#the haunting of aubrey hall

[reedchristine]

[nothwell]

inspired by a recent poll

[fayes-fics]

To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace. 

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own. 

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly. 

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.” 

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident. 

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it. 

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours. 

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air.  “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room. 

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.” 

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast. 

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks. 

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…” 

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.” 

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand. 

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.” 

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly. 

Benedict has no response to that. 

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.  

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence. 

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.” 

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly. 

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in. 

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing. 

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid. 

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly. 

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?”  The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all. 

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on. 

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such. 

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him;  his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat. 

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive. 

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…” 

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.” 

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance. 

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary. 

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!” 

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not. 

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that. 

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor. 

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event. 

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.” 

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face. 

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.  

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton. 

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside. 

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.” 

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner. 

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply. 

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man. 

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking. 

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless. 

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!”  He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly. 

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does. 

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge. 

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it. 

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips. 

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”  

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”��

Even he can read between those lines. 

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks. 

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked. 

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice. 

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest. 

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless. 

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.” 

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more. 

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud. 

 The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation. 

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart.  “And I do. I truly do.”

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

[azzifuddslover]

༯ OFF THE COURT — CHAPTER TWO 𝜗𝜚

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

themes: angst, jealousy

tw: swearing (i think that’s all?)

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i had fun with this chapter! excited to continue writing 😋 i had to ofc add the lil dijonai & lyss foul haha. also if u have any one shot suggestions please please lemme know! enjoy

“oh my goodness, hi!” nika pulled each one of the freshmen into a warm embrace. “we’re so excited to have you guys here!”

we? paige thought to herself, that she didn’t dare speak out loud.

“we’re excited to be here!” caroline smiled at the three older girls, as aubrey and azzi hugged.

paige purposefully put distant between herself and the curly headed brunette, not wanting to start arguments her first day.

“so, where do you guys wanna see next?” aubrey questioned, while paige remained silent, keeping to herself.

“you tell us,” ashlynn said, excitedly.

“alright,” nika slung her arm around paige’s shoulder, “let’s go show you the dorms then.”

as the seven girls made their way to the dorm rooms, azzi walked behind aubrey who led the way, while nika and paige placed themselves in the back.

“you good, p?” nika whispered, “it’s unlike you to be this quiet.”

paige plastered a smile on her face, “all good, nik.”

“no, seriously, what’s up?”

“i’m fine, really. just tired,” she reassured her close friend, gently squeezing her shoulder.

minutes later the girls arrived at the dorms when nika spoke up.

“i think it’s best to divide into groups so we can still get lunch. aubrey, show caroline and yanna your room, paige show azzi yours and i’ll show ash mine.”

of course nika would place azzi with paige. alone.

“um, i’ll take ashlynn,” paige suggested, but it was too late. ashlynn was already off with nika, aubrey was leading carol and yanna to her dorm.

azzi stood awkwardly in the hallway, eyes focused on the floor, as paige glanced once at her before taking off to her room.

“cmon,” she muttered, passing azzi.

azzi was hesitant to follow, but she did regardless, keeping her head low while nerves twisted in her stomach. azzi couldn’t remember the last time she was alone with paige, if ever. the pair have clearly never gotten along, so she was nervous to see where this would go.

paige opened the door to her dorm, that she shared with another teammate, dorka, who happened to be laying in her bed.

“hey dorka,” paige said, announcing her presence along with azzi’s.

“hey p,” dorka looked at her, then at the freshmen, “who’s this?”

“one of the new freshmen, azzi.”

dorka smiled at azzi in a reassuring manner, then pulled her in for a quick hug. “welcome to uconn, azzi!”

azzi gently hugged the older girl back, feeling less nervous with dorka being there. “happy to be here.”

“you’re going to love it. i’m a transfer, and its absolutely amazing. the girls are all so great, geno can be a bit tough, but he means well,” dorka explained.

azzi was genuinely excited for her start at university of connecticut. she’s always kept uconn as an option for her future school, and finally was able to commit just a few weeks ago. she figured it’d be the best fit for her, despite paige being here.

“well, i told lou i’d meet her in the dining hall, so i’ll catch y’all later,” dorka said, grabbing her bag and phone before quickly leaving.

the silent in the small dorm was haunting. paige’s eyes were focused on her phone, while azzi motionlessly stood against the wall, waiting for any sort of conversation.

“so, do you like it here so far?” paige asked, finally breaking the silence.

azzi looked over at paige, “it’s nice, yeah. the girls seem nice.”

“that’s good,” paige replied.

“are you excited to meet-“

“you don’t have to make small talk, paige. we both know you aren’t happy with me committing here,” azzi bite out.

paige scolded her eyes, “you’re right. i’m not happy with you being here. but i can’t change it, can i?”

“nope, you can’t. let’s just ignore each other like we’ve always have.”

secretly, paige didn’t want to ignore azzi. she couldn’t. but she pretended to did it anyway.

“fine by me,” paige shouted, walking towards the door.

“where are you going? this is literally your room!”

“anywhere else but here, with you. go catch up with nika or something,” paige muttered as she left, leaving azzi staring at the door.

it was the first day of practice with the new additions to the uconn team, and paige successfully avoided azzi at all costs. whenever the team got together, they’d always converse with other players, never daring to look each other’s way.

paige brought the basketball up the court during a 5v5 match. she directed the players on her team to her liking, then passed it to lou who made the open 3 shot. aubrey secured the rebound, threw it off to azzi, who began to bring it to the opposing net. paige, of course, was right on her heels, defending her. azzi noticed the blonde from the corner of her eye, looking unbothered as ever.

reaching the 3 point line with paige right there, azzi considers all the potential lanes to the basket. when nika, part of the opposing team, goes to defend aubrey, azzi sprints through an open lane, going for the layup.

paige was quick to notice her plan, though. she blocked the ball from entering the basket, hitting azzi in the process. it was an obvious foul.

“hey, that’s a foul!” azzi shouted.

paige, who’s grinning to herself, adverted her eyes to the brunette. “no it wasn’t, it was clean.”

“bullshit!”

“you’re just mad you can’t make a shot on me,” paige replied.

“please. like i haven’t done it before!” azzi exclaimed loud enough for heads to turn.

“ladies!” coach auriemma interrupted their argument, “make sure to stay after practice.”

for goodness sake, paige thought to herself.

“this is all your fault,” paige whispered, loud enough for only azzi could hear.

azzi simply rolled her eyes at paige’s remark. she wasn’t going to let the older girl distract her further; she’s already done it enough.

practice quickly came to a close; azzi managed to put distance between herself and paige, not wanting to cause any more trouble than she already had.

each one of the basketball players made their way out of the gym, while azzi and paige anxiously remained, waiting for coach.

his office door opened, “come on in.”

paige took the left chair as azzi took the right, both not saying a word. coach auriemma looked pissed.

“your behaviors is unacceptable. if you both want to help this team succeed, we’ll all need to get along, including you two. especially you guys. you both are two of the best players we have, and i’m going to need y’all to quit it with the bickering and focus on the game. am i clear?”

“yes, coach,” paige and azzi say in unison.

“alright then. with that being said, go out to eat with one another. get to know each other. i don’t know what caused your disliking of each other, but it’s got to change immediately,” geno auriemma instructed the girls.

paige’s eyes widen as azzi shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearly not pleased with his suggestion. but azzi was new, and she only wanted to please her coach.

“that sounds fine by me,” azzi said, despite her brain saying she’d rather do anything else.

paige stole a glance at the younger girl, before also agreeing.

“good. when tomorrow comes around, i better not hear any arguments. and if i do, the pair of you will face further consequences. am i understood?”

paige nodded her head rapidly, “yes coach.”

“so, where do you wanna go?” azzi questioned the blonde after exiting coach auriemma’s office.

paige rolled her eyes, “we aren’t actually going anywhere together. if you thought that, you’re crazy.”

azzi couldn’t help but be slightly shocked that paige would lie to their coach. “paige, i’m not getting into more trouble just because of you. look, i don’t want to go anywhere with you either, but we have no choice. let’s just get it over with.”

paige absorbed azzi’s words, carefully considering them. “alright, fine,” she sighed, “where too?”

“do you like chick fa la?”

“uh, yeah. who doesn’t? that’s like asking if i breath air.”

after a silent car ride with paige driving and azzi being the passenger princess, the two ordered their meals and sat in an open booth, facing one another.

paige continued not to look azzi in the eye. azzi, however, was harshly glaring at the older girl. “are you going to ignore me forever or actually acknowledge we’re teammates?”

paige finally locked gazes with azzi, “i was planning to ignore you forever.”

azzi couldn’t help but softly chuckle, “of course you were.”

paige lips rose at the sight of azzi’s breathtaking smile, “you make it impossible, though.”

“oh, really? it seems you’ve been doing it pretty damn well for as long as i’ve known you.”

paige didn’t dare to tell her that ignoring azzi is the hardest thing someone could do. it wasn’t just her skills on the court, that could make anyone, including paige, second-guess their game. it was the way azzi carried herself, making everything she did seem effortless, even when it wasn’t. her silent confidence and her ability to make everyone feel included even in a busy crowd. paige hated how much she admired the young girl from afar; how looking at azzi made her forget about everything and everyone around her. it was impossible to ignore a girl like azzi.

instead, paige settled on, “you’re just a pretty good player. i always notice good players.”

after swallowing a bite of a chicken nugget, azzi leaned her elbows on the table, a small smirk lingering on her face. “so now you admit to me being good?”

paige couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her comment regarding USA basketball days. “whatever, whatever.”

azzi laughed to herself, and continued to enjoy her meal, while paige also focused on eating rather than the conversation.

azzi and paige eventually relaxed to each other’s presence, feeling more comfortable than before. they discussed the challenging classes they were taking and geno’s firm coaching methods; the girls began to somewhat enjoy each others company, when a boy around their age walked up to their table.

paige and azzi both looked up at the man, who was directly eyeing the brunette. azzi’s cheeks reddened at the sudden attention.

“can we help you?” paige asked, making the man turn to look at her.

“yeah, uh, i was wondering if i could get your number? you’re, like, really pretty,” the man said to azzi.

her cheeks were basically inflamed at this point, “uh,” she tried to think of the words, “sure, i guess?”

paige scoffed at azzi’s interaction with this random guy. they were finally talking and she had to ruin it. paige clenched her fists and suddenly rose from the table, causing the man and azzi to look at her.

“i’m going to the car,” paige announced, taking off before azzi could get another word out.

after paige’s exit, the boy looked helplessly at azzi, beaming regardless of paige’s reaction. he was pretty cute, but azzi didn’t have the time to focus on anything but basketball and her classes.

“i’m kameron, by the way,” he said.

“i’m azzi, but i gotta go, sorry,” azzi replied, trying to hurry out of there as soon as possible.

“wait, your number—“ but azzi was already out the door.

azzi climbed into the passenger seat, immediately aware that this ride will be even more awkward than the one they previously had.

paige’s grip on the steering wheel caused her knuckles to turn white. when azzi noticed, she softly asked, “are you okay?”

“are you kidding me, azzi? we were finally getting along and you had to ruin it by giving some dude attention. what the actual fuck?”

“it wasn’t my fault he came up to me!” azzi shouted at paige.

