Authors note: You request it and I'll write it. If not up to your standards or expectations re-request and I'll try my best to reach them.
My rules: If you request smut I am trusting that you are 18+. Please if you are to request PLEASE do NOT request any sexual interaction with a character that is 18 and under.
Navigation: Below are listed fandoms or movies and such that I write for. More is to be added to the list and some are still in the making of a masterlist. Click on the underlined fandom and it will take you to the masterlist for the one that is named. Those that aren't underlined have no masterlist.
Bridgerton
Wednesday
The School of Good and Evil
Resident Evil: Village
Pennyworth: The origin of Batman's Butler (TV series 2019-2022)
violet really is the realest bc she's the only one brave enough to say "what if you get one of the million girls you're fucking pregnant you whore" to her son
Okay, so I just got done watching Line of Duty, absolutely love it, and also got done watching caprica as well. I'm also working a chapter for my Ao3 work which should be out tomorrow if I dont over sleep and if depression doesnt eat my ass. Along with some Tumblr stories that ive been working on.
Will you write a part two for “ Mother knows best” ? It’s so good and your writing really made it come to life! I was wounding if you would bc maybe the r is trying so hard and constantly doing work and trying be better. R gets too mark for her paper/exam but it isn’t good enough for Lesso and she says something that are hurtful to r and r tears up and leaves her office but instead of going back to her dorm she goes on a walk and and then goes back. All R does is study and think about what Lesso says. Maybe R doesn’t go her lesson with Lesso and avoids her for a week or longer? Lesso sees that and goes the talk to r making and she sees the r is exhausted and she can barely stand. She’s on a bad conditions and she’s in class. R fsits during her class and Lesso runs r class bc she concerned and cares for the r. She apologized to r when she wakes. It’s okay if you don’t want to write this.
Again I love your writing!
Mother knows best PLATONIC (Lady Lesso & Student! Reader)
Part I, Part II, Part III
Author's Note: Hello! So sorry for the long wait. I had so many things going on with traveling, working, college. But here I am with your request. So glad someone requested more. There should another right after this one for Lady Lesso. Again. Thank you for waiting.
Summary: After a harsh critique from Lady Lesso leaves you questioning your worth, you push yourself too far in an attempt to meet her expectations.
So when she returned your paper with a neat, decisive mark at the top, too neat, you knew something was wrong before she even spoke.
"This is... adequate," she said coolly, eyes scanning the parchment once more. "You followed the structure correctly."
Your chest tightened. Adequate.
You stood straighter, hands clasped behind your back. "I-I stayed up revising it, Lady Lesso. I cross-checked the projections twice, and I-"
She lifted a hand, silencing you without even looking up.
"But," she continued, voice sharp as glass, "it lacks refinement. Precision. I expected better."
The words landed harder than they should have.
You swallowed. "Better...?"
She finally met your eyes then, her gaze piercing. "You are capable of more than this. If this is the level of effort you intend to present, then you are wasting both my time and your potential."
That did it.
You felt it first in your throat-that tight, burning pressure-then behind your eyes. You nodded stiffly, forcing yourself to speak.
"I understand," you said, voice trembling despite your best efforts.
Lady Lesso frowned, just slightly, as if something about your tone didn't sit right with her-but the damage was already done. You turned on your health and left her office.
You didn't go back to your dorm.
Instead, you walked.
Through the courtyard. Past the towers. Beyond the paths you usually took. You walked until your feet ached and your thoughts blurred together, until her words looped endlessly in your head.
I expected better.
Wasting potential.
Not good enough.
By the time the sun dipped low, your eyes burned and your body felt hollow. You returned to your room only to collapse onto your bed-papers spread around you like evidence of a crime.
From that day on, you worked harder.
Too hard.
You skipped meals. Stayed up late. Redid assignments that hadn't even been returned yet. You avoided Lady Lesso entirely-missed her private lessons, took the long way around the halls, kept your head down in class.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Lady Lesso noticed.
Of course she did.
By the eighth day, you could barely sit upright in her lecture.
The room swam. Your notes blurred. Your head dipped forward again and again, exhaustion pulling you under no matter how hard you fought it.
Lady Lesso paused mid-sentence.
Her eyes narrowed-not in irritation, but concern.
"Enough," she said abruptly.
The class froze.
"You," she said, pointing directly at you. "Come here."
You barely made it two steps before your knees buckled.
