesh as they both dive in for a heated kiss, Anthony reaching you first and Benedict settling on your neck until they can swap positions. It’s a deep kiss that is musky and sweet with the taste and scent of your climax.

“Who gets the privilege of being first, my love?” Benedict asks silkily.

“You do, Ben,” you whisper, and his whole face lights up. So often used to being second.

You turn to Anthony as Benedict shifts to lay between your legs. “Thank you, my darling Ant, for my wonderful orgasm,” you compliment and watch as his face turns boyish with pride.

You cry out as Benedict spears into you, splitting your open, causing the gentle ripples of your orgasm to flare again, and he drops his head onto your breastbone.

“Christ, there is nothing like your little fluttering cunt is there?” he groans into your flesh.

“Give it to me, Ben,” you twist from kissing Anthony to declare. Then turn back, desperate for more hot kisses.

His tip feels somehow harsher than normal, a hot spike as he begins to move, your walls clinging to him almost vice-like. It feels so good your eyes roll, and your mouth goes slack against Anthony’s. 

He brushes a gentle hand through your hair, watching you through hooded eyes, gently murmuring praise and compliments as you take Benedict's hard thrusts.

“We will plant our seeds, darling, deep in here,” Anthony breathes, a hand sliding down to your belly just above where Benedict’s body meets yours as he surges into you. “Do you want that?”

“Yess,” you hiss, mesmerised, fingers twirling in your own hair, “please.”

“Oh, our perfect little broodmare,” Anthony exhales shakily, surging his leaking cock against the hip he holds open for his little brother, who now curls down over you, biting a nipple. “Do you know how proud we will be? Making your beautiful body swell, your breasts growing so large and sensitive, your belly growing round. With our baby. A little Bridgerton. Or maybe more. We want to plant you with two babies right now, one for me and one for my little brother. Can you do that, darling, for us? Take our seed so good?”

“Yes, Anthony,” you pant, utterly enthralled by his filthy talk. That is usually the expertise of the man now biting your nipples and growling as he fucks you so harshly that your body jerks on the cotton blanket you lay on.

“Let him,” Anthony continues with slightly gritted teeth, “let him fuck you harder than he ever has before.”

“Yes, my lord,” you answer, under his spell, and his nostrils flare as you use the title you call him in play.

He curses, then grabs one of your chain-bound wrists above your head, fingers sliding possessively between yours and forcing the back of your hand down onto the ground. 

“Yes, that's it, do as you are told, little one,” he growls through clenched teeth. 

And you feel a frisson of something frantic, like you all need something with a little edge. A gust of breeze flutters over your skin and leaves quiver on the trees around you. 

“Fuck her harder, brother,” Anthony orders into your clavicle, and you feel it buzz into your bones.

Benedict growls in response and hooks the leg, not being held by Anthony over his flexed forearm. Pulling you open more, feeling so vulnerable, your hands bound, your legs held obscenely wide open by each. 

Suddenly the moment feels charged as Benedict snaps his hips so forcefully that you whimper on every stroke, revelling in the sweat splashing from his damp forehead curls onto your breasts. Anthony is sucking on your neck with almost painful intensity as Benedict drops down and bites your flesh over your tricep, making you writhe and call his name. The gold chains binding your wrists dig into your flesh as you move, bringing an edge that just pushes you higher.

You encourage him, calling him sir, begging for more, squeezing his cock with your pelvic muscles as he pounds into you mercilessly. And that constriction is the catalyst he needs. He curses long and low, feeling huge as he spears so deep he nudges your hilt, and you sense a change in him that usually signals his withdrawal. This time his eyes fly open, pupils blown, and expression wild as he grabs your jaw firmly.

“Are you ready?” He barks possessively. 

“Yes,” you hiss, realising he is going to climax without waiting for you.

His last few hot desperate thrusts are so harsh your whole insides feel rearranged. Then he stills, and for the first time, you hear that guttural groan right into your ear as he begins to spill inside you, a hot wave that blooms deep inside, feeling like so much more than he has ever come before. It’s a new sensation and feels just wonderful.

“Yes, take it all, my darling girl,” he shudders, and that gravelly tone pulls you over a small edge, you clamping down on his spurting cock as he groans and spasms into you some more, hipbones digging into your inner thighs. His weight is almost crushing as he becomes motionless, your thighs burning from the stretch.

“That’s it,” Anthony whispers against your temple, “lay still and open, darling, let his seed into your womb.” 

Those words echo drowsily in your head as you feel Benedict’s cock gradually soften inside you, and he slips out slowly with a slick tide of juices that run down over your bottom cheeks.

“Fucking babies into you is my new favourite thing. Do you have any idea how exquisite it is to come inside you? Fill you up? I never want to come anywhere else ever again.” Benedict gusts as he falls to one side of you, still breathing heavily, and you realise it's a novel experience for him too. “God, I love you,” he admits shakily, landing a kiss on your cheek.

“I love you too. Thank you for my baby Benedict,” you nuzzle his face and kiss him sweetly as his body relaxes, utterly spent.

You twist to look at Anthony, and his eyes sparkle as he climbs between your legs, his cock hard, glistening, and leaking in his fist. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes, my lord,” you answer.

He thrusts into your soaking cunt, still leaking profusely from Benedict. He feels even larger and harsher somehow too, and on reflex, you clench around the invasion, feeling the verdant earth beneath your bottom and shoulder blades softened slightly by the blanket.

“My darling girl,” his voice ragged, broken. “You are so exquisitely puffy and swollen. That was quite the mounting you got, wasn’t it? Are you ready for more?”

You croak your assent, and then he begins to move. He isn’t slow. In fact, he starts pounding so hard you gasp, the sensation almost too much, and Benedict's hand slides into your hair, over your bound hands, and you clutch it as he rolls closer, nuzzling your face.

“Feel it all, my darling girl,” Benedict rumbles.

“I am, sir,” you nod and bite your lip. “I can even feel your seed inside me still,” you add with a moan, the chains on your wrist abraiding your skin, leaving marks.

“Good,” he gusts drowsily and warmly in your ear, a hand swirling patterns on your hip. “Let it in, darling, all the way in.”

As a cloud clears the moon, the atmosphere feels softer again, the frantic moment of before ebbing into something more profound; even as Anthony takes you hard, it’s more in an undulating wave, hitting your hilt with a rhythm that feels hypnotic, your cunt clinging to him like a glove, as Benedict's sonorous voice is back at your ear.

“That’s right, get ready, darling girl. We need you to keep this line going. In your belly, you will grow the next viscount. You will bare the heirs of this family. Just you, my wonderful wife-to-be.”

“I want all of your babies too, Benedict,” you breathe as Anthony ploughs on. “I want to give the world more like you. Talented creative, empathetic, loving souls who bring joy to every room.”

His eyes mist over as you declare your truth. “I love you so much it hurts,” he murmurs into your cheek, voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too,” you want to grab his face but can’t; instead, you seal your pact with a sweet, almost chaste kiss filled with affection; even as Anthony takes you towards a big blissful moment, you hope you will hit together.

“Now declare your love to him too,” Benedict orders softly, “you know he needs to hear it, maybe even more than me.”

You nod and turn all of your attention and heart to the Viscount. Still holding Benedict’s hand tangled in your hair, not wanting either to feel left out on this momentous night.

“Viscount Anthony Bridgerton,” you use his title and full name, your pleading tone making his eyes bore into yours. “I love you so much, my lord, my husband,” you state categorically.

He groans and falls over your body, covering you, his scent and heat all-encompassing.

“Darling darling wife, my Viscountess,” he exhales over your lips, his thrusts turning slow and languid, his hands grasping your thighs and pulling your legs up and out, utterly under his command, pinned. “I love you so much,” he sounds almost choked with emotion, and part of you wishes you had your hands to hold him to you.

“Do you want to be freed, my love?” Benedict asks softly, always seemingly able to intuit your needs before you even articulate them.

“Please,” you request, turning to give him a grateful peck as he reaches up and loosens both chains, leaving one delicately but loosely wrapped around each forearm, your wrists pulsing mildly as they are freed.

Instantly you move your arms, wrapping one around Anthony’s back, your nails and the gold chain scraping down his skin as your other hand rounds Benedict's shoulder and into his hair, stroking and petting.

Your hand sliding down, mapping his contours, over the swell of his muscular bottom makes Anthony groan and bite your neck, spearing deep into you as your nails dig in, tilting your pelvis and rocking him deeper into you until you feel that ache so far inside. 

Then he pushes up onto his hands and thrusts hard, setting a punishing pace. Every fibre of your being wants this, ratcheting high and fast as each stroke crushes your clit into your frame. Unable to form words except to curse and babble mindlessly. You feel your whole body tense, a release so imminent you grit your teeth and chase it hard.

“That’s it darling, come for me, milk me,” Antony commands, flicking a thumb over your clit, and you are gone.

Yelling and screaming as his cock is the solid mass you convulse around, your entire being spasming, and you feel Benedict’s firm grip, holding you down with a knee and large hands. Making you orgasm hard, entirely still, unable to writhe, all the sensation concentrated on where Anthony’s cock spears you open.

As the blood rushes in your ears, his teeth are biting on the cord of your neck, and with a few pumps, he releases with a throaty whine, pushing the deepest he has ever been, feeling like he piercing through your hilt.

He curses long, low guttural and again there is that bloom of viscous heat inside as he spills all his seed.

“Yes, my darling girl,” he slurs, “stay down, take it all,”

You cry out, and your instinct is to move, but both of them hold you down, so your fingers dig into flesh, and your toes curl as your body is thwarted from its shakes and shudders. Anthony’s weight is upon you as he recovers his breath, feeling even heavier than Benedict as he slumps,, panting into your neck.

“I understand what you mean now, brother,” his tone almost wonderous. “I do not wish to leave my seed anywhere else either, dear god; that was exquisite.” Delicately he pulls backwards so his softening cock slips out of your body, and you groan at the sensation, flopping your head blissfully on the blanket as he falls to your other side. 

The gentle sounds of nocturnal nature around you fill your ears as it is just your joint breathing, soothing hands running over you, soft kisses and little intimate moments where you whisper to both of your boys.

“We may have made a baby tonight, my darling husbands,” you murmur.

The look they both give you is brimming with love and appreciation as you curl into both, taking a hand from each of them and placing them over your heart as you drift to sleep, cocooned in their safe embrace.

Your boys. Forever, your boys.

Anthony & Benedict taglists: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms

[avada-kedavra-bitch-187-films]

Bridgerton Season 3 part 1

Episodes 1-4

Spoilers

I love how it went from #8 (top 10 tc shows in the U.S today) to number 1 in a matter of hours

- Sign language!!

- I need more Kate and Anthony

- Francesca is beautiful

- Kate has gotten so much prettier i dont know how but she did like i love the outfits

- I love the emerald green dress on Penelope it fits her perfectly

- She lifts your spirits but u wouldn't court her Tf (Colin)

- He saying everything u would say to someone u are courting (Colin)

- Oh shit he is pissed omg l'm so anxious pls don't get mad at pen (Colin)

- Man he is a hoe now (Colin)

- She mentioned his eyes and homeboy didn't know what to do

- BTS song!!!!