“you could’ve said no! but instead you agreed right in front of me!”

azzi gaped at paige, “why do you care who asks me for my number?”

“i don’t!” paige answered defensively, although it was a complete lie.

“what are you, jealous?”

paige’s cheeks tinted at her comment, “don’t be silly, azzi.” she turned on the car and began driving down the road.

arriving back on campus, paige instantly took off without as much as a glance at azzi. after their short argument in the car, paige blasted music to avoid further comments from azzi.

azzi scrolled into her dorm that she shared with caroline, letting out an aggravated sigh.

“you good, girl?” carol asked azzi, with her eyebrows drawn together.

“yeah. coach auriemma made me and paige go out to eat, trying to make us get to know one another. complete bullshit, if you ask me.”

“why don’t y’all like each other, anyway?” carol questioned her friend.

“i don’t know! i have no idea what i did to her. she’s hated me ever since USA basketball,” azzi complained.

caroline looked around in confusion. “wait, so what went down when you guys were out?”

“we were actually talking, without arguing, and a guy came up, asking for my number. paige just got up and left. then in the car, she got all pissing and screamed how i said yes ‘right in front of her,’” azzi made quotations with her fingers.

caroline laughed at azzi’s explanation. “what?” azzi smiled.

“she was jealous!”

although azzi accused paige of being jealous earlier, she didn’t exactly believe it to be true. how could paige be jealous of someone hitting on azzi? she hated her.

“no, trust me, she wasn’t. she was just upset for some reason.”

“oh my god, she’s totally in love with you or something,” carol suggested as azzi turned pink.

“caroline, she’s not. she’s constantly avoiding me and is always mean. does that really should like her liking me?”

carol held out her hands like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “um, yes!”

azzi couldn’t comprehend how caroline got the impression that paige was in love with her. that was beyond crazy. paige’s hatred for azzi has been going strong ever since USA basketball tryouts. there was just no way.

practice the next day was going smoothly; paige and azzi didn’t interact much, like the usual, which didn’t cause geno to enable further consequences for the young girls. azzi was showing off her 3 point shooting skills, while paige continued to be an assist machine.

it was time for another 5v5, and of course paige and azzi were on opposing teams. azzi drained 3 after 3, getting impressive looks from her teammates as well as the two coaches.

a long rebound ended up near the 3 point line, to which azzi managed to secure it. however, she didn’t see the older blonde who was also going for the rebound right behind her. paige crashed into azzi, knocking her to the floor face first. paige maintained her standing position, with each one of her legs around azzi’s torso.

without thinking, paige reached down to place both hands on azzi’s hips, gently pulling her up. azzi’s ass was flush against paige’s front, sending unwelcome feelings throughout the blonde’s body.

there’s a brief moment of awkward silence, azzi still slightly disoriented from the fall. paige’s hands lingered on azzi’s hips a second too long, not that azzi made any hint to move them. she can feel the older girls hands on her body, steady and warm, making her heart skip a beat in her chest.

“you good?” paige whispered, practically in the curly brunette’s ear, given the distance between the girls.

“yeah, thanks,” azzi replied breathlessly, trying desperately to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

after noticing her lingering hands on the hips of azzi, paige removes them acting as calm as possible. paige notices a shift in tone and smirks, teasing the younger girl, “didn’t think i hit you that hard.”

azzi responds with a snark of her own, “i’m not fragile, you know,” attempting to look tougher than she truly is.

paige’s smirk widens as she allows her eyes to take in the sight of azzi. messy bun, leg sleeve, practice jersey slightly ruffled. she looked good.

“like what you see?” azzi commented on paige’s wandering eyes.

embarrassed, paige looks away, “you wish.”

azzi softly chuckles as the freshmen makes her way over to caroline and yanna, ready to continue the 5v5.

in a dais, paige stands motionless in the spot of her and azzi’s interaction, silently wishing she could have one more excuse to talk to her.

but the older girl didn’t, so she walked back into position, ready for the next play to come.

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

The Viscount is set on finding a wife this season, and you are trying again for your second season. While Anthony is dealing with trials between Edwina and Kate Sharma, you are dealing with trials of your own. Benedict Bridgerton is ever present in your life, but your pursuit to find a husband must come first. Society is ever so exhausting.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season Two

Chapter Eighteen - New beginnings

A new season has begun. You had watched many families return to the city over the last few days. London has been alive with people, and it was thrilling to see.

You and your mother had stayed in the city all year round. There was no point in going to the country on the account that you had no country house to return to anymore. Having failed to wed last year, your uncle, who had been supporting you and your mother, had pulled back. He saw you as a failure, and you have decided to take that in stride, for this was a new season and a new opportunity to find a husband.

Of course, there was one family in particular you were most excited to see return to London. Your dear friends in the Bridgerton house.

They had arrived already, but you had yet to go and see them. Daphne was going to be the last to arrive. She had told you in one of her letters, so you were going to wait for her to arrive before seeing them. You intend to see them after Eloise's debut.

Eloise Bridgerton is a feisty soul. A young woman who knows her own worth and will not settle for less. You adore her. Perhaps this year you could spend some more time to her, that would certainly be fun.

Your letters with the Bridgerton's were all you had for company since last summer. You had missed them dearly. There was on in particular you missed most, not that you would ever tell him that.

Benedict Bridgerton.

For a little while after the Bridgerton's returned to Aubrey Hall, you had dreamt about Benedict. It had been a very confusing time indeed. You would wake up suddenly feeling rather... hot and bothered. Sometimes, you swore you could hear his voice, but you knee you were dreaming.

You didn't know why you dreamt of him. Eventually, you managed to stop. The mkre time that passed, the less he haunted your dreams, and you could sleep peacefully.

Yes, a confusing time indeed.

You were dressed for the debut ceremony. Violet was hoping you would attend with them, but you stated you would simply meet them inside. You were sure she would be disappointed by this, but you needed more time to prepare yourself to see them again. To see him again...

You and your mother stood together inside. Your arm was looped around hers. The queen was already present, waiting. She was looking for another diamond.

Daphne's match with Simon Bassett last year shook the ton. They had been a perfect match, and you were sure it would not be easy to make such another spectacular pair. However, you knew the queen, and she would not accept anything less than perfect.

The door opens, and people start to trickle in. It isn't long before you see the Bridgerton's enter. The moment Benedict steps into the room, his eyes find yours, and he smiles. That cute crooked little smile.

You smile back at him.

There is no time to catch up and chat while in the presence of the queen, so he will simply have to wait until later to talk to you. Daphne comes up to the other side of you and smiles, greeting you with a quiet "Hello."

One by one, the young ladies making the debut come before the Queen. Each one looks as beautiful as the last. Then Eloise makes her entrance.

She stands frozen in fear as everyone looks at her. You feel sorry for her. You know she doesn't want any of this. You think she's about to move when someone comes up to the queen and whispers something to her. You watch curiously as the queen then stands up.

It seems Lady Whistledown is to the rescue.

She's back. The ton's favourite gossip column. Just like that it's all over. Eloise flees and Violet chases after her daughter.

You look at Daphne who looks disappointed.

You follow everyone out as they leave. Benedict tries to come up beside you, but there's too many people trying to exit for him to talk to you properly.

You stand outside and look at the gossip column your mother managed to get her hands on. Lady Whistledown is, in fact, back for another season.

Dearest gentle reader.

Did you miss me?

It's going to be another eventful season.

It wasn't until back at the Bridgerton house that you and Benedict managed to actually talk to oen another. Between Eloise and Violet falling out a little after the disaster of the debut, and being whisked away by Daphne to join her in her carriage, neither you or Benedict had a moment to talk.

He was eager to speak with you again. You were standing by the window conversing with Francesca, whom you seemed eager to chat with. His sister was a little different from her siblings. Quieter, gentler, more reserved. Yet, you were making her most comfortable. Benedict was glad she had a friend to talk to.

However, he still wanted your attention. He walks over to you both and greets his sister first. Francesca gets the idea and excuses herself. You chuckle softly and look up at Benedict.

"Impatient?"

"Slightly. I've been waiting all day to talk to you."

"All day?" You chuckle. "It's been merely a couple hours."

"Alright. All year." He grins.

"Goodness. You've waited all year? How did you cope?" You tease him.

"Misreably."

You both chuckle softly with each other, and then it goes quiet between you. You take a moment to look at him. He's hard a haircut since you've last seen him. He looks more refined. A gentleman.

You don't think you've changed much.

"You didn't come to Aubrey Hall upon, may I state, all our invites."

You glance away awkwardly. "No."

"Why didn't you come up?" He asks softly. He had missed you dearly, but when you never showed up to the country house, or declined very invite, his heart sunk a little lower each time.

"I've been busy here."

"Busy?"

"With my lessons," you clarify.

"What lessons?"

You sigh softly. "I've been working hard all off-season to make myself... well, more desirable. More perfect."

Benedict was caught off guard by your words. He had never heard something mkre ridiculous than that. "How can you be more perfect when you've already achieved that status?"

Now it was your turn to be caught off guard.

"That's nonsense. You can't possibly have anything to approve. You're already wonderful," he tells you.

"Benedict... Mother and I have no support... my uncle, who was looking after us beforehand, had deserted us. Because I did not manage to get a proposal last season, he has seen me as a failure, and therefore, mother and I must stay in the city with what funds we have. I cannot fail again."

Benedict's expression fell as you spoke. "You have no suspport? What happens when the money runs out?"

"I don't know..."

Benedict was concerned about this news. When Violet walked in, Benedict called over his mother. She approaches with a smile, though you know she has just returned from talking with Eloise, which is certainly n easy feat right now.

Benedict tells his mother what you told him. Violet seems shocked.

"Anthony!"

Before you know it, the eldest brother is approaching. You almost wish you had kept your mouth shut. Violet tells Anthony what Benedict had told her.

Anthony looks furious. "How dare he?"

"It's my own fault," you say.

"No. Not at all, dear." Violet takes your hands in hers. "He is a foolish man to have such expectations of you in a single year."

"Daphne did it..."

"Daphne is a different story," Violet tells you softly. "I have an idea. Anthony, will you be so grateful to take her under your wing and support her this season?"

You shake your head at him, but Anthony is already nodding. "It will be my pleasure. I can put together some funds for your dowry. You shall be in good hands."

"Anthony... I can't accept that!" You look at him with both awe and shock.

"Of course you can." He smiles at you.

Benedict looks at you. "We can help you."

You look at all three of them and feel yourself becoming a little emotional. Did they care about you so much they would go this far to look after you?

"Are you sure?" You ask.

Each of them nod and smile.

"You have no idea how much that would mean to me." You look at Anthony. "Thank you so much."

"You need not thank me. It is the least I can do," he tells you.

"Still, this means a lot. Mother won't have to worry anymore. Really, thank you."

Violet reaches for your hands and takes both your hands in hers. She smiles warmly at you, the way a mother would smile at her child. She is like mother to you. One who spent some time last season trying to push you toward her sons. You have to laugh.

"Stick by me, dear. I shall look after you."

You smile and give her hands a gentle squeeze. "I'd be lost without you."

Benedict watches the two of you interact. He loves how you've sort of inserted yourself into his family. You fit right in. You'd make a fine Bridgerton.

"Now I have three people to pair up," Violet says proudly.