Gasps echoed through the room as Lady Lesso moved faster than anyone had ever seen her move-catching you before you hit the floor.
"Class dismissed," she snapped, her voice brooking no argument. "Now." The room emptied in seconds.
Lady Lesso supported your weight effortlessly, her grip firm but careful. You were dimly aware of her speaking-sharp instructions to a passing professor-before everything went dark.
You woke in her office.
On the couch.
A blanket had been draped over you.
You blinked, disoriented, before realizing Lady Lesso was seated nearby, arms crossed, watching you intently.
"Awake," she said. Not a question.
You sat up too quickly and winced. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
"Stop." she said sharply.
You froze.
Her expression softened-just barely. "How long have you been sleeping properly?" she asked. You hesitated.
Her eyebrow rose. "...I don't know," you admitted.
She exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. "You have been avoiding me."
"I didn't want to disappoint you again," you said quietly.
That.... stopped her.
Lady Lesso was silent for a long moment. Then she stood.
"You misunderstood me," she said at last, voice lower than usual. "What I said to you that today was not meant to break you."
Your hands clenched in the blanket. "It did."
Her jaw tightened.
"I was wrong," she said, the words stiff-as if unused. "I spoke without considering the weight my expectations carry. That... is my failure."
Your eye widened.
"I do not apologize lightly," she continued. "But I am sorry. Truly."
She turned back to you, gaze steady. "You are not weak for struggling. You are exhausted because you care."
Your throat burned again, but this time the feeling was different.
"I see how hard you are trying," she said. "And I should have said that sooner."
You nodded, tears slipping free despite yourself.
Lady Lesso hesitated-then placed a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Grounding.
"You are under my care," she said quietly. "And I will not allow you to destroy yourself in pursuit of perfection."
You took a shaky breath.
"....Thank you, Lady Lesso."
She inclined her head.
"Rest," she said. "Your work can wait. You cannot."
As you settled back against the couch, exhaustion finally pulling you under again, you felt something unfamiliar settled in your chest.
Do u write for different aus? Like a soulmates au, or omegaverse etc?
Helloo! YES, I can absolutely try to write an au to your standards. May be a little researching on my part but yes I do write for AU. I havent been really active on here so there may be a delay on any requests
This just had me thinking on like a theory or whatever but hear me out what if Portias husband actually made her wear those ghastly looking clothes because she was to beautiful before. Like I mean after her husband dies her dresses change. Supporting her color palette. Archibald had to make a deal with her to have her wear those bright colored dresses and such because too many men and possibly servants were already eyeing her. And the only reason she agreed was because she gets to have a say in how its made like her sweetheart neck line and how it cinches at her waist giving her a flawless hourglass bod....its just a thought 🙃🙃
I'm over here trying to work on a few asks on here and trying to work on a fanfic on Ao3 when I hear this scratching and etc. I started freaking out, thinking there was a mouse in my room. Mind you, I have cats as well. (But they're too lazy to catch any mice). But I was freaking out for about 2 hours now since it is 5 in the morning. Turns out it was my dear baby Willow (a rabbit I had got from a local market). Willow decided it was time to stretch their legs and jump out of their pen, leaving Fern (another rabbit) behind.
Hi hi! Can I request something with anthony bridgerton x top male reader? Things getting heated between him and reader and him being a little tiny bit scared/hesitant bc of reader's size (I mean in both height and u know what...)
Eat Your Young ( Anthony Bridgerton x Top! Male! Reader)
Author's note: Very McSteamy, honestly I'm so sorry for the delay. And everything I'm really trying to get my requests down and most certainly a good idea
Summary:Anthony Bridgerton finds himself drawn to a taller, more dominant male reader. What starts as tension turns into something deeper as they share an intimate night together—full of hesitation, trust, and slow-burning passion.
Warning(s):Explicit sexual content, size kink, light size difference anxiety, emotional vulnerability, consensual intimacy, male x male.
The MAIN Masterlist
The Bridgerton Masterlist
It started with a glance.
Not just any glance-one that lingered just a second too long, one that was laced with the unspoken. One that should have been forgotten, ignored, brushed off like the hundred others that passed between lords and ladies at any given ball. But this? This was different.
Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and head of his family, prided himself on control. Poise. Measured reactions. He was not one to be caught staring.