- Ahhhh the kisssssssssss

- Man if this is a dream I’ll die (Colin and Penelope having a great kiss)

- Omg he dreaming about her(Colin)

- No Benedict he isn’t alright he had a sex dream😂

- Who is this uninvited guest

- Man Philippa and finch have no idea what is happening in the world

- That baby(Colin) stumbling his words

- Yea u wish for her happiness with u not anyone else(Colin)

- The hot air balloon scene😍

- Ain’t no one care about u debling Colin had it u ain’t have to do nothing

- The songs are ❤️

- Get it Mama bridgerton

- Brother!!???

- Home girl seductive to Benedict *applause*

- I’m so happy for Mr & Mrs. Mondrich

- Colin heartbeat looking at pen❤️

- “I hope she is as well” mama bridgerton was talking about u Colin

- Damn debling why’d u have to interrupt

- Bs Colin u know u was asking about Penelope

- No one chooses the queens choose

- They are just sitting there in silence

- He worked for that club he shouldn’t have to give it away

- Debling do not ask for her hand

- U hoe (Colin)

- Francesca and kilmartin (however u spell it)

- Omg he gave her a music sheet

- I kinda hope Cressida finds someone

- Is mama bridgerton gonna have 2 love matches

- The fact that he realized she sits at the window looking for Colin

- Colin running after the carriage ❤️

- What if i did have feelings for u (ahhhhhhhh)

- Carriage sex ahhhhhhhhhhhhh

- Well almost sex

- could the driver not keep going😂

- Are you going to marry me or not

- Whatttttt

- The fuck that’s how they end this bitch

[newtonsheffield]

Could we maybe… possibly get a snippet of Kate using the card for the first time and everyone calling her Mrs Bridgerton when she in fact is very much not Mrs Bridgerton… yet anyway

The thing is, growing up the Sharma’s were fairly wealthy. Mary’s a huge musician and even that pales in comparison to the way the Bridgertons are living their life.

But I think the first time Kate uses the card she feels kind of nervous, awkward about spending someone else’s money, and she probably only does it because she’s out to lunch with Daphne, Edwina and Sophie and she batted away everyone’s hands when they went to pay and in the hustle of it all she gave them the wrong card. It’s probably only when the server returns the card, the balance already paid that she realises she’s used the wrong card.

“Shit.” Kate sighed, putting the card back with her others.

“Everything alright?” Daphne’s brow furrowed, “I’m happy to split the-”

“It’s fine I just… gave them Anthony’s card. Well, my card, that’s part of Anthony’s… account.” Kate shrugged, “It’s fine, I’ll pay him back.”

“Anthony gave you a credit card?”

Sophie rolled her eyes at Edwina, “Are we surprised? He goes big, you know what he’s got her for her birthday.” She glanced at Daphne, “No offence, obviously.”

Kate’s heart stuttered, remembering the way he’d minimised what looked suspiciously like the Aston Martin website the other day when she’d walked into the living room and his tone on the phone had changed, “What’s he got me for my birthday?”

Daphne ignored Kate shrugging, “No offence taken.” She turned to Kate, “Anthony won’t even notice the charge and you basically live together. It’s not that surprising. Plus, he loves collecting the rewards points for some reason. I think it feels like a game for him from what I can tell.”

Kate shrugged, “It just… feels weird. I’ll pay him back.”

“Good luck with that.” Daphne shrugged, collecting her bag, “Now, we need to brainstorm what the hell I’m going to get Simon for his birthday. I can’t get him another watch because I can’t fucking stand the clicking from all of his stupid… automatic watch winders. Thirty is too many. No one needs to be that aware of the time.”

Kate felt guilty when she got back to Anthony’s as well, Edwina behind her, hiding the bag behind her a little awkwardly. She’d meant to use the card that time, with every intention of paying him back for the frivolous pair of boots in the bag behind her. She found Anthony already home, his slippers on as he geared up to watch the Formula One practice, Newton on the sofa beside him, belly up.

He smiled at her when she bent to kiss the top of his head, “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, Daphne found Simon’s birthday present so a successful trip.”

He peered round her at the bag, “What did you get?”

Kate swallowed, “Okay, so I bought boots but I’ll pay you back and I’m not even sure I’ll keep them.”

Anthony blinked, “You don’t like them?”

“I love them.”

“Why would you take them back then?”

“Because they were a little expensive and… I don’t really need them? And I also bought lunch but that was an accident and like I said I’ll pay you back.”

Anthony shrugged, “Don’t worry about it.” He kissed her gently, “I’m glad you had fun. I was thinking about ordering takeaway do you want something?”

“Um… yeah?”

Anthony stood from the sofa, kissing her again, “I’ll get the menu.”

Kate stared after him as he disappeared into the kitchen, bewildered, “Don’t you even care how much money I spent?”

“Not really.”

Kate kept gaping after him and Edwina muttered, “You have a sugar daddy.”

Kate rolled her eyes, “He’s not my sugar daddy.”

“You spent… a lot of money today and he didn’t notice! He didn’t even care! And I know what he’s ordered for your birthday.”

Kate groaned, “Is it bad?”

“It’s… a wild gift for a birthday together.”

“Worse than Benedict taking Sophie to Switzerland?”

“Oh way worse.”

“Fuck.”

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Do you have a favorite Bridgerton book/storyline?

Favorite/Least Favorite changes book to show?

So let me start this answer by saying that I haven’t watched any of season 3 yet. 🫣 Part of that is money reasons. We pared down our streaming services to the minimum when money was tight and I just haven’t gotten around to renewing my Netflix. Probably will once the rest of season 3 drops because… (book spoilers below the cut)

My 3 favorite books/storylines are:

1) When He Was Wicked (Francesca & Michael Stirling) because holy damn and hell and everything holy in between. Michael Stirling is the epitome of making consent sexy. That's all I'm gonna say about that, but I've seen enough talk and gif's floating around here to know that they've introduced John Stirling already and I am HERE for them laying the groundwork for a season five or six focused on Francesca and Michael Stirling.

2) Romancing Mr. Bridgerton (Colin & Penelope) asfklsjfksanfs. I loved how sweet their story is, enough that I am mildly concerned about how they're going to deal with the massive change on the show, i.e. the fact that book!Lady Whistledown didn't nearly bring ruin and humiliation down on the Bridgerton family at all, let alone twice. On the one hand, I understand why show!Penelope did this and I kind of love that they've given her this massive mistake, this huge flaw for her and Colin to work through. But also 🫣 I don't have an excessive amount of faith in them handling these kinds of changes well on the show because the show is all about The Drama. Which brings me to...

3) The Viscount Who Loved Me (Anthony & Kate) Look. I absolutely love some of the changes they've made while translating the books to screen. And I don't even care all that much for the historical accuracy of the show. They threw it out the window with season one and made it a brilliant alternate universe that allows them the freedom to not only give us a diverse cast but also give the middle finger to anyone who says "that' never would've happened." So I'm willing to forgive a lot of changes. Buuuuutttt.... having Anthony actually propose to Edwina, having Edwina actually believing she wanted to marry Anthony, changed the characters in a way that didn't sit very well with me. At least not with the way it was handled on the show.

So that covers my least favorite change they've made on the show so far, now for my two favorite changes.

Benedict. Gah he's so much better, such a more interesting and fleshed out character on the show than he is in the book. They've maintained his fantastic sense of humor and relationships with his siblings and somehow made it better by bringing in the pseudo underground culture of artists, the introduction of queer characters, and his cravats! I could write an ode to show Benedict's wardrobe it is FABULOUS. And while I know I said above that I don't really care for the changes made to Anthony's story, I'm kind of hoping they flip book!Benedict's story on it's head and see where they can take it. Because that book was one of my least favorites. Give him a man. Or give him a woman built like Luisa Madrigal but who sometimes dresses as a man and can pull it off. I don't care but do SOMETHING ELSE besides the nonsense that happens in his book and GIVE HIS PARTNER SOME FUCKING AGENCY.

Queen Charlotte. Look. She's not even in the books, but she's one of my favorite characters on the show. She and Lady Danbury own my whole heart, okay? And her spinoff show... I've only been able to watch it once because (other than the money issue mentioned above), I was crying literal buckets starting somewhere around episode five until the end and I binge watched that shit so what is that like six hours straight crying???? Also, having her as a character gave us Brimsley and Reynolds. (*whispers my poor overworked and beleaguered babies*) I wasn't overly fond of the role she played in dragging out the drama surrounding Anthony and Edwina, but that could've been avoided entirely if you'd given show!Edwina even an ounce of book!Edwina's compassion and understanding of her sister and had her do something equally dramatic like, oh I don't know... TURN HIM DOWN?!?!? (Can you tell I'm still salty about this?)

Alright, that's enough of that. I have a job interview to prepare for, but this was a nice distraction from my inevitable nerves.

Love,

kdnfb

[radgalniya]

random unimportant thoughts after watching bridgerton s1 + s2:

•eloise is cool and all but i have no interest in her little fling w the paper boy. i skip all the scenes. tbh i dont care for benedicts side projects either. like it’s cool but it doesnt move the story forward much so it’s boring to me. ig for eloise it did create drama w the lady whisteldown stuff but i didnt need to see so many eloise and paper boy scenes for that tbh.

•the boxer dude who opened the lame ass mens club pisses me off so bad. YOU used fraudulent money to open ur mens club now ur looking down on the featheringtons. always in somebody elses business and lookin all miserable like nigga get out the wayyyy mind ur businessss

•edwina literally looks like a perfect angel princess doll, face card of a woman men would go to war for …HOWEVER that crying face kills me lmao

•i love how in the bridgerton uni theres always a storyline break in the show for the two main characters to just fuck. just a smutty montage.

•the bee scene.

•i love how all of them are essentially love at first sight but it’s believable bc the chemistry is so good

•now i know lady featherington isnt the best mother all the time but she loves her kids in her own way and but she’s one of my favorite characters. i’m a sucker for a strong female character who would do whatever she needs for her kids. like i just love to watch her. and i love how after she told mr featherington about her plan, you could see how stressed she was after, just shows how developed a character she is likeee ugh love to watch her on screen.

•i burn for you….OH?!

•why is someone always dying during production. this the second season with an in memory of at the end…

•the penelope eloise breakup was bound to happen but damn it’s so devastating. pen was so wrong and she knew it idk why she was arguing back like girl

•irdk which i’m more obsessed w. dimon, kanthony, or polin. likeee they are all giving everything i need. shonda rhimes just gets it fr.

[thealogie]

as annoying as hardcore sheenant shippers are they will never again have the reach of mrs benedict cumberbatch haters. as soon as she revealed her baby bump they filled this damn site with desperate plans to rescue him from a a clearly forced shotgun wedding

That was so crazy. People legit thought it was a PR relationship.

It’s such a sign of gay progress tbh that no one is claiming their PR teams are forcing them into heterosexual marriages to save their careers.

Now the conspiracy theorists are like: fuck we can’t call this a straight PR coverup relationship due to (1) the changed times and (2) the way all of them act is not much of a coverup. what conspiracy theory do we come up with now? They are baby trapped I guess. And being put down and abused by two younger women who don’t have the power and money they do and have been nothing but loving and supportive to them from what we can see :(

[malspinningyarns]

Random thoughts on Bridgerton Season 3 rewatch episode 1

I love Portia’s Norma Desmond-esque coat when she leaves the carriage.