"Three?" You ask. You knew Eloise was one. Yourself makes two.

"Eloise, you, and Anthony!"

You look at Anthony with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. "You? You're looking for a wife this year? Here I was thinking you would remain a bachelor until at least all your family had married first." You giggle.

Anthony rolls his eyes as Violet laughs softly at your teasing. Benedict chuckled, too, not even pretending not to find it funny.

"Yes, very amusing."

"You haven't even heard his conditions for a wife yet," Benedict says, nudging your arm lightly.

"Oh? Do tell."

Anthony lifts his head up proudly, hands behind his back, looking like the Viscount he is. "She must be someone I will not fall in love with. Pretty, sensible, suitable hips for child bearing, and at least half a brain."

You state at him in disbelief. "Anthony."

"What?"

"You better not say that out loud lest you insult every woman in the vicinity. Goodness, how do you expect to find a wife like that? You should marry someone you'll cherish for the rest of your lives. Someone who will make every day worth living for. Someone who compliments you in all the best ways and challenges you to keep you on your toes."

Violet and Benedict both look at you in awe.

Anthony doesn't seem affected by your little speech. "That rules you out as a candidate then?"

"Absolutely."

Anthony nods and walks away. You feel slightly bad, but you couldn't stand there and pretend his words didn't bother you.

"Worry not. You've only dented his ego, my brother will be quite fine," Benedict assures you.

"Good... I just don't see what the issue is with falling in love?"

Violet nods softly. "Anthony is stubborn, but if there is one thing I am certain of, all my children will marry for love."

You smile at her. "And me?"

"Of course you!" She smiles brightly.

You feel so much better after hearing that. Without the stress of having to marry because money was involved, you could now take your time to find someone to connect with. Someone to fill in love with.

You were ready.

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

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@biancamde - @ifgslsofbsodbf - @kniselle - @berarenado - @grassclippers - @bwormie - @avengersgirllorianna

[dlscenarios]

How I Long For Our Trysts

Anthony Bridgerton x f!Reader SMUT

I finished reading The Viscount Who Loved Me & i'm already missing this fictional man like he's my husband that went off to war.

Also ofc the title is a Taylor Swift reference. What else is new?

Cw: AFAB Reader + a few brief mentions of Reader being a lady, Bridgerton-typical society talk, Reader & Anthony are pretty handsy, No foreplay, Unprotected sex + Creampie

You were going to be the death of him.

Anthony Bridgerton always knew he was going to die young, but he'd always thought it would be a similar death to his father's — sudden and perhaps by the stinger of a measly bee — yet the agonizing wait for you to appear in the doorway of his study might do him in first.

His mother had invited what felt like hundreds of singles in the ton for another one of her house parties at Aubrey Hall. The woman was relentless in her task of marrying off her children, although she seemed to focus more on Anthony than his brothers. To the viscount's dismay (he was ashamed to admit his simultaneous delight), you were one of the invited guests. Anthony's mother had no idea that you and her eldest son had already become well acquainted with each other, having met earlier in the season.

You had a distaste for society and its strict rules, something that both intrigued and infuriated Anthony. You conducted yourself in a way that haunted his very being. Had you been a smidge less cynical, you would fit Anthony's idea of a perfect viscountess exactly.

Since your first meeting, the viscount would see you everywhere. At the shops, the park, every ball, there was even a time Anthony could have sworn you were in his bed beside him only to find out it was just an all-too-real dream. In hopes of getting you out of his head, he began pursuing you. Not in hopes of marriage, Anthony had carefully planned out every minute you shared together to avoid such a thing, but in hopes of turning his dream into a reality. And it worked. It worked far better than Anthony thought it would. Every moment he spent getting lost in your body felt better than it had with any of the women he had slept with before. He craved you more than he had ever craved anything in his entire life. While your moments together were fleeting, he made every minute count and seared the memory into his brain. 

Now that you were under the same roof as him, he could barely hold himself back. His siblings had coerced you to join their game of Pall Mall earlier in the evening and each time your ball and his sat near each other, it took every ounce of Anthony's strength not to pull you to the side and kiss you senseless. After the game, he stepped closer to your side, inconspicuously whispering into your ear to meet him in his study at midnight. If everyone else in the house was asleep, he could have you all to himself for hours. As long as the two of you ended up in your respective bedchambers by dawn, no one would be any wiser.

While waiting for the clock to strike twelve, Anthony tried to keep himself busy by going over a few papers, but eventually the dry scratching of his quill and the flickering light of the candle beside him began to make his head spin. Tossing the pen to the side and rubbing his face with his hands, the door finally creaked open. Leaning back in his chair, a smirk grew on Anthony's face at the sight of you shutting the door behind you.

"Took you long enough." he quipped, gazing at you with tired eyes. You returned his smile and approached the desk.

"It is better to be safe rather than sorry, my lord. I did not want to risk someone catching me outside of my chambers like this~" Your hand began to fiddle with the hastily-tied knot on your robe. With a light tug, the robe was untied and fluttered open to reveal that you donned only a chemise under it.

Anthony sucked in a breath, dark eyes trailing over your figure. Yes, he had seen you in less before, but you looked too damned stunning in everything you wore, no matter how many layers it consisted of. Even at the social events both of your families "coincidentally" attended, he could not tear his eyes away from you.

You stepped closer to his side, his hand wasting no time in settling on your hip. He was looking at you like how a puppy eyed its beloved owner. You kept that analogy to yourself, knowing full well that he would rid it the moment he became aware of it, but it was perhaps the most beautiful look he had ever worn. Your opposing hand came up to graze his cheek before your fingertips peaked into his hair. Anthony's eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your hand and turning to press a soft kiss to your palm.

"Always so eager." you said, smiling down at your lover. You caught the faintest, briefest smile on his lips before he kissed your palm once more with a deep hum.

"You cannot blame me." Anthony's voice was low and filled with passion as he replied, "Not when I have the prettiest lover in all of Great Britain," he paused to squeeze your hip, his fingers digging into the fabric of your chemise, "Right at my fingertips."

"Aw..." you teased, leaning down to meet his lips. Anthony lets out a low moan into the kiss as his hand slides from your hip to around your waist, guiding you down to straddle him in his chair. Your warmth was the comforting sort, the image of you in his lap serving as a reminder that Anthony had you. You were his, sitting so prettily above him, and deep down, while it hurt his pride to admit such, Anthony knew he was yours.

In the glow of the fireplace, the two of you held each other close, hands exploring previously conquered patches of skin. You had tugged his vest open as one of his hands slid under your chemise to grab your ass. His lips had left yours to trail hot kisses along your neck. Your breathy pants fanned against his ear while he suckled your clavicle, wishing so desperately that he could leave a mark. Anthony knew he couldn't. You were out in society, someone the viscount had sworn to never rope into his rakish encounters. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin your reputation and find himself at the receiving end of your relative's pistol.

Anthony let out a low growl, pushing away the niggling reminder that he had compromised you. What a hypocrite he was. Had one of his sisters been in your position, he would have ripped their lover to shreds, but something about you felt different. A warm and welcoming feeling that Anthony had never experienced before. A feeling that was suffocating him as he lifted his head to peck your jaw before guiding you into another kiss.

You yanked at his shirt, ripping the top buttons out of their holes. Anthony groaned as your hand trailed down his clothed chest, grazing over his stomach and inching closer to his waistband. His lips leave yours, pressing a feather-light kiss to your cheek before his own hand slips down to meet yours, expertly unbuttoning his trousers.

Anthony Bridgerton was never a patient man, something you had known since your first night together. He was never selfish — in fact, he was quite a generous lover, always checking to make sure he wasn't moving too fast — he merely found it difficult to hold back at times. You were a drug. Perhaps the only thing that could make him completely drunk, aside from the occasional brandy. As he freed himself from the confines of his pants, he gazed up, his dark eyes shining with a lustful glint as they met yours.

You shifted above him and pulled up the skirt of your chemise enough for him to line up with your entrance. His free hand rested on your hip before slowly guiding you down to take him in. With a groan, he squeezed your ass as you situate yourself in his lap. His hands slid up to your hips, urging them to roll toward his.

Anthony held you close, enough for him to lean forward and mouth at your clothed chest. You always felt like heaven, so hot and tight. You made him feel alive. Anthony groaned against your chest as his fingers dug into your skin, mirroring the new grip you had on his shoulders. Your soft moans against his ear spurred him to help quicken your grinding, guiding you along the length of his cock.

Before you had met the viscount, you had known of his rakish ways from Whistledown's column. The woman had never been wrong so you had no reason to disbelieve her reports on Anthony's past conquests. Opera singers, actresses, several women in London's brothels, he had allegedly bed them all. He was the biggest rake in all of Britain, yet as he held you tight and fucked into you as if he loved you, you couldn't bring yourself to regret meeting him. It could have been your inexperience in these sorts of encounters, but you could have sworn the Anthony Bridgerton you saw during these nights was a better man than the one Whistledown knew. He was always so attentive and skilled and beautiful and...

You contracted around him, ripping a gruff moan from your lover's lips, his gaze focused on your connection as he controlled the movement of your hips. His short nails bit through the thin cotton of your chemise, his own hips thrusting up to meet yours.

"Fuck..." Anthony groaned almost too quiet for you to hear. He always found it hard to last longer than you, yet another difference between you and his past lovers. He was already close and, judging by the way your moans took on a higher pitch, you were not far behind. One of his hands left your hip to slip under the bunched front of your dress, thumbing your clit in the exact way he knew you liked.

You squeaked out a moan, your grip on the back of his shirt hardening. "Anthony...Oh god, Anthony..." you repeated his name like a prayer.

Suddenly, your orgasm hit, stilling your hips and moaning into his shoulder. Like he always did, Anthony coaxed you through your release, continuing his ministrations and pressing soft kisses to the side of your head. Once your moans subsided, the hand on your clit left to rest on your back. You kept your face buried in his shoulder as he panted into your ear, his own sounds growing closer together as he chased his release.

You lifted your head enough for Anthony to steal your lips again. With another groan, he thrusted up into you one last time before his come began to fill you. He held you tightly against him as he deepened the kiss.

You moaned and weaved your hand into his hair. You didn't want the kiss to end. The moment it did meant your time with Anthony was coming to an end. You would have to return to your bedchamber alone, knowing the man you had accidentally started falling for was under the same roof.

Meanwhile, Anthony had no plans of letting you go once leaving your lips to catch his breath. He glanced to the nearby clock. It was only one in the morning, plenty of time to keep you locked in the study with him. He should be free to have you until six, when the maids would begin wrapping their wake-up calls on the residents’ doors. After only a few gulps of air, Anthony's lips were back on yours, keen on having you in every position he's dreamed you in.

Anthony Bridgerton never planned on catching feelings. Hell, his entire plan for the season was to find a wife he wouldn't fall for, yet as he admired you in the euphoric state he had put you in, he was starting to think his plan had failed.

[waltricia]

Bridgerton season 2 episode 3, “A Bee in Your Bonnet” is ✨magic✨ and let me tell you why.

For those of us who didn’t read the book and knew nothing of what was going to happen, we truly went on an incredible and surprising roller coaster of an experience.

We start the episode with seeing the guy from Hellboy and being like ‘oh yay, it’s the guy from Hellboy!’