And yet, there he was-shoulders tight beneath his fine waistcoat, jaw subtly flexing, dark eyes trailing the towering figure across the room. You. Taller than most, confident in the way you carried yourself, and with a voice smooth enough to slip under skin and settle deep in the marrow.
You had noticed him, of course. Everyone did. But unlike everyone else, you didn't fawn. You didn't flirt. You didn't try to corner him with flattery or conversation. You simply looked at him.
Like you knew him. Like you knew what he needed.
And that unsettled him.
The tension build over weeks. Subtle touched, fleeting glances, the occasional brush of fingers at the card table, or a barely-there press of your palm at the small of his back during a passing moment. It was enough to drive anyone mad. Enough to drive him mad.
And one evening, after too many drinks and too little resistance, he found himself alone with you.
The drawing room door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in with the weight of everything unspoken. The air was heavy-thick with expectation. He stood near the fireplace, hands clasped tightly behind his back, trying desperately not to show the way his breath had quickened.
You approached slowly, your height casting a shadow across him as you stepped into his space. He looked up at you-eyes sharp but flickering, uncertain. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than you expected.
"You know this is... foolish," he said, though he didn't move away.
You didn't respond right away. You didn't need it. Your gaze alone was enough to make him shift-his fingers flexing at his sides, his breath hitching slightly as you stepped even closer.
"Is it?" you finally asked, voice low and calm, dipping into something darker.
Anthony's lips parted, but whatever retort he had planned died on his tongue as your hand lifted-slow, deliberate-and brushed along his jawline. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, then opened, wide and uncertain.
He could feel the difference in you. The strength behind your touch. The ease in which you loomed over him. There as no malice in it-only power. Confidence. It was intoxicating.
And terrifying.
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, eyes darting between your mouth and your gaze. He hated how small he felt. How his body betrayed him with every breath, every beat of his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.
You noticed his hesitation.
You leaned in close, your voice a whisper against the shell of his ear.
"I'd never hurt you," you said. "Unless you wanted me to."
That made him shudder.
His breath came shakier now, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're so-...big."
The confession hung between you, thick and vulnerable. He hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not so honest.
You smiled.
"I know," you murmured.
And with that, your hands came to rest on his waist-not forceful, not demanding. Just present. Your touch grounded him. Held him in place when everything inside of him felt like it was spiraling out of control.
He looked up at you again. This time, there was heat behind the fear. A spark. Curiosity. Longing.
And then?
He nodded.
Just once.
The kind of permission that says: I'm scared. But I want this.
And you... you planned to give him everything.
You didn’t rush him.
You never did.
Your hands stayed steady on his waist, not tightening, not pushing. Just there. Grounding. Inviting. Like a silent promise: You lead. I follow.
But Anthony’s breath was ragged, and his eyes were still locked on yours—uncertain, hungry, terrified of that hunger. His hands trembled slightly at his sides until he finally moved one to rest on your chest. His palm was splayed over your heart, and he could feel the steady beat beneath—calm, patient, in sharp contrast to his own.
“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, half a breath, like a confession. “I think you know it.”
“I do,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “But I’d never be dangerous to you, Anthony.”
The sound of his name, spoken so reverently—so intimately—sent something fluttering low in his stomach.
Then your hand slipped into his, fingers weaving together, warm and sure.
“Come with me,” you said, your tone gentle. “We don’t have to do anything. But I want you to feel safe with me. That’s all.”
He hesitated for only a heartbeat.
And then… he followed.
—
The bedroom was quiet. The kind of quiet that thickens the air and makes every breath feel like a weight.
Candles glowed softly, casting amber light over the plush furnishings. The bed was large, and the moment Anthony saw it, he tensed.
You noticed.
“I’m not expecting anything,” you said, voice calm. “We can sit. Talk. Or not.”
But he didn’t let go of your hand.
Instead, he walked to the edge of the bed with you, lowering himself slowly until he sat—his posture still guarded, but his eyes finding yours again. “I’ve never felt… like this before. Like I might come undone just from someone looking at me.”
You stepped in between his knees, gently brushing his hair back with your fingers. He leaned into it instinctively. “That’s not weakness,” you murmured. “That’s trust trying to be born.”
He looked up at you, cheeks flushed. “And if I’m… not ready for all of it?”
“Then I’ll kiss you,” you said softly. “And that’s all I’ll do. Until you ask for more.”
Anthony’s breath caught.
Your words were so simple. So easy. But they cracked something open in him.