Do the Bridgerton girls reuse the same court dress or are they just really similar? Same cut and fabric, different embellishments?

Parrot!

I think Colin’s return hair is my favorite styling. So swoopy.

There is a tiny bee embroidered on Benedict’s waistcoat

It is the Stowells who use BSL in the debut at Court , so I think it is Lady Stowell who is Deaf. I think we hear Miss Stowell speak later talking to Benedict.

What is the order the debutantes get presented in? I can’t figure it out

Poor, sweet Francesca is so bad at socializing.

Violet loves Penelope so much. She doesn’t like Cressida at all.

Colin’s voice is back to normal talking to Pen compared to the rest of the debutants

He’s trying so hard to impress her. And he gets denied. 😂

First appearance of Colin’s yellow waistcoat the day after court presentation

Mr. Dundas is an RSC actor! He was a great Benedick in the like 2014 Much Ado About Nothing.

We love a sneaky way to do an intimate scene (Anthony covering his head to go down on Kate).

God, I love Penelope’s gold shoes.

I do get a kind of desire vibes from Cressida staring at Penelope’s dress reveal

All of these men are regretting talking to Penelope. Poor dear Pen. I’m also shit at talking.

The sad thing is I know all the embroidery stitches.

I would love to see the Zebra Ball.

Anthony glaring at his old friends talking to Francesca. Love to see it.

Also, how do these men expect a young lady to answer “what makes you tick?” Fucking weirdos.

I love the conversation between Penelope and Francesca.

Penelope getting brain freeze was very Princess Diaries. Can someone gif that reference? Also a film where the heroine is in love with her best friend’s older brother.

After Cressida rips Penelope’s dress, you can clearly see that the are trying to cover up Claudia’s cast.

Listen, the “I miss you” line was such flirting but genuinely. Even if he doesn’t know it.

Eloise lecturing Cressida on frankness is honestly a bit hilarious

I love Eloise’s coat

1st appearance of Eloise’s summer muff to hide Claudia’s cast

Anthony and Kate leaving to make an heir: good for them. Probably not great for Violet because she has to handle her neurodivergent children by herself

Colin is so soft with Pen, I can’t. 🥹

I’m not sure who is dumber for this plan. Like it’s a dumb, but well-intentioned plan for Colin. Penelope, you know you love him.

Prudence and Phillipa, don’t you have your own homes?

[mallahanmoxie]

s3 ep 4 🙌🤙🤞

Ooh her little Cinderella fit i love her

im gonna be so real with you guys this is coming out of nowhere btw i always thought the travelling didn't fit colin cuz i imagined him too much of a mama's boy and family man to like. leave for long. Like if any of the boys were gonna be a mama's boy it'd be colin cuz anthony and violet's relationship is inevitably marred by edmund's death and benedict doesn't strike me as the type as he seems so caregiver adjacent (he is so often the one minding the children) but colin? most pat-able cheeks in the district

what heart is there even in there my man is straight up thinking with his dick they haven't even had an on screen conversation 😭

frannie is so cute i was unsure of the new actress but she's better in film than in the gifs

damn right!!!!! ur not the noble man will thats ur kid. they're gonna snob him for his origins anyway may as well keep him well padded

well if you weren't fucking assholes maybe more fans would flutter your way <3

again nothing i care less about than colin bridgerton's presence in a brothel.

Well you have a dreary house and dress your mean child in sleeves bigger than her head and make every attempt to drown her spirits i shouldn't like to visit either

this would be a great moment for eloise to like, enlist daphne's help and influence. alas

mr mondrich they will not accept anything which threatens to disrupt the fragile balance of their power. now the question remains will he fall in line or are they going to contrive a happy solution

colin what are you doing with these oafs

see. i know my kind hearted child.

her full lashes drawn eyebrows styled hair before "getting ready" lmao

"you so rarely put yourself first" girl......... Give me a specific instance. go on.

[fitrahgolden]

The Light of the Love That I Found: A Weary Memory Story

Kate was listening to music as she smudged charcoal across paper with her fingers in one of the studio spaces on campus. She paused to examine her progress when there was a knock on the door. Before she could answer, Anthony was already peeking into the room.

“Tell me, what's even the point of knocking if you're just going to open the door anyway?” Kate infused as much annoyance as she could into her tone, hoping to mask how ridiculously happy she was to see him.

It'd been six weeks. Since that party, it'd been six weeks of dates, meeting up around campus, sleepovers, and tests of willpower when they didn't spend the night together. Was Anthony her boyfriend? She wasn’t sure. After a handful of those aforementioned sleepovers, Kate had asked him if he was sleeping with anyone else. He wasn’t. Neither was she. A couple of weeks ago, Anthony’s brother Benedict came over from London for a visit. Kate stayed at her own place that weekend, but Anthony had invited her to hang out with him and Ben one of the nights he was there. Anthony had simply said, “This is Kate,” when he introduced her. There was no indication of what they were to each other, though his brother gave him a teasing look as he shook Kate’s hand, and it had made Kate wonder what, if anything, Anthony had told him about her.

“Formalities are very important to me, Kit.” Anthony said with mock sternness as he pulled a chair over so he could sit next to her. He kissed her temple. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Kate looked back at her drawing, adding superfluous little strokes and blending them out to nothing with the pad of her thumb.

“I like it.” Anthony said plainly as he draped an arm across the back of her chair.

Kate sighed pensively. “Thanks.”

“It’s a self-portrait, right?”

“No.” Kate twisted her mouth. “It’s my mother.”

Anthony’s “ah” was barely audible as he nodded.

Kate wiped her hands as thoroughly as she could before pulling out her phone. She navigated to a picture of Kaveri Sharma, and turned the screen towards Anthony.

“Holy shit. You look exactly like her,” he said with awe as he took the phone from her to get a closer look.

“Yeah. Everyone always said that. I wanted to believe them, but I couldn’t see it. I can now, though. It’s more obvious now that I’ve grown up, I guess.”

“Absolutely, you two would have been twins.” Anthony immediately grimaced. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry, Kit. I–”

Kate shook her head and patted his knee. “It’s fine, Anthony. You’re right.” She turned back towards the drawing. “We would have been.”

The following moments were silent save for Kate’s deep sigh. Then she felt Anthony take her hand in both of his and kiss it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Are you studying tonight?”

“Always.”

“I have some writing I need to do. Can I come over?”

Kate gave him an incredulous sideways glance. Their private “study sessions” always devolved into something else entirely far too quickly.

“Really.” Anthony nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s due tomorrow. I don’t have time to submit to your feminine wiles.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “You’ll also need to keep your own wiles to yourself, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Well then,” Kate raised her chin haughtily, “Yes, you can come over.”

Anthony grinned as he leaned over and kissed her. Before she knew it, his hand was sliding up her back under her shirt, and she was being pulled into his lap.

“I’d consider these wiles, Anthony,” she murmured against his lips.

“We aren’t studying, yet.”

—

>>Hey, I don't think tonight is gonna work anymore.

Anthony with a “ta”: Why not? What happened?

>>Nothing. I just don’t feel well. I’m sorry.

Anthony with a “ta”: Don’t be sorry, Kit. What do you need? I’ll bring you something.

>>I don’t need anything, really.

Anthony with a “ta”: Well, what are your symptoms?

Anthony with a “ta”: Kit?

—

It had also been six weeks of this issue not coming up. But on her walk home that evening, Kate could feel it on her skin. She could see it in the clouds. She could even smell it in the air. She checked the radar and, sure enough, a storm was headed their way. Had Kate manifested it by drawing her mother that day? Of course she hadn’t. Intellectually, Kate knew she hadn’t. That didn’t stop her from wondering. That didn’t stop her from being annoyed with herself.

After she and Anthony parted ways, Kate had spent the rest of the afternoon looking forward to him coming over. But cancelling had almost been a reflex. It'd almost been against her will. But she didn't talk to anyone about this, and she certainly didn't know how to discuss it with her maybe/maybe not boyfriend of a mere month and a half.

She missed the big tub back home. It was the perfect place to hide. Edwina had found her there the last time, but the six year old thought nothing of it, just climbed in with Kate and they made a game out of it.

Not only was the bathroom in the shared house she rented tiny, it also had a window. There was no window in her bathroom at her father's house. So, she opted for wrapping herself up in a blanket and hunkering down in a foetal position in her tiny closet. Which is where she was when she heard a knock on her bedroom door.

At first, she said nothing. Maybe whichever one of her housemates it was would think she went to sleep early. Then the second knock was accompanied by a voice.

“Kit?”

Shit!

“You alright? Alice let me in.”

For a split second, Kate considered sticking to her “pretend to be asleep” plan, but she immediately abandoned the idea. She wanted to see him. So, still wrapped in her blanket, Kate padded to her door and unlocked it. Anthony’s hair and shoulders were damp and concern was etched all over his face.

“Hey.” One of his hands went to her cheek while the other was holding a tote bag. “How are you feeling?”

He kissed her forehead. Kate closed her eyes and let the warm feeling wash over her. Just then, the wind picked up and raindrops started hitting her window hard. The sound brought a memory to the front of her mind. Sheets of water rolling down the windshield. Her mother cursing about not being able to see anything.

“...Hey.”

Anthony was tugging on Kate's hand. Her eyes snapped to his.

“Sorry.” Kate shook her head as she closed and locked her door.

“Don't be sorry. I was just saying I wasn't sure what you needed, so I kind of bought out the entire chemist,” he said, sifting through the contents of the bag.

“Oh, you really shouldn't have…”

“And there's soup in your fridge if you want that.”

Kate shook her head. “Anthony.”

“I looked up a chai recipe, if you trust me to–”

“Anthony, stop.”

Kate wrapped the blanket tighter around herself as Anthony blinked at her, dropping the bag on her bed.

“I'm… Fuck, I'm sorry.” He ran his hand over his face. “You want to be alone, don't you?”

She took a step towards him. “No, actually–” A flash of lightning startled her, and Anthony pulled her the rest of the way to him.

“No?” he asked into her hair.

“No, it's just that…none of those things are going to help.”

Thunder rumbled through the house, and Kate felt herself vibrating in Anthony's arms along with it.

“Kit, please tell me what's wrong.” His voice was a whisper against her ear.

Kate took several deep breaths.

“Can we sit on the floor? I… It helps when I'm low to the ground.”

Without hesitation, Anthony sat on the floor, leaning against the side of her bed. He pulled her down to straddle his lap and wrapped his arms around her, blanket and all.

“Thank you,” she sighed.

“Of course, baby.”

Baby. He'd never called her that outside the context of sex before.

Another lightning flash had her flinching against him.

Is that lightning or headlights? “Amma!”

“Kit, is it the storm?”

Kate nodded into his neck.

“Your heart is beating so fast. Are you afraid of them?” There was no judgement in his tone. Just curiosity and worry.

“Yeah, but…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It's more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

He stroked her hair. This was as strange as it was welcomed. No one had ever been with her for this, taking care of her. How could they? She’d never let anyone know when it was happening. She didn't want to upset her father by talking about that day. 