… only for him to die three minutes later. And that scene is rough. It’s sudden and abrasive. And the sounds are jarring. The death is scored by tense strings. Then a moment of quiet. Then the AMAZING Ruth Gemmell begins taking us on Violet’s traumatic grief journey, which starts with her jolting Anthony (and us) out of the quiet.

And a thunderous heartbeat threatens him as he walks toward this entirely altered, unwanted life path. And that’s obviously the beginning of his PTSD.

In the other flashbacks throughout the episode, we continue to hear horrific, heart-rending pain radiate out of Violet while Anthony must not only attempt to endure it, but cover his own grief. Anthony and his siblings (and again, we the audience) all have to listen to Violet grieve while she’s giving birth! Screams on top of screams.

And the last flashback is technically quiet, but just as devastating because, like the moment of Edmund’s death, the quiet is weaponized. It signifies the death inside Violet.

It should go without saying that Jonathan Bailey is also a brilliant actor, but I’ll say it now anyway. Damn, he good! He and Ruth partnered perfectly in this grief journey. Serious props to them both because I felt this shit.

And then finally we come to the end. We had been immersed in the horrible aftermath of that striking tragedy. Between the flashbacks- in the present day- we had followed Anthony through the rooms and grounds where he had suffered silently. We had seen Edmund’s grave. We had learned that Anthony’s greatest fears and insecurities all stemmed from that tragic event ten years prior.

And then another fucking bee comes along.

And I swear to god, the first time I watched this, when Kate got stung, my heart was pounding, I was terrified, and my instinctive reaction was “oh my god, is she going to die?!” In hindsight, it’s obviously insane to think that she would be killed off at all, let alone in this scene. But the very fact that, for a moment, that was a legitimate fear I had is exactly why this episode is so god damn brilliant. I felt what Anthony felt. And I’m not the only one! I’ve seen other people’s similar reactions to this scene. The episode really is a roller coaster; easy, lighthearted moments (pall mall, drug tea), interspersed with the terrifying drops and loops that are Anthony’s painful memories which constantly haunt him. And then it brought us right back to that first traumatic moment. Because Anthony has PTSD! And that’s what PTSD does. Anthony is right back where he was, literally not far from the same spot outside Aubrey Hall, standing in front of a person he loves, watching them get stung by a bee on almost the same spot on their body. The tense string scoring comes back and Anthony panics because he’s completely helpless again.

And all of those elements- the setting, the scoring, the acting- combined to terrify us and make us forget something critical: most people don’t die from beestings.

And here’s where it gets really profound for me. Because it’s not just about how we feel Anthony’s fear. It’s also about how Kate completely obliterates it. Without knowing that history and without realizing the full extent of what her actions would mean, she does exactly the right thing. Rather than die and rather than also panic or shy away from his vulnerability, she meets it with her own in the form of care and steady assurance, which is true strength. And in so doing, she stops this cyclical moment in its tracks and completely alters the trauma. She puts his hand on her heart, and the heartbeat comes back. But this time, it’s not threatening. It’s inviting.

And just like in the first scene, the moment is over all too quickly. Just like in that scene, Anthony is thrust onto a new path. But where that moment was damaging, this one is healing. And we feel that too. And it’s the greatest experience that art can give us.

It’s catharsis.

And that’s why this episode is magic. 🐝✨

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Benedict Bridgerton with wife reader. Feat their children. A missing wife and a frantic family looking for her. Thanks!! :))

Missing

pairing: benedict bridgerton x f! wife reader

As the tranquil day at Aubrey Hall drew to an end, the golden rays of the setting sun cast an ethereal glow upon the Bridgerton estate. Benedict had planned a serene day alongside his beloved wife, Y/N, and their three dear children, basking in the contentment of family and the delicate exchange of glances that bespoke a love unbreakable.

However, as the evening shadows lengthened, a strange unease settled over Benedict’s heart. Y/N had ventured into the meadows with their eldest daughter, intent on gathering wildflowers to grace the drawing room. Benedict had remained behind with their two sons, the image of his wife and daughter laughing amongst the flowers lingering in his mind. Yet, as time wore on, his heart grew troubled, each passing moment deepening his sense of dread.

He called her name as he paced through the fields, his sons clinging to his sides with fretful expressions. Each shout of “Y/N!” grew louder, more desperate, reverberating through the quiet countryside, unanswered and met only with the whisper of the evening breeze. By the time he returned to the house, his face was a portrait of worry, his hands trembling as he tried to mask his alarm.

Word of Y/N’s mysterious absence spread swiftly among the Bridgertons. Anthony, ever the steady and pragmatic elder brother, seized command, rallying the family into search parties. Lanterns were lit, their warm glow piercing the encroaching darkness as the family fanned out, each one calling Y/N’s name into the cool night air, a chorus of worry and love.

Yet Benedict himself could scarcely manage coherence. His steps were hurried and unsteady, his breaths shallow, as if the very fear of her loss had stolen his ability to think clearly. Dark, haunting thoughts flitted through his mind visions of what might befall her, each more terrifying than the last. What if she lay injured, beyond his reach? What if… he dared not finish the thought, for even the idea of a world devoid of her presence threatened to unravel him.

As he roamed the forest edge, his heart aching with worry, a soft whimper caught his ear. Turning swiftly, he found their eldest daughter, her small frame trembling as she clung to a tree, her cheeks stained with frightened tears.

“Papa,” she whimpered, her voice a mere whisper in the stillness, “I lost Mama. I tried to find her, but… but I couldn’t.”

In an instant, Benedict dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to her brow. “Hush now, my darling,” he murmured, voice low and tender. “You did all you could. You are most brave, and I am here. We shall find her together.”

Hand in hand with his daughter, Benedict continued his search, his steps purposeful despite the persistent tremor in his heart. He would not could not give up, for the very thought was unthinkable. She was his heart, his soul, the very essence of his life.

Finally, as they entered a quiet glade shrouded in moonlight, his gaze fell upon a familiar figure, seated upon a fallen log, her ankle twisted, yet her countenance as serene as ever.

“Y/N!” he cried, voice choked with relief as he closed the distance between them. He fell to his knees beside her, enveloping her in his arms with a tenderness born of desperation. “My dearest, are you quite well? What befell you?”

“Oh, Benedict,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears as she clung to him. “I am unharmed save for a foolish misstep. I twisted my ankle, and could not find my way back. I am so terribly sorry to have caused you worry.”

“Never say such a thing,” he murmured, his voice thick as he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You are safe, and that is all that matters. I cannot bear the thought of life without you. The very notion would undo me.”

A quiet sob escaped her, and she buried her face in his shoulder, clinging to him as if he were her anchor. He held her close, his hand weaving into her hair, murmuring assurances as his heart began to calm, each beat syncing to the warmth of her embrace.

Gently, Benedict lifted her into his arms, ignoring her weak protests that she could manage to walk. “Tonight, I shall carry you,” he insisted, a rare softness in his voice. “I cannot bring myself to let you out of my sight.”

When they returned to the estate, the family erupted with joy and relief, their children bounding forward, their laughter mingling with tears as they embraced their mother. Benedict settled her upon the sofa in the drawing room, wrapping her in a blanket as she rested her head against his shoulder, their children snuggling in close as though they, too, needed the comfort of her presence.

“Mama, tell us a story,” their eldest daughter whispered, her wide eyes reflecting the flickering glow of the fireplace.

Y/N smiled gently, settling a storybook upon her lap as their children nestled close, and she began to read, her voice soft and soothing, carrying the words with a warmth that wrapped around them all.

Benedict watched her, captivated by her grace, the way she animated each tale, the gentle glint in her eyes as she held their children’s undivided attention. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

She paused, glancing at him with a playful sparkle. “Mr. Bridgerton, might you be so kind as to cease your staring?”

He chuckled, his cheeks tinged with a blush. “Forgive me, Mrs. Bridgerton. But it is quite impossible to look away from a sight so enchanting.”

Their children groaned, accustomed to their parents’ displays of affection, yet Benedict could see the small, contented smile tugging at Y/N’s lips.

Once the story concluded, the children trotted off to bed, each one pausing to press a kiss to Y/N’s cheek before retiring. Benedict took her hand, guiding her to their bedchamber with a gentle care, lifting her in his arms as they ascended the stairs despite her gentle protests.

“Must you always be so stubborn?” she teased, though she leaned into him, her fingers tracing the familiar curve of his shoulder as he carried her.

“My dear,” he replied, his tone soft yet unwavering, “you must know by now that my resolve is unyielding when it concerns your well-being.”

In their room, he settled her upon the bed, carefully propping her ankle as he tucked a blanket around her. Lying beside her, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as they lay in contented silence.

At length, Y/N broke the stillness, her fingers tracing circles over his chest. “Benedict, I feared you might think me careless.”

He shook his head, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Perish the thought, my love. I am simply grateful to have you here, safe and within my arms. I could not fathom a world devoid of your presence.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes soft with love. “And I, Benedict, could never be complete without you. You are my heart, my constant.”

He took her hand, lifting it to his lips as he murmured, “Then let us remain as one, my beloved. Come what may, I vow to cherish you for all my days.”

With her hand still in his, Y/N drifted to sleep, her breath soft and even against his shoulder. Benedict watched her, his heart swelling with gratitude for the love that bound them, a love so steadfast that no force could sever it.

As he held her close, he whispered his vow once more, knowing that his heart had found its home, and that no darkness could ever diminish the light they shared.

[nerdraging4point0]

Mad Hearts and Temptations // Chapter One //

Wonderland Romance AU. Mad Hatter Noah

by @ladyveronikawrites

Tropes and Tags: Wonderland romance, instalove, too much sex, destiny, fated lovers.

Content warning: 18+ only minors DNI. dark themes, gore themes, gothic themes, PinV, PinA, oral (f!recieveing, m!recieving), voyeurism, exhibitionism, angst.

Taglist (click to be added):

@cookiesupplier @badomensls @concreteemo @mysticdoodlez @viofcrows @srorgana1 @in-another-life @broken0mens @itsafullmoon @ladyveronikawrites @somewhere-diamond @celestineveil @meliferafaerie @poisongirl616 @littlefoxkota @darling-millicent-aubrey @th0ughts-pr4yers @silentglassbreak @shilohrosechicken @hayleylatour @sundamariis @lma1986 @thatchickwiththecamera @lilhobgobbler @missduffsblog @asilentsiren @letmeadoreyoux @transparentwitchnightmare @latenightmusiclover

The work below contains fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

My heart pounds as I sprint down the endless corridor, the dizzying checkered tiles seeming to swirl beneath my feet and tilt the walls at odd angles. Doors of all shapes and sizes line the hall - some tall as giants that I can't even reach the knobs of, others no bigger than mouseholes, just large enough to slide my hand through. I rush past them desperately, knowing exactly which one I seek. The same door I always seek, the one that will lead me out of this maddening maze. It's made of dark, worn wood, the brass of its hinges tarnished with age, its yawning keyhole gaping open like a mouth, just waiting to swallow the right key. As I race toward that familiar door, freedom seeming so close I can taste it, her voice echoes through the empty passageway, stopping me dead in my tracks. The voice I know so well, now twisted with bitterness as she calls out, "It was supposed to be you."