“Please,” he whispered.
You leaned down slowly, your lips brushing his. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t ravenous. It was gentle. Soft enough to tremble against. And when he kissed you back, his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he was holding on for dear life.
You took your time. Let the kiss deepen gradually—letting him explore, letting him set the pace. Your hands rested on either side of his thighs, never straying, never rushing. And every time he gasped or tensed, you pulled back just slightly, grounding him with your touch and your voice.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered against his mouth.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged.
“I want you,” he admitted, almost brokenly. “But I’m scared of how much I do.”
You lifted his chin and kissed him again—this time firmer, more possessive, just enough to make him whimper into your mouth. “Then we go slow. Until you’re not scared anymore. And even then, I’ll ask. Every time.”
He shivered.
And that night, in the warmth of your bed, with the world outside forgotten, Anthony Bridgerton didn’t need to be Viscount. Didn’t need to lead. He only needed to feel.
And you made sure he did—every tender stroke, every whispered reassurance, every press of your lips to his skin. You showed him that surrender wasn’t weakness.
It was freedom.
Anthony’s breath was hot against your throat, his hands now clinging to your shirt like a lifeline. The kiss had deepened, grown heavier with want, but there was still that hesitation—an edge of nervousness that lingered in the way he trembled beneath your touch.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“Still okay?” you asked, voice husky but gentle.
Anthony nodded, then whispered, “Yes… I just—God, you make me feel so small.”
You smirked faintly and brushed your thumb across his cheek. “That’s not a bad thing. Not when you trust the one holding you.”
He swallowed thickly, eyes dipping downward, unable to meet your gaze for a moment. “It’s not just the height,” he admitted quietly. “It’s all of you. You’re—” he stopped himself, cheeks flushed.
But you understood. Every inch of him was betraying the truth.
“I’ll take my time,” you promised, voice low and commanding, “but I want you to feel it. Every second.”
Then you kissed him again, deeper this time—your tongue sliding into his mouth, claiming, tasting. His lips parted so willingly for you, and the noise he made—half-whimper, half-moan—sent a rush of heat straight through you.
You gently pushed him down onto the bed, watching as his arms gave in and his back met the plush sheets. He looked up at you, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast beneath his linen shirt.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, fingers undoing the first few buttons.
Anthony flushed deeper. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” you cut him off firmly. “And I’m going to show you.”
You took your time undressing him, layer by layer. The way his body shifted under your touch—the soft gasp when your hands brushed along his ribs, the slight arch of his back when your mouth found the skin over his collarbone—made your own restraint waver.
When he was bare beneath you, skin flushed and breathless, you could see the tension in his limbs. The way his thighs tensed, the nervous clench in his hands as he fidgeted with the bedding.
You leaned down, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “Tell me what you want.”
He hesitated, but then, voice tight, he breathed out, “I want to feel you. All of you.”
You kissed the side of his neck, then murmured against his skin, “Then relax for me, sweetheart.”
You let your hand trail lower, slow and measured, down his chest, past his navel, until it ghosted over the hard heat between his thighs. He whimpered—God, that sound—and spread his legs a little wider without even realizing it.
You wrapped your hand around him, firm but teasing, stroking slow. His head tipped back into the pillows, lips parted in a silent cry, chest rising with sharp, shaky breaths.
“That’s it,” you whispered. “Let me hear you.”
He did. Every touch, every stroke had him gasping. When you finally pushed his legs back, opening him up gently, you could see the mix of need and fear in his eyes.
“You’re big,” he whispered again, voice barely there.
You kissed his knee, soothing. “And I’ll go slow.”
You reached for the oil, slicked your fingers, and began with feather-light touches. Teasing first, then pressing just enough to make him moan. You watched his face the entire time—every twitch of his brows, every flutter of his lashes, every breathless gasp.
“You’re doing so well for me,” you said, curling your fingers just enough to have him sobbing your name.
He was already shaking when you pulled back, lined yourself up, and paused.
“I need you to tell me you’re ready,” you murmured, voice tight with restraint.
“I’m ready,” he whispered, gripping your wrists. “Please.”
You pressed in slowly—inch by inch, letting him feel the stretch, the weight, the way your body claimed him. His back arched, legs trembling, mouth falling open in a strangled moan.
“F-Fuck—” he gasped, eyes shut tight.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered again. “Breathe. You’re taking me so well.”