“It was a car accident,” was all she could get herself to say at first. After several seconds, she heard a small gasp come from Anthony.

“Your mother.”

Kate cleared her throat, which did nothing for the lump that was forming. “We… The rain got so heavy so fast. We couldn't see anything. We were swerving. Amma couldn't…”

“‘We?’ You were there?”

Kate nodded.

“Fuck.”

 “We both needed surgery. My knees were fucked up, and she…”

Anthony's had been absentmindedly tracing over one of Kate's knees, something he'd done a few times before falling asleep over the past several weeks. He stilled his hand.

“Is… That's how…?”

“That's where the scars are from, yeah. Please don't stop.”

“OK.” He resumed his tender ministrations.

“I was under when it happened. She…” Another useless cough. “She was already gone when I woke up.”

They didn't speak for a while. Anthony rocked her through every lightning flash and roll of thunder. It didn't seem like the weather was going to let up any time soon.

“Are you able to sleep when this happens?”

Kate shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Do you want to try?”

“Yeah.”

She slid off Anthony’s lap. He stood and took off most of his clothes. Once he was down to his underwear, he held out his hand to her, as she was still sitting on the floor.

“Shall we?”

Kate took his hand, but didn't pull herself up.

“Can we stay down here?” Her eyes flitted to the window. “It's better down here.”

Anthony rubbed Kate's knuckles with his thumb as he nodded. “OK.”

She watched as he grabbed a pillow and duvet from her bed and laid them out beside her. She wasn't expecting him to acquiesce so easily.

“You'll be alright lying on the floor?”

“I'll be fine. Come here.”

She settled under the duvet with him, her head on his chest. 

“What about the writing you had to do?” she whispered.

“I did some of it before I came over. I’ll do the rest in the morning.”

“Anthony…”

“It’s fine, Kit. This is where I need to be right now. My girlfriend is sleeping on the floor, so we're sleeping on the floor.”

Oh.

“I'm your girlfriend?”

Anthony raised his head slightly. “Aren't you?”

“I wasn't sure,” Kate laughed.

“Well, you absolutely are. I mean, only if you want to be, of course.”

She looked up at him then, caressing his cheek as the uncertainty evaporated from his eyes. “I want to be.”

19 YEARS LATER

The howling winds and harsh sounds of rain pelting the house made it seem as if they were getting it from all sides. Kate took a couple of deep breaths, settled lower into the tub, and focused on her three month old.

Mary Violet Sharma-Bridgerton didn't seem bothered by the weather at all. In fact, she seemed quite content, noisily feeding from her mother, sighing in between the grunts and gulps. The infant had a tendency to fall asleep before she got her fill, so Kate had a night light next to them and was playing with Mary's bare feet to keep her awake.

“I can’t believe I didn’t wake up.”

Kate looked up towards the direction of the hoarse whisper. Anthony stood in the bathroom doorway, rubbing his eyes.

“I can,” Kate countered. “Getting enough sleep is basically impossible right now.”

Anthony mumbled something unintelligible as he made his way over to the tub and kneeled beside it. “Are you OK?”

“Mostly.”

“Did you dream?” Kate shook her head. Anthony kissed her cheek. “Good.”

“This one’s helping,” she decided, looking down at Mary.

Anthony petted their daughter's dark hair. “May I join you two?”

“Please.”

Kate leaned forward a bit, allowing Anthony to fit in behind her. He rearranged the pillows and blanket before reclining.He started to massage Kate's neck, making her shiver and moan. She couldn't find it in her to care how she sounded.

“Fuck, Kit. Don't make noises like that.”

“I’ll make whichever noises I want. Your self control isn't my problem.”

“I think I’ve been doing a rather stellar job of controlling myself, thank you very much.”

Kate softened, stroking Anthony’s arm with her free hand. “I know. You’ve been very patient.”

She'd been medically cleared for sex weeks ago, but Kate still wasn't ready, in part because she and her therapist both believed forcing intimacy too soon was one of the contributing factors to the PPD that occurred after Kaveri's birth.

She craned her head around and nuzzled his jaw. “Thank you.”

Anthony shrugged as he kissed her hair. “Whatever you need, Kit.”

Once Mary was sufficiently milk drunk, Kate lifted her upright against her shoulder so she could attempt to coax a burp out of their baby by rubbing her back. Kate smiled when she felt Anthony lean forward and start peppering Mary's face with kisses. It didn't take long for a robust belch to bellow from her tiny body.

“Well done, you little star,” Anthony cooed.

“Anthony?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't you actually have to make an appearance at the office in the morning?”

“It's fine,” he said dismissively.

“We're really alright if you want to–”

“I don't want to. This is where I need to be right now. My wife and child are lying in the tub, so we're lying in the tub.”

[bi-demon-ium]

For the fic titles: "Orpheus Curse", Secret Gate", or "Idiosyncratic" :)

hmm this is the only ask i got so i'm gonna give all of em a shot

Orpheus Curse

He can speak so beautifully the stones will weep, but he always looks back instead of forward. Love chains him to the past; he sees not the path ahead.

(I have someone in mind for this but it could fit a number of characters...)

Secret Gate

The small, walled off garden on the island is one of the few places SQ has good memories of. He and his dad used to sit here all the time, together. SQ hadn't felt lonely then. He feels more lonely than ever now. He hadn't come back here in a long time, even before they left the island. His dad had stopped coming and it had felt--no, SQ had felt empty. Empty and angry and sad. Now it is overgrown, wild; it has become untamed and feral upon being abandoned. SQ feels sorry for it, and almost wishes he'd come back sooner to keep it company, and then feels foolish for pitying a garden. Gardens didn't get lonely; gardens weren't sad when they were left. And then SQ spots it: a gate, covered in ivy, that he swears was never there before. It creaks gently in the wind, a sudden breeze, and SQ moves forward as if in a trance. A secret gate... had it been covered before? Why would his dad hide part of the garden from him? He laughs at the thought, a little bitter, because his dad had already kept so much from him: what was a gate to that? SQ unlatches it, and it comes undone smoothly in his hands, too smooth for such an old thing, and he pushes it open. (Or: [iasip text] "SQ Goes On A Walkabout")

that's more of a snippet than a summary but whatever

Idiosyncratic

The thing about Mr. Benedict's home, and the web of connections they'd all amassed, was that they were all a bit really fucking bizarre. People notice.

im picturing like:

"They're just a bit... idiosyncratic!" says the woman, slightly strained but polite.

"Who Are You Calling An Idiot," says the tiny pink girl from behind her, and she jumps a foot in the air.

"No, that's not what that word means."

The little pink girl squints at him. "Cratic," she says. "Like government. But government and idiot are synonymous, so I did not include this."

Well. There wasn't much one could say to that.

"Actually, Constance," says the boy next to her, helpfully, "Idiosyncratic means bizarre, weird, odd, peculiar, acting in a strange or distinct way--"

"Ah, I see," says Constance-apparently, baring her teeth in what might be called a grin. "So you were calling us freaks."

"Oddballs might be more appropriate," the boy interjects helpfully. He doesn't seem offended in the slightest, more slightly bored.

[fayes-fics]

The Wonderful Unexpected: Chapter 3

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (future chapters), Modern AU

Chapter Summary: Boxing Day with the Bridgertons.

Warnings: not much, really… brief mentions of parental deaths.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author’s Note: The Bridgertons rope reader into their Boxing Day plans. For those wondering, Benedict turns up next chapter :) Please see the masterpost for a synopsis. Thank you to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

As you go to leave Anthony’s hospital room, his family are all arriving again.

“Y/n! Hi! We didn't know you were here,” Violet bustles up to you and gives you a quick hug, already treating you like one of the family. “Were you here all night?” She doesn't wait for your answer, instead tugging you back into the room. “So, how's my darling son?”

“Oh, well, he's got more colour.” you attempt a platitude, eyeing up the doorway wistfully. 

Your plan to escape - to be an apocryphal family tale - is not exactly going as you planned.

“Oh yes!” she agrees happily, brushing his cheek affectionately with the back of her hand and then fussing with a lock of his hair—the very picture of a doting mother. 

“I have to go, but it was lovely seeing you again,” you excuse, edging away.

“Tell her…” Marcus elbows Violet gently. “Go on.”

“So…” Violet begins, looking a little sheepish. “We didn't get to celebrate Christmas yesterday as planned, so we thought, now we know Anthony’s prognosis looks good, we would do so tonight. A day late, but still. And we thought… well, it would be nice if you could join us,” she rushes out, grabbing both of your hands. “ You are to be family soon after all!”

You stumble a few umms and ahs before Hyacinth pipes up: “Benedict is going to be there!”

“Oh, yes! That's right!” Violet brightens immediately. “You haven't met him yet?” 

“Nope…”  you confirm, having absolutely no clue who that could be. Seriously, could this family be any bigger?

“Oh, he'll be so happy to meet you!” Violet grins, and something about that makes you feel an odd flutter in your chest. “So you'll come? Tonight?” She looks so hopeful you feel bad saying no.

“I have to work until 7pm...”

“Come afterwards,” she insists. “We won't be eating until late. Give Hyacinth your mobile number. And I will call until you say yes….” She smiles, and you are uncertain how much of that is a jest.

Still, you feel unable to give them the wrong number. So, with a sigh, you take Hyacinth's proffered iPhone, the latest model you notice, and reluctantly punch it in.

Well, how the fuck am I going to get out of this one?!

—

You are waiting for the lift to take you down to the street when an orderly flags you down, holding out a large plastic bag for you to take.

“What? What is this?” you query, confused and tired, just wanting to get home and grab two hours of sleep before you have to go to work.

“These are your husband's things, Mrs Bridgerton.”

Something drops hard in your stomach at the word husband. You are glad you have finally learned his last name even as you grouse in frustration: “He's not my husband!”

“I'm sorry. Your fiancee,” the orderly corrects, shoving the bag into your hand and walking away as the lift sweeps open next to you.

“Uh, you're Anthony's fiancee?” The query comes from a tall man in a suit.

“Okay. Yep. Fine,” you shrug, defeated.

“Fife. Alastair Fife. Colleague of Anthony's,” he introduces, with the air of a man expecting you to be impressed somehow.

“l have to go…” You attempt to get into the lift he just exited, but he blocks you.

“Can't believe this has happened. Ant’s had a shit year. What with the accident in September….”

“Accident?” you frown.

“Well, of course, it was an accident!” He blusters, then seems to get agitated. “Wait… Did he tell you it was my fault?! The fucking cheek…” 

He pauses to run a harried hand through his hair, then launches into a diatribe before you can even protest. 

“Look, here’s the real story…. we're playing doubles down in Roehampton. l had an Apple pencil in my back pocket, but I swear I didn't know it was there. I’m always losing those blasted things. Anyway, I crouch, and Ant jumps high to hit a crosscourt smash….”

You sigh, watching the lift doors sweep shut, resigning yourself to a story you know you are going to have to endure from this rather twitchy man.

Great, juuuuust great.

—

Two hours of sleep is definitely not enough to face the insanity of Boxing Day crowds piling into London to shop the sales. And then, of course, demanding coffee from you. Everyone is back on shift today but still, fully staffed; you can barely keep up with the queue, which is out of the door at times.