It’s been the same dream since I was a kid, ever since my cousin Alice came to stay with us that fateful summer. I never liked my cousin Alice. To be honest, I never really knew her, but after her brief visit with my family, I begged my mom to never invite her again. She was always greedy and whined incessantly about everything. She would snatch my toys without asking and hide them around the house, intentionally breaking things and then blaming me for the damage. I still vividly remember that evening after dinner when we were supposed to play hide and seek outside. 

Alice hid herself so well that night that I eventually gave up looking for her as the sun began to set and the sky faded to a pale blue. I was playing alone on the front lawn when Alice suddenly emerged from the shadows. Her Mary Jane shoes were scuffed and filthy, her dress was stained and disheveled, and her normally tidy blonde curls were matted and caked with some type of dark, viscous fluid. Her fingernails were also covered in what appeared to be red paint. She looked completely deranged and insane. Her eyes were bulging out of her skull as she stared directly at me and uttered in a haunting tone: "It was supposed to be you." Even now, years later, that bizarre encounter is seared into my memory, and Alice's crazed voice still appears in my nightmares.

My cousin had always been troubled, even when we were young. There was a darkness in her that I didn't understand, a swirling chaos behind her eyes that frightened me. As we grew older, her mental state deteriorated. She became unpredictable, prone to violent outbursts and deranged ranting. My family did their best to help her, but it was no use. The day she was finally taken away, restrained and sedated, came almost as a relief. I felt guilty for feeling that way, but I could not deny the lightness in my chest when I knew I wouldn't have to face her manic presence anymore.

That relief was short-lived. Though she was gone from my daily life, her memory continued to torment my dreams. I would find myself wandering endless hallways, hearing her sing-song voice taunting me from the shadows. Her eyes would appear around corners - wild, darting, devoid of reason. No matter how far I ran, she was always there. I would wake with a start, heart pounding, soaked in sweat. Sometimes I awoke screaming.

It's been years now since I left that house, since I got away from the ghost of my cousin. But still she haunts me. In the dead of night she comes creeping back, seeping into my subconscious to wreak havoc in my dreams. I wake gasping for breath, blinking into the darkness. I check the time on my phone - 4am again.

I don't bother with more sleep, tossing the blankets off my body as I stumble my way out of the bed to the bathroom. The light blinds me momentarily before my eyes adjust, taking in my sleepy form in the mirror. My amber locks are braided and resting over my shoulder, with some strands falling out of the tight coils I made the night before. The silver ring in my left nostril catches the light, as does my septum piercing and medusa lip ring, sparkling briefly as I groggily search the messy vanity for my toothpaste.

My fingers fumble over tubes and bottles, knocking a few things aside before finally grasping the minty toothpaste. I pop open the cap and squeeze some onto my toothbrush, the sharp mint helping to wake me up slightly as I begin scrubbing the night's sleep from my mouth. My eyes are still bleary, barely open as I brush and rinse.

As the fog of sleep lifts, I mentally revisit the bizarre dreamscape that moments ago had felt so real and tangible. The stark black and white checkerboard floor spins dizzily beneath me, its sharp diamond tiles swirling together into a dizzying optical illusion. All around me are doors - doors of every shape and size imaginable. Circular portals, square wooden doors, even sideways slanted doors that defy logic and gravity. Most peculiar of all is a breathing door that slowly inhales and exhales, its wooden surface magically undulating in and out of the wall itself. Of course, in the rational light of wakefulness, such an animate door seems patently absurd. But in the illogical realm of dreams, where the mind is unbounded by natural laws, anything is possible.

 I walk down the narrowing hallway, the walls seem to close in around me, making the space tighter and more claustrophobic with each step. Ahead is a door that has become very familiar to me, though I've never entered it. I can't help feeling a sense of belonging when I see the door, like it is a lost part of me I'm destined to reclaim. The door itself is quite elegant, despite the dilapidated state of the hallway around it. It has a shiny brass doorknob and ornate brass hinges that gleam like gold in the dim light. The dark wooden door contrasts with the cracked and weathered plaster walls, standing out like a jewel in a dusty setting.

When I reach my hand out to open it at last, I am filled with longing and excitement to see what awaits on the other side. But each time, just before I turn the knob, a chilling, disembodied voice whispers, "It was supposed to be you," and I am shocked awake from the recurring dream. 

I spit out the foamy residue, watching the minty bubbles swirl down the drain as I turn the faucet off with a squeak. My studio apartment descends into silence, the calm only broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall. While the confined space may seem claustrophobic to some, to me it's cozy - a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. After growing up in a sprawling suburban home cluttered with dusty tchotchkes and my parents' eclectic art collection, I find comfort in the simplicity of my minimalist apartment. I don't need much - just a bed, a couch, and a small kitchen. The lack of clutter soothes my mind. I enjoy the openness, how there's no visual noise competing for my attention. The blank walls and empty surfaces allow me to think clearly and focus on what's important.

The stillness of the air is broken only by the faint murmur of my name emanating from an unseen presence. At first I strain to make out the hushed utterance, unsure if it's real or just my imagination playing tricks. But the more I focus, the clearer the gentle tenor becomes, beckoning me from the shadows. Though no physical form manifests, I feel the voice resonate within my core, igniting a warmth and calm I've never known. My pulse quickens at the thought of this disembodied visitor serenading my spirit, his cherubic tones blanketing me in an otherworldly embrace. I dare not move or speak for fear of severing this ethereal connection. I close my eyes, bathing in the velvety notes that seem to stroke my soul, stirring sensations and emotions I can't articulate.

I shake it off. 

Hearing voices was never a good sign. That’s how it all started with Alice, I was not Alice, I would never be like Alice. 

Alice had been sent away years ago, but just a few months back I’d gone home to visit my parents and saw Alice’s sister and father over for a visit. They said something about how Alice was released and after several months back home she told them she no longer felt like they were family and she was going somewhere she belonged. At first, I was confused, Alice had always been close with her family when we were younger. However, it seems that after being sent away, something had changed within her. Her father's eyes seemed dull and defeated while her sister looked on the verge of tears as they explained how Alice had rejected them and renounced their family ties.

After their visit, my mother confided that Alice had stopped taking her psychiatric medications and severed all ties to society, essentially vanishing completely off the grid by her own choice. When I returned home I double bolted my locks, an unsettling fear in my chest that Alice was one day going to come back for me. 

The dull repetition of my daily morning routine is painfully familiar. I mechanically go through the motions of getting ready - carefully applying just enough makeup to look presentable, loosely pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and throwing on whatever clean clothes I can find. I feel like I could get ready with my eyes closed at this point. Once dressed, I grab my oversized work bag and shuffle out the door of my tiny apartment building.

The refreshing spring air hits my face as I begin the brief five block walk to the coffee shop where I work. It's mid April, so the weather is finally warm enough that I don't need a heavy coat, but still cool enough that I'm not breaking a sweat on my short commute. The temperatures are perfect for walking. I breathe in the crisp morning air, taking in the sights and sounds of the city coming to life - birds chirping, early morning commuters hustling by.

The coffee shop is its typical whirlwind of activity in the middle of a hectic Wednesday workday, with customers streaming in and out grabbing their caffeine fix on the way to their next appointment. Behind the counter, I'm immersed in the controlled chaos - filling orders as fast as my hands can move, hearing the hypnotic hiss of steaming milk from the espresso machine competing with the insistent beeps of microwaves. Voices layered upon voices create a steady din that reaches all the way up to the exposed pipework ceilings. It's a symphony I know well after years in the food service industry. 

As I go about my normal routine, filling orders and handing out drinks to the steady stream of patrons, I've become adept at tuning out the more eccentric customers that pass through. But today, as I prepare a lavender tea and call out the order, I find myself momentarily transfixed by the young woman who steps up to claim it. Her long, straight platinum hair cascades down her back like corn silk, with a few strands elegantly pulled up into neat buns on either side of her delicate face. Dressed in white high-waisted skinny jeans and beige heels, she cuts a stylish figure. But it's the antique pocket watch attached to her belt loop that catches my attention. As I hand over her tea, she tilts her head quizzically while consulting the watch, as if carefully calculating the passage of time. After a pause, she looks up, fixing me with an intense gaze.

 "You're late," she says simply, causing me to stammer an apology before she turns abruptly, her long hair trailing behind her like a cape billowing in the wind.

I shuffle through the day, walking through the lobby to clean up the drinks people have rudely left on their tables. Wiping them down as I clean up. I pick up a paper cup about to throw away the half full liquid. But as I turn the paper cup in my hands, I see someone has written under the lid in sharpie the words, ‘Drink Me’. I bring the open mouthpiece to my nose taking a quick sniff. Lavender and Chamomile and something else-something spicy.

As I inhale the floral aroma rising from the mysterious concoction, I pause, transfixed by the cryptic message and alluring scent. Curiosity battles with apprehension as I contemplate the unknown contents. I toss the cup in the trash anyway, wiping down the last of the tables before heading behind the bar again. 

Typically, I thrive on the pace and the social interaction with customers and coworkers alike, but today the commotion is too much. The constant demands have drained my mental energy. I feel the weight of exhaustion seeping into my bones.

As soon as the clock hits the end of my shift, I make a beeline for the door into the blissful quiet of the outside world. Wolfing down a quick lunch, I start the familiar walk home, already dreaming of my cozy bed. By the time I've unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside, I can barely keep my eyes open. I don't even bother changing clothes before I collapse onto the mattress, surrendering instantly to a deep sleep.

[dollypopup]

fuck it, gonna do it myself since the showrunners refuse to

Colin Bridgerton Background and Headcanons

+Colin was a chubby child, but became super lanky around his pre-teens, just before he went to Eton

+He would play piano with Francesca for Mum. He always wanted to play and sing for Papa, too, but Edmund was usually with Anthony and Benedict. Still, he and Fran would sit on the shorter velvet cushion so they could reach the pedals, and they would take turns singing silly made up songs, or church hymns

+Because of his age, he was always excluded from the 'Boys' club of the family. At ten years younger than his older brothers, and not an Heir OR the Spare, this is when he started getting particularly close with his sisters, El, Daph, and Fran. He and Daphne were almost inseparable growing up.

+Colin got SEVERAL makeovers from his sisters. They always said he was just as pretty as they were, and powdered him with too much blush, bribing him with extra snacks if he wore one of their dresses. He did, of course. Those Tea Parties were fancy affairs, after all. Once, Eloise tried to braid his hair for it, too, but it was just too short

+Of all his siblings, Colin is the only one Papa ever punished physically. After Colin hit Eloise and Papa saw, he horsewhipped him in the stable. Colin is a boy, soon to be a man, Papa said, he should never lay a hand on a lady, *any* lady. Colin wonders why he cannot hit a lady, but anyone can hit him. It's the start of his hero complex and his martyr streak, too. He does not matter in the scenario, others do. He can get hurt, but others cannot.