Once you were fully sheathed inside him, you stilled, letting him adjust. He was gripping the sheets now, knuckles white, breath stuttering. You leaned down and kissed his temple, then his mouth, deep and slow, until his breathing evened out again.
And when you moved—slow at first, shallow thrusts—his voice broke around your name.
The rhythm built gradually. He clung to you, wrapped his legs around your waist, moaning into your mouth, gasping with every slow, deep thrust. You could feel the way he trembled beneath you, overwhelmed, split open, undone.
“You feel so good,” you groaned against his neck. “Tight. Perfect. Mine.”
He cried out at that—mine—and it pushed him closer to the edge.
The pace increased, just a little, just enough to make him sob. His body writhed under yours, pleasure and pressure building with every thrust, every whispered word, every kiss you gave him between moans.
When he came, it was with a shattered cry of your name—eyes glassy, mouth open, body clenching so hard around you that it nearly undid you.
You chased your own release with a few more thrusts, burying your face into his neck as you groaned low and deep, letting go with a raw intensity you hadn’t expected.
Afterward, the silence was thick with breath and heat. You didn’t pull away. You stayed wrapped around him, still inside, holding him as his body trembled through the aftershocks.
“Still with me?” you asked, voice hoarse.
He nodded slowly, dazed and flushed, eyes barely open. “Yes. Still… here.”
You kissed his forehead. “That was everything.”
Anthony hummed, nuzzling into your shoulder, weak and boneless and blissfully ruined. “You weren’t lying.”
“About what?”
“You took your time. And made me feel everything.”
Okay so I have been in this virtual conference for quite a while, well since 10 A.M. this morning and I just learned and seen that Bookish is coming out and also we finally have a OFFICIAL trailer for the series. I can't wait for it.
Also I just learned that people need at least four hugs a day. (Thank you to Megan for the information). But I should be getting to at least one Bridgerton work and One for The school for good and evil.
I NEED PART II of Baby Hotline 😔😔 pls I'm beggin you
Baby Hotline Part I (Anthony Bridgerton x Fem! Reader)
Part I, Part II
Author's note: So I'm somewhat back. I'm still trying to work through my inbox and my drafts. I can everything laid out but as I'm working as well it'll take some time to work through it.
Summary: After slowly rebuilding trust, you and Anthony share your first true kiss-tender, earned, and filled with newfound love.
Warning(s):Emotional tension, romantic intimacy, not that kind of intimacy you weirdos
The Main Masterlist
The Bridgerton Masterlist
It started with a bouquet.
You found it waiting on your vanity one morning-not roses or peonies like the ton preferred, but wildflowers. Soft, pale things with curled edges and hints of lavender. You stared at them for a long time, your brush frozen in your hand. They were slightly wilted at the edges, clearly picked by hand.
The note tucking inside was unsigned, but the handwriting was unmistakable.
"You mentioned once they reminded you of home."
Anthony. Of course it was Anthony.
And then came the gifts-small at first. A silk ribbon in your favorite color, placed beside your gloves. A book you once mentioned in passing while helping Hyacinth with her reading. A brooch that looked suspiciously like one his mother used to wear, only yours was shaped like a crescent moon.
Anthony Bridgerton was not a man known for sentiment. Not for spending coin on frivolities. And yet... every gift seemed to have been chosen with more thought than anyone ever gave him credit for.
It confused you. Unsettled you, even.
Because it wasn't how things had been.
You'd gone to Aubrey Hall days ago-reluctantly. Portia Feathering had spoken to you softly, plainly, about what it meant to survive. "You don't need to burn to be seen," she had said, her voice brittle with experience. "But sometimes, the right person will notice the smoke."
Maybe Anthony saw it.
Or maybe Anthony saw it.
Or maybe he was just trying.
You didn't dare ask.
You found him in the library one afternoon, sleeves rolled up, waistcoat abandoned, the corner of his shirt ink-stained. He didn't notice you at first, too absorbed in whatever letter he was writing.
"Anthony?" you said quietly.
He looked up-and for the first time in a long while, his eyes softened.
"You're here."
"I live here," you replied, but your voice held no venom. Just tired honestly.
"I know," he said, standing slowly. "But you've been... distant. And I deserve it."
You said nothing. He closed the distance, reaching into his pocket. Another gift? You nearly flinched.
But instead, he offered you a piece of parchment. Folded. Delicate.
"I had this drawn," he said. "For you."