“I need a new place,” Prue laments at some point during the afternoon. “Me and Phillipa simply CANNOT live with Mum anymore. It's just too much….”

“The flat above mine is free,” you report as your phone pings yet again. “I mean, it's in the attic, so it's a bit small, and the landlord is… a character, but I think it's a two bed….”

“OMG, give me the details!” she demands as Gen wanders over.

You check the message, and it's Hyacinth. This time, with a pin drop to their house and a bunch of champagne and fire emojis.

“Ladies, this isn’t the time to be slacking,” Gen chastises gently, nodding to the queue.

Prue pouts but goes back to the till as Gen hovers while you wash out the smoothie maker. 

“So…. your phone is blowing up. How goes it?” She wheedles, asking for even more information than you have already given her over text and during your shift today.

You groan and drop the scrubber. “I’m fucked. They think I'm their future daughter-in-law!”

She chuckles heartily, and you throw her a side stink eye. 

“The grandad? He's got this heart thing. If l tell the truth, he will die. I'm not a murderer, Gen!”

“Well, then, go along with it,” she suggests, her schadenfreude almost gleeful. “Look, when he wakes up, they’ll be so happy they won't care you told some porkies. They'll probably even thank you for it, mate.”

You scoff at that. “And what if he doesn't come out of it?”

“Morbid,” she contends, then just shrugs. “Could be worse. When Henry’s mum found out I was pregnant? Her fucking intestines exploded.”

Edie whips around from manning the espresso machine and narrows her eyes at Gen. “I thought you said she shat herself?”

“Meh… po-tay-to, po-tahh-oh”: Gen fires back.

You sigh. “You fuckers are no help….”

—

You check your phone five times, looking down at the screen and then back up, certain that despite your little blue dot hovering over the pin Hyacinth sent, it can't be the right place.

This cannot be their home. That would be ridiculous. 

It's a mansion in Mayfair. It looks more like a fancy consulate building than a residence. 

Just as you go to text Hyacinth a ‘Haha, very funny’, Agatha materialises at your side for a second time. 

“Y/n, you made it!” She greets with a knowing smile.

“Agatha! Hello! So I am in the right place?!” 

“Indeed,” she confirms, tapping open an old-fashioned cigarette case as you stare up again at the handsome building, belatedly realising you haven't done your usual Googling of someone as soon as you learn their name. But then, it's not exactly been a typical 36 hours. 

“So the family owns this? All of it?” You ask, secretly hoping that maybe they just have a flat inside or something.

She laughs. “Yes, dear. The Bridgertons are… not exactly wanting for money,” she attests in what is clearly a classic understatement.

“But they seem so nice, normal,” you mutter rhetorically, a knot forming in your stomach, suddenly feeling way out of your depth.

Agatha just chuckles again, and flicks open a lighter. “Keep me company for a while? l don't like to smoke in their house.” 

She signals to a seat inside the gates, and you follow her after she punches in a code to gain access.

“I’m trying to quit,” she breezes, offering you one silently from her case, but you shake your head. “Did you know that I was Anthony's godmother?” she queries, exhaling a swirl of smoke. 

“I did not,” you concede. “It must be nice to be around family at this time of year…” Your mien is likely wistful, for she twists to look at you with piqued curiosity.

“You have no family?”

“I'm an only child, just like my parents. I don't remember my Mum; she died when I was just three,” you shrug matter-of-factly. “It was just me and Dad. Then, four years ago, he got ill. Eventually, he sold the house in Bath and moved in with me in London to be closer to Guys Hospital for treatment. I had to give up working my old job to look after him in the end. But about a year ago, he went too.” You conclude—an economical but truthful potted history of your life. 

There are a few moments of silence, just the constant swish and drone of London traffic, as Agatha shoots you a look of sympathy, tapping to discard some ash.

“My husband died when I was relatively young,” she volunteers. “But Violet was, and always has been, my rock.”

“You are friends from long ago?” 

“Oh yes. We go back a long way, my dear. Longer than she even knows….” she pauses to take another drag, then fixes you with a pointed, almost intimidating look. “Y/n, the Bridgertons, you should know I consider them my family. I'd never let anyone hurt them.”

It sounds like a warning, but for some reason also an invitation.

“Neither would l,” you confess honestly, a gust of light wind catching your hair that you have to tuck behind your ear.

Agatha observes you pointedly for a beat, then seems satisfied with whatever she finds.

“l believe you wouldn't,” she opines, stubbing out her cigarette.

—

When the door to Bridgerton House sweeps open, your jaw drops. Somehow, even magnificent seems somewhat inadequate as a descriptor. The grand hallway is bedecked in heavy garlands festooned with lights, a Christmas tree almost as tall as the building you live in taking pride of place. Everywhere you look is tasteful Christmas decor, and among it antique furniture, glittering chandeliers and oil paintings of what looks to be the family antecedents.

The poinsettia from M&S you clutch seems entirely pointless now, and part of you wants just to hide it, but you don't have time. While a friendly-looking man takes your coat, the gaggle of Bridgertons descend upon you. Violet takes the plant from you with profuse thanks as they all crowd around, talking over each other excitedly in the manner you are almost used to now. All dressed up in novelty jumpers, which is a relief. A setting this grand seems more black-tie, but that would leave you woefully undressed in the simple skirt and jumper you wear.

Before you quite know what has happened, you are swept into a dining room, where a glass of bubbly is pushed into your hand. 

“That’s so you don't have to take any of my dear father's mulled wine,”  Violet murmurs before sweeping away.

“It can cause temporary blindness,” Agatha adds under her breath, nodding sagely in a way that suggests there could be some truth behind what you hope is a jest.

You tilt your glass in a gesture of thanks for the forewarning and take a seat in front of the place setting with your name upon it, trying not to feel overwhelmed. You thought this might be a little gathering around a kitchen table in a modest family home; this is a long way from that.

Staff from a catering company bustle in, placing platters down the middle of the long table as Violet taps a fork against her glass and stands up, a rare hush falling over the table.

“I am glad we get to celebrate today as a family. Our thoughts are, of course, with darling Anthony for his hopefully speedy recovery, but I am so happy the soon-to-be-newest member of our family can be here." You feel all eyes turn to you, smiling, a lump in your throat as she continues. “It's so wonderful you came to join us, y/n; the first of many celebrations we shall be happy to have you at!”

“Here, here!” Marcus cheers, tilting his glass in your direction.

“So here is to family, new and old, blood and found,” she smiles at Agatha and Marcus. “Happy Christmas!”

Everyone clinks glasses, and there is a round of festive greetings before people start getting stuck in—platters being passed around the table as pockets of conversation break out. However, you can't help but notice significant gaps between the chairs and spares pushed against the walls off to the side of the room. Violet, ever watchful, notices and leans over. 

“I'm afraid we are rather reduced in number today. You will likely only encounter less than half of my errant offspring. In fact, just three of the eight.”

“Eight?” your eyes go wide, almost spitting out the bite of warm bread roll you had just popped in your mouth.

“Anthony did not tell you?” She looks momentarily confused. Luckily, you don't have to provide cover as she soon continues: “Well, they are scattered around the globe, and I did not want to ruin their Christmas by telling them about Anthony. I don’t want them flying back, especially now we know he should be okay. My son Colin is off travelling in the Costa Rican jungle, and my daughter Eloise decided to tag along. I think mostly to annoy him, to be honest. My musical daughter Fran is at Julliard in New York City. My eldest daughter Daphne is in Dubai…”

“I thought they were in Singapore?” Hyacinth pipes up.

“I thought Tokyo?” Gregory counters with a knitted brow.

“My son-in-law Simon, her husband, has many business interests; they do tend to zip around the globe a great deal,” Violet discloses.

“So Gregory and & Hyacinth are here…” you nod to them as they grin back. “Who’s the third you’re expecting?”

“Benedict. My second eldest.” You recall the name from earlier and Violet seems to light up in a way that suggests she might have a favourite, even if she may never admit it out loud. “Although he texted his train from Edinburgh was cancelled, so unfortunately, I don't think he’ll be here in time for dinner. But he will be later. You can meet him in the morning, if not before.” She smiles.

“In the morning? I-I-I was not expecting to stay…”

While you had left out enough food to last Chairman Meow a day, you are certain he won’t appreciate another night left all alone.

“Oh, of course you shall!” Violet contests congenially. “And if you have any of the mulled wine, you likely won’t have a choice,” she chortles, and again, you feel yourself ill-equipped to disappoint this lovely woman.

And so the meal progresses with lively conversation, stories of old being regaled to you as you relax a notch. Even though they are obviously very wealthy, there is something so warm and genuine about the Bridgertons, and you can't help but feel a glow that isn’t entirely attributable to your second glass of fizz.

After dinner, with a brief stop by the hallway tree where you are reluctantly pulled into a family group photo, you all decamp to a large living room. A fireplace is roaring, and Christmas music is playing softly from hidden speakers as you gather on a clutch of comfortable sofas, forming a U-shape. Everyone is still wearing their novelty paper crowns from the crackers you all pulled at dessert. Well, with the exception of Victor, who wears two, claiming it is his right as the oldest.

“It's presents time!” Hyacinth trills, excitedly diving into the pile under yet another beautiful tree.

You are happy just to sit back and observe, so you are surprised when she and Gregory smirk as they drop one in your lap.

“To y/n, with love from Santa,” they wink.

Your mouth goes dry, and you don't know what to say. 

“Don't worry, dear. We don't buy fancy gifts,” Violet pipes up. “It's just for fun,” she reassures as Victor rips open his gift: novelty socks that start playing an obnoxious tune and flashing gaudily.

“Oh ho ho,  I’ll have fun wearing these to church on Sunday,” he guffaws.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Agatha chides affectionately.

As Gregory and Hyacinth pull focus with their gifts, you open yours quietly. An odd wave of emotion at a lovely picture frame containing what is obviously a photo of a teenage Anthony smiling handsomely, holding what looks like a sporting trophy of some kind. You look up to see Violet smiling benevolently at you as Marcus pulls her in for a temple kiss for the embossed golf tees she has given him. 

“That’s Anthony’s favourite photo of himself,” Violet explains. “I thought you would enjoy having a copy for your home together.”

Maybe the third (fourth?) glass of champagne isn't helping, but there’s a bittersweet pang in your chest. Feeling awful the longer the misunderstanding continues, especially with how lovely this all is. Still, you just don't have it in you to admit the truth right now and ruin their Boxing Day after their Christmas was so royally fucked. There is something so irresistible about this lovely, chaotic family and how they have welcomed you with such open arms. It's like a festive hug you don't want to leave. 

And that’s without you even noticing that hung at the end of the mantle, next to Anthony’s, is a simple red stocking with your name emblazoned upon it. Good thing, too. You’d probably ugly cry into your Moet, and that would be a real waste. 

—

Unbeknownst to you all, right at that very moment, half-buried on a rubbish tip somewhere on the outskirts of London, a mobile phone screen lights up with a notification:

Merry belated, etc. LA is absolutely fab, but cutting my trip short. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… and, okay, sure, why the fuck not? Bridgerton, you are on. l WILL marry you. Sxx

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

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

[virginiaisforvampires]

Hi V. Is it canon that the vampires can see each others thoughts and feeling through feeding on each other? Did they give indication that this was lore in the show?