+It's not three months after Edmund dies that Colin is sent to Eton. He's the only boy in their entire family to ever go there, and the prestige of Oxford was just unnecessarily for a third son. The funds were already put aside, Colin's traveling trunk packed, and the first year paid out. He had no choice. As a lanky, scrawny, barely 5 feet tall 12 year old boy, Colin leaves everything he has ever known behind to mourn in private, on his own, far from anything familiar

+Eton has. . .to say problems would be an understatement. Colin is under the tutelage of the harshest superintendent of the century for only one year toward the end, but it is far more than enough. The treatment is horrible. (look it up, this is historically accurate!). 'Flogging Fridays' were so harrowing, the uprisings by the students ended in stalemates and fury. In that last year, Colin had long hit his growth spurt, and resented a bully deep, *deep* in his bones. In his last year at Eton, Colin broke so many windows in the uprising that for days after, he was picking glass shards out from his clothes

+His first year at Eton was hard. Colin was small and alone and had no one in his corner. He made friends with some others, but for the most part, he was an easy target for the older boys to pick on. His name couldn't shield him from that. Being so small, even when he tried to fight back, he wasn't very successful, and most times, they would report him for violence anyway, so his choices were two fold- sit down and take it, or square up

+Colin learns to box at Eton. It isn't encouraged, surely, but one of his classmates noticed how Colin was very much not having a good time and put two and two together. He was older, a bit fatherly, almost, even though he wasn't even 18, yet. It was his last year so he was less concerned with doing things as the world expected it. Colin followed him around like a little duckling. Everywhere James went, Colin went. They sat with each other to eat dinner, then would sneak off to spar and train. He was Colin's first crush. He never told anyone, but he *is* grateful

+When Colin comes home for the first time, he *knows* everything is different. There's already a rift forming. Colin becomes a haunt in the hallway, only there in the summers and for holiday breaks. Colin becomes a ghost, half seen, wandering Aubrey Hall. Mama is over the moon, of course, as over the moon she can be still deep in grief, as is Daphne, but Fran is quieter, now, and Eloise turns away from him, frustrated at his freedoms when she gets none. Anthony has no time for him, save to ask if his studies are well, and Benedict is busy taking care of the babs

+Colin's favorite place to be when he was home was with Hyacinth. He'd sneak into the nursery and gently hold her. Though there were nurses, Colin was there so often, they swore she never cried. The truth was, Hy cried often, but Colin would notice the signs and comfort her. It made him feel better, to know there was something in this world that might need him. No one else needed him. Not Mama, not his sisters, certainly not his brothers. So, he rocks the baby sister he barely knows, and he sings her lullabies, and he cries with her, sometimes, and he's just a little less alone

+He's 14 by the time he finally starts gaining height. A late bloomer, a professor or two teases. They thought it would never come, really. He'd been a been pole for as long as anyone could remember, ever since he turned 6, but all of a sudden, he looked almost skeletal. Shooting up near an entire foot was awful. For a lot of people in his life, this was the first they'd seen him be openly miserable and snappish. Sore and frustrated, Colin had the shortest fuse he'd ever had. Oh, he had a temper. Always did. But he typically knew how to reign it in. During his growing pains, it was impossible. This is the manifest of him not sharing his food- he was constantly ravenous, and lord help anyone trying to get between him and his plate

+Colin first meets Penelope when he's 16, filled out and coming into his own, an insta-crush for Penelope, but for Colin? First thing he thought after her bonnet knocked him off his horse is that she looked like a peach. All round and pink and in her yellow dress. Colin likes peaches. So Colin likes her. It was simple as that for him

+He never got into Eloise's rivalry about Penelope. Honestly, he didn't think about her very often. Penelope seemed sweet, but she was near silent. Eloise would tell him that she wasn't that way with her, as though bragging, and Colin just shrugged. He didn't have any real interest or investment in their friendship, but he did try to be polite. The one time, Penelope stood in front of him and tried to say something for an entire minute, only to squeak and thrust out a book at him, turning tail and making off. He found it surprisingly funny. She opened up to him slowly, got more comfortable in increments, but he thinks back to that moment and remembers that she's come a long way. Would be nice to see where they end up (forshadowinggggg)

+Colin doesn't like to drink. Never carried a torch for the taste, really, but other men did it, and only in drinking did they seem to have any semblance of closeness. Colin tries it for himself. It never really works out

+Charm becomes a second skin to hide himself in. Deflecting questions to other people, remembering details about them and bringing them up, asking questions and using humor. Funny how humor lands so much easier, now. At Eton, he had no protection. (No wonder he despises a bully) But now, he was grown. Now, he was a 'man'. A conventionally attractive man (he can't really deny it). He's tall and he's finally started filling out broad and big, and he uses it to his advantage. When he talks, in his mind, somewhere, he's still that 5 foot tall boy, crying in the carriage to an unfamiliar place or grinning and bearing it his first year at school. But this time, he has a cloak to wrap around himself. This time, yes, he's softhearted and tender, but he is also beautiful and knows how to focus on someone else, and he uses it to his advantage.

+Colin understands this privilege, because for a time, he knew what it was like without it. Colin sees what happens to those who do not have it, also. For Colin, charm is the sprinkle of honey over his bitter fears and concerns. For Colin, charm is the fun party hat everyone gets to see- not that he's sad, not that he's conflicted, not that he's unsure. He's pretty. That's enough for them

+But it isn't enough for HIM. Colin grapples with his purpose because the idea that he should be content to be attractive and well off and nothing else sits unpleasantly with him. Colin wants to be a self-made man, but he is denied the opportunity. So he tries to navigate the world as it is around him, having been pre-molded and determined to a certain outcome.

+So, Colin's arc is about becoming a Man, but he is not a conventional one, so he works from example. What do Men do? Colin certainly didn't have his father to inform him, so he relies on the other men around him. Well. . .Men visit brothels and have mistresses and drink whiskey and go to clubs, but Colin doesn't want to go to a brothel, and he doesn't desire a mistress, and whiskey burns when it goes down, acrid as the smoke thick and smoggy in the clubs. So. . .what else? Well, Men get married. Men take care of a family. Men are educated.

he can do THAT

+Colin attempts to marry in Season 1 not because he is fully infatuated (he likes Marina, sure, but his eagerness is not just rooted in such) but because he is attempting to find purpose. To find meaning. To be a Man, a GOOD man. And Good Men are married, so Colin will be married. Good Men take care of their family, so Colin takes care of his family, so Colin offers to BE her family. But because these are rooted in aimless endeavors (Colin wants to be A man, but not THE man he envisions for himself), they fall apart. Now, Penelope certainly has a hand in it falling to pieces, but Colin didn't really have the right motivations to start off with, so in season 2. . .

+He's depressed. It's odd to me that others would describe season 2 as an arc in which Colin is successful. The entire time, he is in a deep depression. Colin partakes in drugs, specifically to not think about the world, or to find peace and comfort. Colin claims that no one wants to hear his stories, even if he thinks he did everything right by traveling. (Remarkable. . .yes, in the sense that I have many remarks of it). Colin drinks even though he clearly hates it, gets migraines, hangovers, grimaces at the taste, because he is looking for ESCAPE

+But Colin cannot escape. Even on a different continent, even having run, there is no where to go. His escape is not from the ton, and not even necessarily from reality, but from his own insecurities. From what he feels are his inadequacies. Good Men are married, but in Colin's mind, he abandoned Marina. Good Men take care of their family, and Colin left his. Good Men are educated, and Colin is tripping on shrooms in the middle of Cyprus, looking at the stars, wondering what he's meant to do with himself. Colin's desires to escape are deeply rooted, but Colin doesn't want to escape a PLACE. He's done that for a long time. No, Colin wants to escape a PERSON. Himself. The himself he knows himself as

+So, instead, it's easier to be someone else. Himself is messy and sensitive and needs to rehearse what he says. Himself doesn't ever say the right thing (doesn't know how) and is boring to everyone else, besides. Himself is too painful, so it's easier to be Charming Colin. Helpful Colin. Colin taking down a scheme. Colin providing for others. Because he does not matter in it. They do.

+But he DOES. Season 3 sees Colin masquerading. Successfully, of course, but nonetheless. He's half settled into himself and half settled into the persona. When Penelope gives him the cold shoulder with no explanation? Persona. When Eloise avoids him? Persona. When Fran is getting trussed up like a calf for auction on the marriage mart? Persona. Colin spends so much of his life trying to be someone else

+And then he finds out Penelope is Whistledown, and the betrayal of it rips all his talent from him. He can no longer be Happy Colin, Smiling Colin, Here, I'll Help Colin- no, now he is just angry. Sad. Upset. Hurt. Conflicted. He can only be COLIN, and he does not want her to see. Does not want her to reveal it to everyone else, that the man they saw was a sham, that deep down, he is still that boy, that boy Marina said he was, that boy chasing dreams and fantasies, that boy curled up in the cupboard, sobbing about losing his dad, that empty, hollow boy, able to offer up nothing but charm

+But they will see. She will see. And he will see, too. Just who Colin really is. Just who he can be. And just how full and rich and wonderful the reality really is, mess and all

[faneliansficaloh]

A Lifetime of Happiness

(Ch 1) (Ch 2) (Ch 3) (Ch 4) (Ch 5) (Ch 6) (Ch 7) (Ch 8)

This is Chapter 9

Notes

----------

4 December 1817

Dear Penelope,

If my memory serves me right, today is Abigail’s birthday. I hope everything is well. I imagine your house to be filled with a celebratory spirit, that is if you’ve chosen to stay there. When I think about you these days, you’re always in the front bench of your house in Surrey, so it didn’t occur to me that you might as well have gone to Kent with your mother or anywhere else.

Isn’t it odd, how a life time of memories with a person can be condensed in the mind to a single moment? A single image that conveys all the feelings and ideas that surround them. You are sitting on a bench and snow is falling and you’re waiting for him.

I wonder how you remember me. Am I still the boy you caused to fall down from his horse, covered in mud? I rather like to think that might be it, and not a version of the desperate man I became through the years. Please remember me laughing at some silly pun. Forget my moments of anger and my desperate pleading, and remember me as I was most often, simply very glad to see you.

Yours, Colin.

1815 – A bright, sunny day.

“Congratulations, you are now the owner of a very small farm in Kent” Marina said from the drawing room sofa where she had been reading a letter.

“What do you mean?” Colin lifted his eyes from the newspaper to look at her, as a log crackled in the fireplace.

“My father has passed away. Apparently, I am to inherit.”

“I’m so sorry about your father. Are you alright?” She seemed surprised and uncomfortable, but not exactly stricken by grief.

Her relationship with her father had been cut off when he sent her to London in the care of the Featheringtons, to find a husband. She had made an unsuccessful attempt to mend things just last summer when they had been in Kent. She had already told Colin how he thought her no better than a harlot as he had found out she had been sneaking around with George, but much too late to make him marry her.

In truth, in her father’s mind it wouldn’t have mattered if George had married her the very next day, he would never forgive her daughter’s lack of virtue. The sin would not be washed away, it made no difference to him that she had acquired a respectable husband and that he had legitimate grandchildren, she had besmirched his name and that was unforgivable.

Now the man had passed, and even when he had rejected her, he still bestowed his earthly possessions upon her. It was not much, as she had mentioned, it was only a small farm and the house on it. As her husband, Colin would have to decide what was to be done with the property, but of course he would do whatever Marina wanted.

“I wonder if he forgot to alter his will” she said in a cold, pensive tone.

“I’m sure he cared for you, Marina.” Colin’s voice was soft, soothing “Men can be too proud to admit love is stronger than their grudges” She nodded, holding back tears now. “I will take care of that for you in time. Just let me know what you wish to be done”

Marina felt a wave of renewed gratitude for Colin’s eagerness to be of service, even if she thought him naive for thinking her father ever loved her.