Hey! Xx

It is canon, and it’s demonstrated numerous times throughout the books. It’s the only way makers and fledglings can share a mental connection. Off the top of my head, for example, that aspect is demonstrated in Prince Lestat between Lestat and David and also in Prince Lestat And The Realms Of Atlantis between Rhoshamandes and Benedict.

Lestat while David drinks from him in Prince Lestat:

His pull was so strong that I swooned. Seems I turned and put my arms around him, catching his head in my left, and struggled with him, but the visions had opened up, and I didn’t know one realm from the other for a moment, and the manicured paths and trees of the Tuileries had become the Savage Garden of all the world.

Lestat also hints that he’s sharing blood again with Louis in Prince Lestat And The Realms Of Atlantis.

Now others were curious about the fate of Amel, obviously, but I don’t think anyone felt the pain I felt. Louis knew what I couldn’t confide, and he was respectful of it, and comforting and patient. Louis never failed me.

In other words, Louis knows what Lestat can’t tell anyone else, because Louis sees it in the blood when he drinks from Lestat.

It also works like that between vampires and humans in that vampires see inside the human mind, and the humans are lost in the swoon of the vampire’s mind, which is demonstrated numerous times as well. For example, it happens between Lestat and Antoine when Lestat goes to him after Louis and Claudia try to kill him, and Lestat shows Antoine what they did through the blood. Lestat also talks about seeing inside the minds of his victims and seeing inside Gabrielle, Nicki, David, and Mona when he turns them, and sending them his own visions through the blood. In The Vampire Armand, Lestat is in the coma, but he allows Armand to drink from him to see the visions and revelations that Lestat had experienced with Memnoch.

In the show? Episode 2 showed that Louis and Lestat could glean thoughts from the tenor while they were draining him. As far as the connection being shared between vampires, it’s only hinted at between Louis and Lestat. Why did the relationship start falling apart once Louis stopped feeding on human blood? Because he also stopped sharing blood with Lestat at that point too, and the intimacy was lost. Lestat no longer had that reassurance through the blood that Louis loved him.

@nalyra-dreaming has an excellent breakdown about this. Another hint was the bite mark on Lestat’s neck in Episode 6 after the hate-fuck in which Louis had noticeably softened towards Lestat in the aftermath. Why did he soften? He most likely saw things when he took that blood from Lestat, which I talked more about here.

The blood is what Louis glosses over in all respects, because he’s still not there when it comes to the importance of the blood to a vampire. He’s still Mr. Not-Killed-Since-2000 and that’s just not gonna cut it.

As an aside, in Blood Canticle, Lestat warns Mona and Quinn that engaging in blood-sharing between vampires over a long period of time will essentially begin to weaken their ability to telepathically communicate via the mind gift.

“Don’t give her your blood,” I said to Quinn. “Keep your minds open to each other. Of course you’ll depend on words, no matter how much you read of each other’s thoughts, but don’t exchange blood. Too much, and you’ll lose the mutual telepathy.”

Lestat and Pandora theorize that this is because the bond between two vampires would, in essence, be too much if they were able to share both the blood and the mind, which is also why they think maker-fledgling minds are locked to each other except for when they share blood.

So yeah, the show hasn’t outright addressed this, but it’s such an important part of the lore that I just don’t see how they could eliminate it, because that blood connection is the intimacy and sex for vampires in the books. It is the deepest, most powerful connection two vampires can have. Their hearts, minds, and souls link to become one when they share blood. This is also what makes Lestat jealous in regards to Louis, because it’s the most profound bond in existence for them.

I looked squarely at Louis, who looked as splendidly human as he ever had. A rage of jealousy exploded in me against the blood in his veins that wasn’t mine.

When Lestat drank from Louis in Episode 1, that was the highest level of intimacy a vampire could attain, and even Louis admits he’d never felt that close to anyone and it awoke feelings in him.

You see how Lestat is looking at Louis? There’s no way he didn’t see into the depths of Louis’ heart and soul while he was drinking from him, because Lestat is absolutely gone on Louis at this point. “Fatally in love” for both of them. ♥️♥️

[dustedmagazine]

Music for Films, Vol. IV: Once upon a Time…in Benedict Canyon or, Tarantino, Redux

(N.B., I wrote an earlier piece in this series about Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof [2007], which seemed to me to represent the apotheosis of that director’s postmodern sensibility, for cinema and for its use of pop music. That still seems accurate to me. But Tarantino’s Once upon a Time…in Hollywood [2019] turns out to be a much more interesting engagement with both of those aspects of his filmmaking, and with postmodernism, generally — and it’s also a film I admire a bit more. So we go around again. If, however, you are sick of Tarantino and of chatter about his films, I get it. For sure, he’s irritating as hell in interviews — and below, I start with some of my own irritation at his winking and ironical guffawing. But, as is the case with someone like Richard Hell, it’s useful to separate the man from the work, and if you can pull that off, the work can be pretty great.)

There are moments in Once upon a Time…in Hollywood at which Quentin Tarantino’s auto-referentiality tips over from risible cleverness into unsavory self-obsession. See the scene about 80 minutes into the film, during which Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt, effortlessly cool) finally picks up the always hitching and emphatically sexually available Pussycat (Margaret Qualley, breathlessly feral). After they connect on their shared histories with Spahn Movie Ranch, Pussycat settles into the Coupe de Ville’s massive bench seat and, inevitably, puts her feet up on the dash. Her toes smush into the windshield; the bottoms of her feet are filthy. You can just about feel Tarantino hyperventilating — or maybe he’s laughing his ass off at us. Tarantino and feet, it’s an exhausted punchline by now. And the moment is almost a direct quotation, a visually inverted rendition of the opening shot of the narrative portion of Death Proof, in which Butterfly’s (Vanessa Ferlito) feet rest on the dash of Shanna’s (Jordan Ladd) Honda Civic. Tarantino seems to want you to make the connection, and, perhaps, to feel a little bit gross about the fact that you can.

The whole scene is shot through with problematic erotic energies, generated less so by Pussycat’s directness (“Obviously I’m not too young to fuck you, but obviously you are too old to fuck me”), more so by Cliff’s reasons for not pursuing her (“What I’m too old to do is go to jail for poontang”). And Tarantino has Dee Clark’s “Hey Little Girl” lasciviously jangling from the Coupe de Ville’s radio: “Hey little girl in the high school sweater / Gee, but I’d like to know you better / Just a-swinging your books and chewing gum / A-looking just like a juicy plum.” Gee. I get the crassness of the choice, which provides an intensification of the more playful song accompanying Cliff’s first look at Pussycat on a different LA street (and about 63 minutes earlier in the film), Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson.” With all the signaling, ogling and panting, it’s easy to forget the song that immediately proceeds “Hey Little Girl,” sonically framing the initial gestures of Cliff and Pussycat’s conversation.

The song is typical of Neil Diamond’s peculiar talent for constructing gravid schmaltz that is neither too serious nor too cloyingly mawkish (mostly, anyways). That emotional tonality seems a less than intuitive choice for Cliff and Pussycat’s encounter — until we remember why she wants a lift to Spahn Ranch, and who might be there to meet them. Diamond’s Brother Love is a religious huckster, a metaphysical con man, and so, in part, was Charles Manson, a wannabe acid-soaked Svengali who managed to bewitch more folks than seems believable. Pussycat’s passionate desire for Cliff to meet him (“Charlie is reeeeally gonna dig you”) suggests Manson’s poisonous influence over her. She is thus the fictional avatar of numerous women and girls, like Mary Brunner, Susan Atkins and Squeaky Fromme, who fell under Manson’s influence, utterly convinced of his psychic and prophetic powers.

Manson, as is widely known, was erstwhile friends with Beach Boy Dennis Wilson and with producer Terry Melcher. Manson first went to the house at 10050 Cielo Drive, where Manson Family members would eventually murder Sharon Tate and several others, looking for Melcher. Manson was attempting a career as sort of demented folksinger manque, and he wanted to bug Melcher about it. By 1969 Melcher was coasting on the rep he had built producing the Byrds’ hit records from 1965 and most of Paul Revere & the Raiders’ sides from 1965 to 1968 (and that band’s singer Mark Lindsay also briefly lived at 10050 Cielo), including this tune:

Watching Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) bounce around the room is a charming experience, and Robbie’s still-youthful beauty is an interesting counterpoint to the aesthetic pleasures of Pitt’s middle-aged body. In truth, Robbie isn’t given all that much to do in Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood; mostly Tarantino seems to have told her, “Okay, be adorable” (though we should also note that it isn’t hugely easy to be adorable on demand). There may be an intent in that: to revise the dominant filmic profile on Tate, the sex kitten in Valley of the Dolls (1967) and half-naked beach bunny in Don’t Make Waves (1967), presentations underscored by a nude-photo-supplemented article on the actor in Playboy. Tarantino renders Tate beautiful — not much else one can do with Robbie — but never insists on her as a libidinally charged presence (save for a shot or two of her feet …).

Hence the smart choice of the Paul Revere & the Raiders tune. Their goofy costumes and bright vocal harmonies cast them very much in the mold of the British Invasion, with Beatles-ish overtones of mop-topped sweetness, and the explicitly anti-dope messaging of the band’s hit “Kicks” further associated them with a cleaned-up vibe, distinct from druggy counterculture. In the film, Tate teases Jay Sebring (Emile Hirsch), “Aw, what’s the matter? You afraid I’ll tell your friend Jim Morrison you were dancing to Paul Revere & the Raiders?” Morrison doesn’t appear in the movie, but in just another minute of screen time, Manson (Damon Herriman) does. Sebring stops him at the front door of 10050 Cielo, and when Tate approaches (walking past a massive reproduction of a poster for Don’t Make Waves, Tarantino just can’t help himself), Sebring tells her, “It’s okay, honey, it’s a friend of Terry’s.”

Of course, the arc of history tells us that it’s not okay. The sheen of good feeling and innocent kicks pop culture was attempting to sell in the late Sixties had been mussed up by all the “fucking hippies” that Cliff and Rick Dalton (Leo DiCaprio) continuously curse at as they drive the Strip. Even Spahn Ranch, in the film formerly the production site for Dalton’s hit cowboy show Bounty Law!, has been overrun by Manson’s accumulating freaks. That’s another historical fact that Tarantino lovingly recreates, reducing the Ranch to a relic, a dusty ghost town haunted by sweaty, fried, raggedy heads and a legion of young women, Pussycat among them (Dakota Fanning turns in a terrific performance as Squeaky: paranoid, overheated, drenched in weird, wanton ambiguities).

Their presence is disorienting, but it can’t entirely dislodge the visual logic of the cowboy film, the Western. In part, that’s due to the sheer amount of time the film devotes to painstaking reconstructions of Westerns, in cinema and TV, in LA and Italy; see especially all the minutes of Dalton on set, filming his guest appearance for the pilot of Lancer, a Western that ran on CBS through the late 1960s (and we should note that Bruce Dern, who portrays George Spahn in Tarantino’s film, did some work on Lancer early in his career). But the more interesting nods and allusions to the Western cluster around Cliff: buckling on a holster-style work belt when he fixes Rick’s TV antenna; staring down the line-up of Manson Family women who gather across the dirt lane in Spahn Ranch, like bandits inviting a gunfight; and most emphatically, his shoot-out-style stand-off with Tex Watson (Austin Butler, and more on that just below). Appropriately, when Cliff gets his first few minutes of solo camera time early on in the film, Tarantino scores it with a song that works through numerous tropes of the Western antihero.

Some might assert that a Gram Parsons tune would better suit both the Western style and LA in 1969. But I’ll argue for the Seger song, even though it was recorded when he styled his band as the Bob Seger System, not yet the Silver Bullet Band (which would get us semiotically closer to the gun and the cowboy). “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” (1969) is certainly a rhythmic match for Cliff, as he careens through the city’s streets and freeways in his beat-to-shit Karmann Ghia. And check out the lyrics: a tale of a “ramblin’ man” who left home at thirteen; a past-master of roulette and dice; rugged and a little ugly, but full of macho sexual confidence. All he needs is the horse. Most significant, the song’s lyric speaker eventually notes, “Gotta keep moving, never gonna slow down / You can have your funky world, see you around.” That’s Cliff to a tee, but it’s also Sergio Leone’s Man with No Name, who is always ready to ditch the scene when the civilized world becomes too much its petulant, cynical self. Better out in the bush, among the cacti and canyons. And while the usage of “funky” seems a poor fit for a cowboy’s mouth, it’s right on point for the film’s take on LA, as it lurches into counterculture’s violent dissolution.

It's unfair to counterculture to peg that dissolution to the Tate-Labianca murders. We can more meaningfully reference the 1970 explosion at 18 West 11th Street in NYC, or Eldridge Cleaver’s fugitive conversion to evangelical Christianity, or Altamont, or any number of other events, betrayals and tragedies. But the Manson Family’s perverted use of countercultural language (“revolution,” “the pigs,” “grokking”) is particularly galling in its confusions and lunatic bloody mindedness. Tarantino is tuned into it: see Sadie’s (Mikey Madison) deranged rant about “pigs” and “fascists.” Even a year earlier, other speakers were using the terms with much greater clarity, and many of those speakers were black.

So what do we do with this:

Black confronts white. Bad guys threaten good guy. The stand-off morphs into a massacre, but not before Cliff brings up the Western again, reminding us of Spahn Ranch and of Tex on his “horsie,” belittling him and adding to Cliff’s inability to take Manson’s minions at all seriously (Cliff, to Tex: “Uh, you are?” Tex, intoning: “I’m the devil, and I’m here to do the devil’s business.” Cliff, dismissive: “No, it was dumber than that…”). Soon Brandy the pit bull is chewing Tex and Sadie to pieces, and Cliff is hammering Katie’s (Madisen Beaty) head into any number of hard, angled surfaces. (Let’s not linger on Dalton’s flamethrower.) The violence is gratuitous, meaty, precisely staged and shot. It’s a Tarantino film, after all. And in this brutally antic sequence, the film and the director shift into another generic form, very dear to Tarantino: the revenge drama.

A number of Tarantino’s films have employed revenge plots: all of Kill Bill (2003, 2004), Death Proof (2007), Django Unchained (2012). Inglourious Basterds (2009, featuring a cartoonish but still satisfying performance from Pitt) expanded its revenge to world-historical scale, using film as a weapon for culture to take its vengeance on Hitler, and on the Nazi Party’s development of cinema as a vector for political propaganda. Once upon a Time…in Hollywood is less expansive but still has complex dimensions: American pop takes its revenge on Manson, rolling back his invasion of LA’s industrial and cultural turf and reversing — if only symbolically — his extinguishment of Tate and her career, of all the images and roles she might have given us.

But it’s possible to discern other layers to the vengeance, if one listens. Running throughout the fight sequence is the Vanilla Fudge’s bombastic, psych-rock rendition of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” (1967), which is both a suitable and a strange choice. Suitable, in that its acid intensities resonate with Manson and with Cliff, who is tripping throughout the scene. Strange, though, in its lack of a clear thematic relation to the scene’s action, which seems to have guided other songs’ selections — certainly “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show,” and “Hey Little Girl,” and “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” and even, in its limited way, “Good Thing.” So why would Tarantino abandon that logic here, at the film’s big, bloody climax?

As ever, with Tarantino, the layers have histories.

“You Keep Me Hangin’ On,” of course, was first recorded and released by the Supremes, for whom it was a #1 charting single in 1966. There’s a sort of pattern suggested by the film, of utterances and meanings developed in black American culture that are quickly adopted and refitted, frequently rendered vanilla (hello) and commodified, by white culture. To be sure, the Supremes also produced a successful commodity with their version of the tune. But the play among those songs and vinyl sides suggests a more problematic set of appropriations — among them, Weatherman’s use of the revolutionary language developed by the Black Panthers and Stokely Carmichael, which Billy Ayers, Bernardine Dohrn and others spouted and spun out to fringe actors, like Manson, who degraded it, rendering it nearly meaningless.

“Helter Skelter” was another of the Manson Family’s watchwords, and another of Manson’s nutty notions, alleging that the Beatles song was endowed with the power to launch a race war in America. Manson’s racism mixed paranoia with his megalomania. He envisioned an America in which blacks would murder all the white people, save for him and his followers. In his view, blacks were too incompetent to govern themselves; they would need a white leader, and it would be Manson. So while Ayers and Dohrn called cops pigs in an attempt to make common cause with black revolutionaries (who were deeply skeptical of the white kids and their enthusiasms), Manson and his minions called cops pigs out of a chaotic psycho-social melange of persecution, ressentiment and bizarre apocalyptic divination.

So maybe we should linger on Dalton’s flamethrower a bit, after all. He uses it to torch Sadie to death, the Mansonite most earnest in her identification of him as another “piggie.” Close to the film’s beginning, there’s an ersatz movie clip drawn from The Fourteen Fists of McCluskey, in which Dalton, as the fictive hero McCluskey, uses the same flamethrower to burn a bunch of Nazi officers to death. It’s another Tarantino callback, to the climax of Inglourious Basterds and the incineration of many, many more fascists (and that scene had the benefit of the fever dream of Shoshanna Dreyfus’s [Melanie Laurent] face, projected onto the celluloid-fed inferno and madly laughing, surely one of the best images Tarantino has ever concocted). But the visual synonymy identifies Sadie with the Nazis. She seems to be the fascist. She has certainly been infected by Manson’s racist manias and linguistic depredations.

That may be too clever, by half — but with Tarantino, that sort of playful cascade of images and associations that ends up feeling meaningful is generally what we get, and in this case, there is a sort of critique to be made. If the postmodern in part emerged amid the collapse of counterculture’s revolutionary agendas, Once upon a Time…in Hollywood directs its wrath at a symbol of that collapse, and of the resulting nightmares borne on dope, irrationally enraged agony (especially over Vietnam, news of which occasionally issues from car radios in the film) and harebrained political analysis by kids reading texts that had currency amid a very, very different conjuncture. While Tarantino’s revenge narrative morphs generic forms again at the end, into alternate history, there’s a way in which that mutation can be read as a useful provocation. Not just a thought experiment, or a gesture lionizing fiction’s weirding power, in some ironized celebration of relativist spectacle. But a reminder that while history has to happen the way it happens, our histories are constructions, and they tell very partial and very particular stories. It’s an old saw, now, to recommend postmodernity’s meta- moves and pop cultural saturations as testing grounds for our reading strategies, but that doesn’t make the assertion any less cogent. Perhaps, to burn through the layers of images, to burn down the funhouse of contemporary revisionisms and to fight the fascists, who continue to manipulate media, what we need is a powerful instrument: our minds, tempered by their interactions with tempting narratives that wish to tell us pleasant stories.

Or mavbe we just want to watch Sharon dance, Manson be damned.

Jonathan Shaw

[andthebubbles]

(from smooth-boob) 🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share? I couldn't resist!

i can't believe i'm doing this

here's almost the entire first chapter of a/b fic (there's meant to be a flashback at the end of 2 y/o anthony running away and meeting his adoptive parents, but i haven't written it yet 😇)

for passersby who don't know what this is about: this is the fic where anthony runs away when he's 2 years old, accidentally boards a ship that leaves england, gets adopted by nice parents, eventually forgets that he's a bridgerton, doesn't come back to live in england until he's 13; meets benedict at oxford in 1806 and they start a relationship. if this bothers you, do not read below the cut (it contains smut), just move on, don't send me hate, i am a real person

(i should start copypasting the summary and disclaimer lol)

-

Benedict meets the love of his life one ordinary autumn evening in an Oxford pub. 

He doesn’t know that yet of course; he’s never been a big believer of love. Thus far he’s found it entirely consigned to the great epics of the ancients, the tragic tales of Shakespeare, even King Char and King George, loving in their madness, loving despite no rhyme nor reason, loving when they should have no right. But then, surrounded by his peers who he does not care very much for, a Lord Fife and a Lord Cho and the second son of a baron and the third son of an earl whose names he does not care to remember, he looks up over his glass of beer and finds a finely dressed gentleman making his way over to them. 

And his heart skips a beat.

“I hear you’re the best coxswain and crew out of all the undergraduates,” the gentleman says, loudly enough to halt their conversation, with no introduction of himself whatsoever. He has dark eyes and dark hair, lush with a hint of wave, curling over his forehead and pushed to one side. 

Benedict hurriedly sips his drink.

“What of it, Mr.…?” Lord Fife eyeballs him.

“I'd like to place a wager on your winning the next race,” the gentleman rests a casual, black-gloved hand on their table. “On one condition.”

Fife raises his eyebrows. “What’s that, then?”

“I’m the coxswain for the crew.”

Silence. Then the table laughs uproariously, Benedict excluded. 

The gentleman has a glint in his eyes, a tilt of his head befitting a lord. Arrogant. Attractive. His nose is straight, aristocratic, and his lips—

Smirking. Thin and pink, but full.

“My good man,” Fife finally says around chortles. “We don’t even know your name.”

“Nor have we seen you around, have we, lads?” Cho looks about pompously. “Are you a first year?”

“You’ve got me,” the mystery man straightens, tipping his top hat, impeccably smug. “A first year, looking for a crew befitting my talents. The best crew. Third years. Well-seasoned. You.”

“And… your name?” Fife drawls. 

“Bailey. Anthony Bailey.” The gentleman holds his hand out.

Fife glances around at them all rather than taking it. “Hmm, Bailey, do we know a Bailey?”

A chorus of shaking heads. 

Fife’s gaze sharpens. “What’s your father’s name? Where are your estates?”

At this, Bailey tilts his chin up. “My father is a merchant. And our estate is a shop in Bloomsbury. Which I’m sure you wouldn’t know of, since all you lords seem to learn is which of your first cousins has the biggest dowry so you can fuck them till you sire an heir—”

Fife punches him in the stomach, and the others set upon him like dogs, and Benedict yells and grabs the closest man to him, the second—or was it third?—son of a baron, whoever he is—

But heroic tales where justice is served are consigned to the epics, are the stuff of fairytales, have no place in reality. So the merchant is tossed out onto the cobblestone street, and the door slammed shut against the sudden autumn rains. 