“Thank you, Colin.” She shook her head slightly as she didn’t have the words to say all she felt. He just nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder, reassuringly. “I should go to Kent for the funeral. Do you think I could stay at Aubrey Hall instead of..?” She could not bear the thought of staying in her father’s house. Whatever happy memories she had once had of the place they were all tainted now by her father’s contempt for her. It had become a haunted place, even before she left.

“Of course. We’ll stay at Aubrey Hall as long as you need. I’ll make the arrangements.”

***

The funeral had been more than a week ago, but there was no reason to endure the trip back to London before the start of the season, so they were staying at Aubrey Hall until then. Marina had been understandably sullen, but everyone had been very tactful and kind to her, more so perhaps, than they had ever been before.

This morning she had gotten up very early and gone to the children’s room still in her night dress. Apparently she had no plans to go down for breakfast. When Colin entered the nursery, she was looking through the window, pensively.

“Good morning” Colin entered the room and went directly to the children, who were noisily, and precariously wobbling around. He went down on one knee to receive Oliver in his arms as the boy moved excitedly towards him when he saw him enter the room. Amanda was too engrossed playing with a toy near the sofa.

“You know, there is no reason you should stay” Marina said after a while, turning around to look at them.

“Where am I to go, exactly?” He responded, without turning his attention from the children.

“I mean with me, you do not need to be stuck with me. I can take care of them on my own” He turned around, insulted, because clearly it was her who felt stuck with him.

“I will not leave you, Marina. When will you understand that?” He was growing tired of having the same conversation.

She moved away from the window to be in front of him. “That is not what I meant. You mentioned some time ago that you wanted to travel, perhaps you should do that. Ollie and Amy will hardly notice” He was ready to protest “I only mean that they’re too little to form real memories. I see you every day growing restless and drifting about and it drives me insane. Whatever it is you need, I am not—Maybe some time away will help?”

“Oh, my apologies.” He said, deeply hurt “I forgot I am only welcome around you when I can be useful to you.”

“Colin, don’t be ridiculous! Just think about it.” She sounded worn out, it was obvious she was also incredibly tired of the constant friction between them.

“I think we’re going for a walk” He got up, impulsively, taking Oliver in his arms since the boy had been holding on to his hand.

Colin made his way out without responding to Marina or looking back.

It was, for everyone else, a perfect, sunny morning. Penelope had set out for a stroll in the gardens, with Rae, her Lady’s maid in tow as she had been given specific instructions by Mrs. Varley that she should not let the young miss out of her sight for the entirety of their stay at Aubrey Hall.

As they walked near the hedges, Penelope noticed noise coming from the other side, so she went around and found Colin, who for some reason was sitting directly on the grass with one of the babies and a remarkably sour face.

“Colin, what are you doing here? Are you two here on your own?” She looked around, there was no one else in sight.

“Pen!” He took a bit too long to respond to her questions, he had not expected to see her there “I felt we needed to take advantage of the good weather after being cooped up all winter” He offered her a weak, unconvincing smile.

“Isn’t the grass damp? Didn’t you at least bring a blanket?” She was looking at him as if he had gone mad.

“I did not consider that in my plans, as you can see”

“Or did you just rush out without a plan at all?” She suspected he had rushed away from Marina. She knew she was in mourning but Marina’s character seemed to harden when she was sad, which tended to clash with the soft nature of Colin’s own character.

“Whatever paints me in the better light” He avoided looking at her.

“Rae, would you please go fetch a blanket for Mr. Bridgerton?” Rae hesitated, for she didn’t want to break her word to Mrs Varley. but Penelope gave her a defying look and since the child was there she saw no harm in it, she would just have to be quick.

Penelope put down her shawl and extended it over the grass as a makeshift blanket while they waited, and got down on the ground to have Oliver relocated over it.

“Here! The sun might be bright, but we don’t want anyone to catch a cold now, do we?” She looked at Colin as she held on to Oliver’s hands while he wobbled up on his little legs, smiling brightly and babbling excitedly. “Do you want to tell me what happened or would you rather sulk in silence?”

“She wants me gone.” He said with a tight smile “She tried to make it sound like it was my wish to travel, so I should just go away”

“But you have always wanted to travel, have you not?” She failed to see the issue. Oliver had decided to sit and try to pull out the grass at the edge of the shawl, next to her.

He removed his cravat and started knotting it. “But that is not really why she… We have disagreements, and her only solution is to simply send me away, no compromises offered, nothing, let’s just get rid of me and that will fix everything.” He sighed, rubbing his face “I’m sorry. I must sound insane.”

“I am sure she would not--” Colin leaned in to give the cravat ball to Oliver to play with and without returning to his previous position he interrupted her, before she could make up a justification for Marina. She always did, based on her own views. Penelope simply did not know Marina as he did and believed her to be as reasonable as herself.

“Pen, the truth is she doesn’t even like me half as well as you do. And I--” His eyes fixed longingly on her face, there was an ache in his heart.

She noticed his stare, and with the most innocent surprise in her eyes, uttered his name. “Colin --” but he didn’t let her finish her sentence. The sound of his name in her lips and the smell of her perfume was a sweeter combination to him than anything in the world, all else faded from existence. It was simply inevitable.

He reached out to caress her cheek and bring her face closer and then softly brushed her lips with his, before slowly tasting them, until he could not resist invading her mouth completely. It was exhilarating when he noticed she hadn’t pulled away but was actually returning his kiss. It was pure perfection. It felt good and right, this was it. It had to be, could not be anything but love, actual love. Everything else had been an illusion, a poor imitation.

It was a perfect kiss on a perfect late February morning, on a perfect Wednesday.

It had been like gasping for air after holding a breath for a torturous long time. For Colin, at least. Penelope had long stopped dreaming of such a thing, but he had been dreaming of this moment for months now– not exactly like this, of course, but something very similar. The feeling in his heart had crept into place like a vine, it had been slow and confusing, but ultimately unstoppable. He could no longer try to pass it off as anything else.

He wasn’t sure exactly when it was that he started to truly appreciate the deep blue of her eyes, how agreeable to his ears the sound of her laughter was and how prettily her hair shone in the sunlight as it adorned her pale shoulders. But then Marina had made that callous comment one night and it forced his eyes open. It had been like coming out from an absolute dark cave into a bright, sunny day. It was a little painful and getting used to seeing things so clearly had taken some time, until he could finally focus and make them out completely.

He had come to the realization that no one knew him like Penelope did, no two sensibilities could be so attuned to each other as theirs, they shared the same sense of humour and her mind was a source of inspiration, her presence was his happiness. And she was there that morning, beautiful, bright, playful and so attentive and kind with Oliver.

As they pulled apart, she slowly came to a terrible realization herself. It had finally happened, the reason why her mother insisted she should not go about unchaperoned. It turned out that despite how much she scoffed at the idea of her virtue being in any danger in such familiar places, she had been right. Her mother was right, the world was surely coming to an end.

“Have you gone mad!” Eloise shrieked at the sight. They were no longer kissing but his hand still remained on her cheek and their foreheads were still together. She recovered from her initial shock, apparently because she tried to lower her voice “I cannot believe this! And in front of your own child!” She was carrying a parasol and pointed at them with it, accusingly.

“Eloise, it’s not…”

“That I am unmarried does not mean I do not recognize the nature of this... impropriety!” she said, waiving the accusatory parasol at their general vicinity.

“Please! It’s nothing” Penelope said, raising away from Colin and reaching out to Eloise, who instinctively backed a step away.

“It is not nothing, Penelope. It certainly cannot be nothing to you!” The weight of shame was unbearable, Penelope had to go away. She could see Rae coming back over from the house too, so she tried to act normal as she swiftly walked away.

“Penelope, wait!” Colin tried to stop her but it was too late. “You are right Eloise, it shouldn’t have happened”

“How long has this been going on?” She said, throwing the parasol to her side and picking up Oliver in her arms.

“There is nothing going on… it was just one kiss, a momentary lapse in judgement” He half lied. “There has not been anything else, quit imagining things. You know we would never--”

“That I don’t know!” Her countenance grew even more serious, which had seemed impossible to him and she approached him, lowering her voice, hissing “You cannot do this to Penelope. She does not deserve for you to keep toying with her feelings. Whatever is wrong with your marriage, brother, I beg of you, let Penelope out of it. I am sick of this blindness of yours and how everyone else is so accommodating of it; it has been going on for far too long, and you’re no longer a young boy, so allow me to open your eyes: You have broken her heart one too many times already, and so badly, it is a wonder to me she can still endure spending even a minute in your presence, but apparently, such is love that she would endure anything for you. Please! Please stop this madness. She deserves much more than you would ever be able to offer her, but she will follow you to hell if you drag her there with you. You cannot want that”. She paused and gently left Oliver beside him. “You know I’m right”.

And she left, all fists and fury, almost running, leaving him without air to breathe.

“You said no more secrets! You promised!” she had caught up to Penelope. Thankfully she had decided against going into the house.

“Rae, would you please give us a moment?” The lady’s maid wondered if something had happened while she was fetching the blanket. She cursed the Bridgerton’s maid that had stopped to question her. Those Bridgerton servants all looking down on her as if she weren’t a proper lady’s maid. Mrs. Varley would fire her, surely, it was clear both misses were very upset. But nothing could be gained now from refusing the two ladies space to discuss whatever was ailing them, so once again she followed her mistress’ wishes and went to stand a prudent distance away.

“Eloise, I swear to you that I have not been hiding anything from you! I don’t even know what just happened… I had no intention... I was just out for a stroll and I found them, he seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the children so I was just trying to help and then...” Eloise reached out and hugged her as she was clearly shaking.

“It’s alright, it’s alright. Believe me Pen, I do understand” Penelope just let out a desperate sigh and she groaned “I’m so sorry I dragged you here with us. I was sure they weren’t coming, I would have never put you in this position, had I known. But, Pen, seriously, you have to move on. It cannot be and I will not have you go to waste like that”

“I feel like I’ve gone insane, El”

Eloise responded rather abruptly “Do you really hope to become a mistress, to marry a divorced man in the best case?”

“Of course not!” She was aghast. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. It had only been a kiss. Her first kiss. She was both happy and enormously sad that it had been Colin. It was a Faustian wish.

“I know you’re a much stronger person than I am, and If I was able to let go, I hope you can too, for your own good.” She tried to smile.

“El, I don’t know what to say” She knew Eloise must be referring to Mr. Sharpe.

“And mind you, he wasn’t married” Eloise’s grimace turned into a full frown.

Penelope grew worried. “El, did you and Mr. Sharpe--?”

“No! Almost, but I came into my senses”

“Oh” She nodded, at a loss for words.

“We’ve always thought ourselves so clever but we are just a couple of fools, you and I, aren’t we?”

“It appears so” She said with a sigh.“But El, I don’t think your brother meant anything by it, really. I think he must have gotten confused in the moment. You should not be fretting about any untoward, ridiculous possibilities, he loves Marina.”

The blindness was apparently contagious, thought Eloise. They had started walking aimlessly, in silence.

The more Penelope thought about it, however much she would love to get carried away in a fantasy, she grew more and more convinced that Colin had only acted on an impulse not brought up by her, but by whatever he was dealing with at the moment and she had just been conveniently within reach. He had clearly been in an argument with Marina. Perhaps having spent so much time together lately had caused some confusion in him, but going so far as to consider that he would ask her to be his mistress was absolutely preposterous.

“Perhaps I should get married” She let out after a prolonged silence. “I mean, try in earnest now” Penelope knew this would upset Eloise more than anything else she could have said, but she couldn’t help herself and just blurted it out. It seemed like the best course of action to both move on and avoid any further confusion on all sides.

“Why must marriage always be the only recourse we have to get out of these impossible situations that are imposed on us? It’s infuriating, it’s simply not fair!”

“I suppose I could just run away and live off my Whistledown earnings” She said rather casually

“Have you made enough to consider that, really?” Eloise’s eyes grew big with incredulity.

“I gather it would be a modest life, but I could make it work. I wouldn’t need but a small cottage and not as many dresses as I settle into spinsterhood in some remote part of the country. I’ve never been to Cornwall” She said almost truly considering it.

“Oh, that sounds lovely! Would you take me with you?” she made a pleading gesture that would have been impossible to resist if it hadn’t been for a daydream of a hypothetical future.

“I Wouldn’t dare to go anywhere without you.” Both chuckled.

Eloise’s face grew sad with the reality of it “But you would be unhappy. As much as it pains me to admit it, I know that you do enjoy society, in your own peculiar, twisted way”

“That is true. If only to keep making money” She pursed her lips, but Eloise was right. She enjoyed the pageantry of the balls, and the gossip, of course. But being a part of high society also afforded them the opportunity to know and learn about the people that shaped not only society at large, but the country itself through parliament, and of course the easy access to art in all its forms – theatre, opera, galleries and libraries were always part of their social season, not to mention the lavish dinners. Penelope had been paying close attention to the servants' conversations for the last two years in her quest for every drop of gossip unknown to the elite, so she had become acutely aware of the actual privileges that came with being a part of the Ton. Eloise on the other hand, had probably never given any thought at how all these things were not part of everyday life for everyone -particularly not destitute women that retired into obscurity- she only thought of the social season as merely parties and superfluous frills. High society might be a cage for the young ladies in it, but it was a comfortable cage with a beautiful view at least.

“But you do not need to get married to make money, do you? You have managed that on your own so far” Eloise remarked, smugly.

“I might want to have my own family as well, El.” Penelope was sure Eloise would have never guessed that about her, and she was probably right because Eloise seemed to falter but made a quick recovery.

“Well, apparently you don’t need to get married for that, either” she gave her a knowing look.

“Eloise!”

“I’m joking, of course.” She laughed but grew silent for a moment, before sighing and saying “If you truly want to get married, then do so. But know that I will never speak to you again if you marry someone who does not appreciate you”

“So you’d forsake me when I would be needing you the most?”

“Alright, that was a bluff, but I truly mean it. Do not settle into a horrible marriage just to get away from my stupid brother”

“You know I cannot promise I will gain the love of another, El”

“If Prudence managed to get a proposal from a decent man in just a couple of months Pen, how hard can it truly be?” Penelope Laughed. Mr. Dankworth had truly fallen for Prudence very quickly during their time in Kent. She wasn’t so sure that Prudence was more than fond of him, but as their mother said, at least she was married now, and he did seem to be a good man and of his love for her sister she had no doubt.

“I think I might need a whole new wardrobe” She looked down on her yellow muslin dress, flicking the gaudy rosette on her sleeve “and perhaps a whole new personality, too” She grinned

“That’s nonsense!” But Eloise gave it a little consideration and in a tentative tone added “Well, the wardrobe might be a good idea, and maybe some new hairstyles?” She cringed a little “But there is not a thing wrong with you Pen. You just need to be a little... less shy? You are the Lady Whistledown, you are far too interesting to shy away from anyone”

“I cannot well work that fact into conversation, Eloise! If there is anyone with any less prospects for marriage than me it’s Lady Whistledown” Both laughed at the thought

“What I mean is, you should remember that. You have no reason to be intimidated by anyone”

“Not even Cressida Cowper?”

“Especially not Cressida!”

Chapter 10

[reedchristine]

Colin sat next to Penelope as they listened to Anthony’s story about boggarts and Benedict’s about not finding his lady in silver. Colin knew he probably had the best scary story to tell with his travels around the continent. He ran through what stories he was told by locals and which ones were scary but not scary enough because of Gregory and Hyacinth being present. He decided on a story he heard once during his travels through Paris about The Opéra Comique and the mysterious Phantom of the Opera.

Looking at his siblings, Colin sat up straighter and launched into his story.

“It’s been said by the locals of Paris that when they walk past The Opéra Comique, they can hear the sounds of an organ playing only when the opera house is closed. They say a phantom resides in The Opéra Comique and is quite a genius. Writing masterpiece after masterpiece. The only rules are to keep box ten empty and to always leave its monthly payment behind the second pillar on the fourth-floor balcony.”

[silverhallow]

I had a delicious thought,

Imagine during Eloise's season, Sophie, Penelope and Kate are all pregnant and hormonal

Just think about these three losing their shit when Eloise disappears.

Then the three of them interrogate poor Phillip. I bet that is when he'll ask to have his legs broken.

How do you think the three witches of Aubrey Hall haunt these two?

Who will cry first?

Oh man, poor Phillip would be traumatised if it was three pregnant women coming over and giving him a hard time after the Bridgerton brothers...

Sophie would probably be the first to cry, worried sick about her.

Kate would be ready to commit murder and Penelope is at the ready to either make it all right with her pen, or kill him and hide the body with Kate.

Phillip thought he'd seen the worst the Bridgerton's had to offer until he met their wives.

[fayes-fics]

Lessons in Breeding

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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

[newtonsheffield]

From a magazine interview with Simone! 😍

Fluffy and happy Kanthony?! 🤞 one can only hope... maybe a snippet?

I think it’s pretty reasonable to assume that they’re just going to be settled this year. I’m not sure what we’re going to see honestly, and how much plot will be involved with that but I think it’s reasonable to assume it may not be a huge plot. I think realistically, we’ll probably more so see them floating around in the background. I honestly just want them to support one another, that’s what I really want to see, just being there for one another.

Kate sighed as she settled herself into the carriage, the horses’ hooves beating rhythmically against the cobblestones as the coachman pulled away.

“Lord, thank god that’s over.”

Kate raised her eyebrow at her husband as she tugged off her gloves, fighting a smirk, “Do you know, when we met, I thought you fancied yourself rather the life of the party.”

Anthony scoffed, scuttling closer to her on the seat, “Only another way you’re admitting of your being completely wrong about me, Kate.” He tutted, tugging her gloves from her hand and tucking them into the top pocket of his jacket. “It’s sad, it really is, to see such a stunning, intelligent woman be so off the mark in so many ways.”

Kate rolled her eyes, “You’re ridiculous. I can hardly stand it.”

Anthony rolled his own eyes, tugging his neckcloth off, “You’re violently in love with me.”

“I certainly felt very violent towards you this evening.” Kate admitted, swatting his hands away from her stomach. “If you attempt to herd me towards one more chair, I’m banishing you to Aubrey Hall.”

She knew he was worried, even if he was too scared to truly voice it outside of the four walls of her bedroom. She had seen the responsibility settle on his shoulders almost immediately after she had told him she was with child. She had watched the unbridled joy that she knew he was feeling ebb away as they laid in bed with the sweat still cooling on their skin and his arms wrapped protectively around her. She had watched this nagging sense of responsibility grow as her stomach swelled and she knew how terrified he was, haunted by the memory of Hyacinth’s birth. And Kate only wished he would let her help.

Anthony grumbled a little petulantly, not quite certain when his lip pouted, “You never would. You’d miss my handsome face far too much for that.”

Kate hummed, contentedly, leaning towards him and resting her chin on his shoulder. “I would miss your handsome face, so perhaps there’s no need to torture us both?”

“I only thought you might be getting tired.”

Kate chuckled, kissing his cheek. She had been in conversation with Mary and Lady Danbury with Violet watching Eloise and Francesca whispering away across the room from the corner of her eye while Anthony hovered behind her. He was wordless, throughout the conversation, answering in clipped sentences when Mary sought to include him, and brushing off the various other gentlemen who had tried to speak with him. He had pressed glasses of Lemonade into her hand at regular intervals and finally, only minutes before they had left Anthony had touched her arm, his eyes wide when he caught her attention his voice urgent.

“Perhaps you’d like to sit, Love.”

Kate had chuckled, squeezing his hand, “I’m fine, Anthony.”

Anthony’s brow had furrowed, before he cleared his throat, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour, “Ladies, perhaps you’d oblige me and move this conversation over to the chaperone seats so my wife might rest?”

Mary had nodded immediately, patting Kate’s arm and the others had moved quickly in that direction before Kate had sighed, “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us, Anthony’s social clock has run out for the evening it seems.”

Kate smiled at him, her fingers running gently through his hair, watching his eyes close gently at her touch the way it always did. As though he only relaxed under her hands, with her, a part of him saved for her alone. “I know you’re anxious, and I love how much you want to help me, Darling, I do. I only… would like it if you could enjoy our family growing.”

He turned towards her, his lips parted, “I… Kate, I’m so happy. I am.”

“I know that. Of course I know that, and I know that you worry, but I’m fine.” She tugged his hand against her chest, letting him feel her heartbeat, knowing it would calm him.

Anthony took a deep breath, leaning forward to kiss her gently, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment as the carriage rolled through the street before Anthony sighed, “I know it’s awful that we abandoned my mother and the girls, but I really was fed up of society.”

Kate chuckled, “I know you were.”

“God, I can’t stand it. Why can’t we just stay abed forever?”

“It seems we aren’t allowed.”

“Shame.”

[nothwell]

Listen wherever you find your favorite podcasts!

Five indie authors weigh the benefits of writing interconnected books as a series or specializing in telling single stories, including the shiny lure of a fresh story idea, getting to know intriguing new characters compared to settling in for another adventure with old friends, the challenge of crafting a sequel as compelling as its predecessor, and whether readers are more willing to follow an author into a bold new direction or return to familiar ground.

RK Ashwick (she/her) @ashen-crest is the author of the Sidequest Row series (beginning with A Rival Most Vial) and the Lutesong series (beginning with The Stray Spirit). You can connect with her at her website: rkashwick.com

Noah Hawthorne (he/they) @noahhawthorneauthor, also writing as Aelina Isaacs, is the author of the Adventures in Levena series (beginning with Phantom and Rook) and the stand alone novel The Rebel Foxes. You can connect with him at their website: neshamapublishing.com

S. O. Callahan (she/her) is the author of the Fella Enchanted duology and co-author of the Fae & Human Relations series (beginning with Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms). You can connect with her on Instagram @s.o.callahan

Sarah Wallace (they/she) is the author of the Meddle & Mend series (beginning with Letters to Half Moon Street) and co-author of the Fae & Human Relations series (beginning with Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms). You can connect with them at their website: sarahwallacewriter.com

Sebastian Nothwell (he/him) is the author of the Aubrey & Lindsey series (beginning with Mr Warren’s Profession), the Oak King Holly King series (beginning with Oak King Holly King), and the stand alone novels Hold Fast, Fiorenzo, and The Haunting of Heatherhurst Hall. You can connect with him at his website: sebastiannothwell.com