-

Benedict slips out the back door under the pretence of taking a piss outside.

The merchant is in a nearby alleyway taking shelter under the arch of a doorway. He has a cut on his cheekbone that he dabs at with a handkerchief; he puts it away with a mostly concealed wince when Benedict approaches. 

They stare each other down like two fighters forced into the ring. Benedict’s heart aches; the merchant looks so tired.

“If you must punch me,” he says at last, looking away, “I would be grateful if it wasn’t in the same place twice. So, the stomach is off-limits. As is my eye. And my nose, though it hasn’t been punched, but I have plans with a special someone tonight, and I’d rather it not look bloody or broken.” He pauses. “Come to think of it, you should probably stay away from my face altogether.”

Benedict’s mouth twitches. “I’m not going to punch you.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” It’s very droll. “You lot seem to have trouble doing anything but.”

“You… seem to know our prejudices well? The upper class?”

“Well, you rather like buying the things we make. You just don’t like it as much when we dare to step out of line or try to better ourselves or forget our lot in life.”

Benedict approaches him, cautious, like he would with a wild animal. Or a wounded one. “We were once like you, generations ago. Mere landowners. Until the crown granted us a title.”

“And how many generations ago was that, my lord?” The man’s voice drips with disdain.

Benedict winces. “Nine. I’m… I’m the ninth. In my family.”

The merchant looks sidelong at him in the lantern light, up and down, Benedict suddenly conscious of his finery, and the merchant’s coarser fabrics and simple brocade waistcoat indiscernible in the dimness of the pub earlier. 

“So…” The merchant’s eyes drift back up to his face. “You’re an… earl?”

“Viscount.”

“So your father is an earl?”

Benedict swallows. “My father is dead.”

Rain pitter-patters on the cobblestones. Benedict’s fingers, lungs suddenly itch for a smoke.

“I’m sorry.”

Benedict almost smiles. “I’m surprised you have any sympathy left for us.”

“I’m not completely heartless. I know that death doesn’t care how rich or poor you are, how titled or how bottom-of-the-barrel you are. Once gone, the dead are all the same. Sorely, terribly missed.”

“Quite right.” Benedict’s mouth has gone dry. After a moment he holds his hand out. “I realise I haven’t introduced myself. Benedict Bridgerton.”

The merchant raises his eyebrows, a smirk playing on his lips. “The Right Honourable The Viscount Bridgerton?”

“Or just Benedict,” he grins. “I’m not fond of the title.”

“Then call me just Anthony.” He firmly shakes his hand, leather against warm skin. His eyes up close under the shadow of the doorway are near black, bottomless and blown wide.

Their gazes hold like puzzle pieces interlocked, clicking forever into place.

Benedict clears his throat, titillatingly unable to let go of his hand. “Do you have somewhere to be? You uh… mentioned having plans with a special someone?”

Anthony moves closer, impossibly so. “I noticed your staring in the pub.”

Benedict laughs, slightly desperately and high-pitched. “So you’re not the best coxswain in Oxford after all? You just… wanted me?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Anthony’s voice is intoxication against his lips. “I’m the best coxswain, and you’re my special someone?”

“Even when you thought I was going to punch you?”

“Well, I fervently hoped you would not.”

Anthony slides a hand under his jacket to rest against his hip; Benedict sucks in a breath like he’s starved of air. “Do you have some place we could go?”

-

Anthony cages him up against the door to his room and uses their combined weight to slam it shut. “Sorry about the mess.” He locks it and lights a taper on the nearby table, then licks a stripe up Benedict’s neck. 

Hand fisting in Anthony’s hair against the sensation (and Anthony moaning into his mouth), Benedict has the barest second to look over his shoulder. Anthony’s room is organised clutter: books and papers on the desk by the window, spare candles on the shelf, more papers scattered on the badly-made bed. 

“It’s not so bad,” Benedict says. “In fact I’m quite sure I’ve seen worse—”

Anthony kisses his words away like he’s ravenous, like they’re both running out of time. He drags Benedict by his shirt front over to his bed and Benedict falls onto it willingly, Anthony climbing atop him, caging him once more.

“You’ve seen worse?” Anthony grins, punctuates it with more kisses to the underside of his jaw. “Dare I ask where?”

“Well, when you have siblings…” 

“I don’t. I have a mother and father, six freeloading stray cats, and about double that for the number of people I’ve had at some point or another in my bed.”

“People? Not men, specifically?”

“Men, women, and everything in between. And now, you.” It should sound callous; instead Anthony sounds almost reverent. He pulls his lips away from Benedict’s earlobe and extraordinarily gently unties and pulls off his cravat. Breath caught in his throat, Benedict reaches up and does the same for him. 

Anthony’s cravat, unlike the duller colours of his waistcoat and jacket, is dyed a rich indigo blue.

“Mmf.” He impatiently pushes up Benedict’s waistcoat and shirt to get to the skin beneath, laying his hands everywhere, simultaneously trying to help Benedict with shucking off his own clothes. His jacket and waistcoat and boots are discarded on the floor; Benedict grabs his wrist when he gets to his leather gloves.

“Keep them on,” he says, hoarse.

Anthony’s gaze darkens, unfathomable pools of black. “What have you in mind?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, his other hand sliding down and unbuttoning Benedict’s trousers, Benedict gladly lifting his hips to help Anthony push them down to his knees. “Your fingers,” Benedict says breathlessly, “in my arse—”

“Fingers?” Anthony smirks. “Rather confident of you.” He puts his index finger in his mouth, sucking and coating it with spit.

Benedict takes his hand from his mouth and guides it to his own, lapping around two fingers, tasting warm slick leather, Anthony trembling in his hold. 

“Fuck.” With his free hand he takes Benedict and strokes him to full hardness, Benedict groaning at the sensation of leather on his cock, the back of his head hitting the mattress and Anthony’s fingers sliding out.

He pushes Benedict’s legs up, finally rids him of his trousers and boots and tosses them to the floor. “This all right?” He circles his entrance and Benedict bites his lip, settling his heels on Anthony’s back. 

“Yes—”

Anthony pushes in.

Benedict’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Fuck.”

“And you wanted fingers,” Anthony teases.

“Hush—”

Anthony crooks his finger and hits his prostate, and Benedict cries out. 

“Shh.” Anthony leans over him, keeps fingerfucking him, kisses away his whimpering, Benedict pulling him closer and roughly tangling his fingers in his hair.

“Fuck.” Now Anthony’s breaths turn ragged; he pulls back a fraction, panting against Benedict’s mouth. Glances down at Benedict’s cock between them, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re going to come without me touching you?”

Benedict groans, cupping Anthony through his trousers, heat pooling in his stomach and groin, “I’m not that green,” he says between gritted teeth. 

Anthony grunts and eases a second finger in, scissors, fucks him, curls them just so, and Benedict chokes, pants, and comes undone just like that, almost incognisant of it, gasping in bliss and relief and mild embarrassment, Anthony kissing him open-mouthed and lazily and his hand working him through till he’s spent. 

Then he mouths his way down till he’s at his stomach, and cleans his come-splattered skin with his tongue.

Heat radiates raw and anew between Benedict’s legs.

“Can I suck you off?” 

It comes out rough, awed; Anthony looks up at him startled. “You… you want to?”

Benedict nods. 

He sits up after a moment, all of him shaky, turning Anthony so that his back rests against the wall. Anthony is still staring at him, loose-limbed and wide-eyed; Benedict tugs his trousers down and pushes apart his thighs. 

“You… you don’t have to,” Anthony stutters.

Benedict looks up at him, one hand on his length. “Do you want me to?”

Anthony bites his lip and nods.

The first taste is salty, Anthony’s cock already tipped with pre-cum. Then it’s just sheer musk; Benedict adjusts so that the flat of his tongue is on the underside and gets up on his hands to swallow him whole. 

“Oh—” Anthony’s fingers, toes curl; he quickly sets the gentlest hand in Benedict’s hair. “Oh, fuck…”

Benedict starts fucking him, fondling his balls gently, pressing down hard on Anthony’s hips when he involuntarily jerks. “Fuck, sorry—”

Benedict sucks him hard and Anthony keens, sliding further down the wall, fingertips fluttering at the nape of Benedict’s neck. 

Benedict swipes his tongue over the head, bobs up and down, finds Anthony’s other hand fisting the sheets and slides his own underneath to hold it tightly in his. “Fuck, I’m—I’m going to—” Anthony gasps, tugging at his hair, warning him off; Benedict holds fast.

Anthony’s come hits the back of his throat, salty and bitter and hot. Benedict swallows it all, nips the insides of his trembling thighs when he’s done; Anthony curves over him and drags his lips against his temple and pulls him up, kissing him like a man starved, kissing him like Benedict hung the moon and the sun and the stars.

Benedict pulls them both down to the bed when he starts to catch his breath, lying side by side, face to face; he caresses Anthony’s cheek, removes his gloves, slides his hand down past his sweat-damp open collar and feels his pounding heart. “You all right?” he murmurs. 

Anthony lifts his eyes to his, still breathing hard, brushing his nose against his. “Yes. Are you?”

Benedict grins. “More than.”

Anthony closes his eyes and contentedly hums.

After a moment he opens them again, something small and hopeful and anxious now threading through him like a childhood fear of the dark. “Will you stay awhile?” he whispers. 

Benedict blinks. Quickly eases into a smile. “Of course.”

He settles beside him; Anthony pulls him towards his chest with an arm over his shoulders, rests his head atop his. 

Outside, the pitter-patter of rain continues to fall.

[ladyhawke]

I would love to know your opinions on Bridgerton S03 👀

well

i’m not gonna complain about the lack of kanthony because it’s probably a sign that simone and jonathan are booked and busy but i will complain about the hideous outfits they put her on, truly, i need to see that costume designer in jail!!!! in particular for that dress she’s wearing in the ball she hosts, it’s just abismal!

my highlight was benedict and lady tilley just because they’re hot even though the girlboss character is zZZzZZzz

but the main couple was the worst part. colin has no personality, no charisma and the actor is so inexpressive i was genuinely hoping penelope would end up with blond naturist guy! he didn’t love her but i’m not convinced that colin does either

whistledown’s reveal was boring, the ending was bland and messy and i’m very upset that eloise is still sitting mighty on her high horse, she was roasting penelope since last season and penelope never got to say her piece? when cressida said “all you do is talk” or something like that i thought she would tell her to start fucking listening but… no. it seems that no one in that writer’s room realizes they have a self-centered rich privileged “i wanna change the world” type of character in their hands

francesca and john are cute

oh, i LOVE the mondrichs!!! especially the actress that plays mrs mondrich, she is so lovely and she conveys more feeling and emotion in her limited screen time than most of the main cast. i was shocked to find out that the fans dislike their arch so much, we all know why tho 💀 their scene sleeping in separate bedrooms was more compelling than the central love story

that’s it, i think? i know the show is just a little feel good romance but i’m actually shocked it takes them 2 years to make something so mediocre especially with the budget they must have