You unfolded it-and your breath caught.
It was a sketch. Of you. Seated by the window in the drawing room. A moment you hadn't even realized had been seen.
"I don't know how to say what I mean," he confessed. "But I'm trying. I don't want you to feel like a stranger in our home. Or in my life."
The silence stretched between you.
"Why now?" you whispered. "After everything. Why try now?"
Anthony looked at you, truly looked.
"Because I didn't know what it meant to lose someone before I realized I never made you feel like you were ever truly mine. And I think I want you to be."
The words hung between you like dust in sunlight. Soft. Trembling.
You looked up at him-at his worry, his regret, the way his shoulders were tense like he expected you to leave at any second.
And instead... you sat.
Your fingers clutched the sketch as you eased into the armchair near the hearth, not close but not far. Anthony didn't breathe until you.
"I'm not ready to forget everything that happened," you said slowly, honestly. "But I don't think I want to keep building walls either."
He nodded. He didn't move closer. He simply lowered himself into the chair opposite of you, the way one might approach a deer in a clearing-quietly, reverently.
“I don’t want to pretend we’re fine,” you continued, your voice low, “or that some flowers and ribbon will erase the months where I felt invisible. But…”
Your eyes met his, something shifting in your chest.
“…I want to try. Not because I’m obligated to. Not because I’m your wife. But because despite everything… I want you.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened, and his throat bobbed as if he had swallowed something thick. Emotion, maybe.
He leaned forward then, resting his arms on his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. “Then I’ll earn it. Every day.”
You gave the barest hint of a nod, the corner of your lips twitching upward. The sketch rested gently in your lap, your thumb brushing across the inked line of your own smile.
Then—
Thunk.
Snicker.
You both turned toward the door just in time to hear the unmistakable shuffle of feet—and the hurried whispers of two young voices in rapid retreat.
Anthony sighed.
“Hyacinth,” he said under his breath.
“And Gregory,” you added knowingly.
Violet’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Hyacinth Bridgerton, I swear if you don’t stop dragging your brother into your schemes, you will be the one cleaning Lady Danbury’s silver for a month!”
A thud. A yelp.
“I just wanted to make sure they weren’t arguing again!” Hyacinth’s voice carried, unrepentant. “You said to watch for signs of tension!”
“Not by hiding in the umbrella stand, darling!”
Anthony groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Violet appeared in the doorway a moment later, composed as ever, though her cheeks were faintly pink with the effort of scolding. Her eyes shifted between you and her son, pausing briefly on the drawing in your lap. A smile tugged at her lips.
“I’ll take the children to the garden,” she said smoothly. “They could use some fresh air. And I believe… the two of you still have quite a bit to say.”
She didn't wait for a reply—only gave a meaningful glance toward Anthony, then toward you, and quietly disappeared down the corridor with the sound of retreating footsteps and sibling bickering trailing behind her.
The house settled once more.
Quiet.
Warm.
Your gaze returned to Anthony, who hadn’t said anything since.
And then… he reached across the small table, palm open, patient. A question, not a demand.
You looked at it for a heartbeat.
And then you placed your hand in his.
It was not perfect. The pain wasn’t gone. But for the first time in what felt like forever, you were no longer reaching across silence.
You were reaching toward each other.
And that was something.
It began the very next day.
You had barely gotten halfway through your morning tea when Anthony appeared in the drawing room with two cups and a basket of still-warm pastries from the best bakery in town. You blinked at the unfamiliar sight — your husband, casually dressed in a dark waistcoat and no cravat, carrying a picnic basket like he hadn’t once declared such things frivolous.
You narrowed your eyes. “What’s this?”
Anthony only smiled — a boyish, almost charming grin that made it far too difficult to be suspicious. “Breakfast. Outside. It’s a nice day. And if I’m to court you again, I believe I should start with something sweet.”
You arched a brow. “You hate sweets.”
“I hate not seeing you smile more,” he replied, then offered his hand.
So, you took it.
That morning was followed by a week of soft gestures and quiet pursuits. Each one deliberate. Each one sincere.
Anthony walked with you in the gardens after supper, listening attentively even when you only spoke of the color of the clouds or how the roses needed pruning. He picked a daisy and tucked it behind your ear once. You’d flushed at the intimacy of it, but said nothing — and he hadn’t pushed.
Then came the letters.
Short, hand-written notes in his sharp, neat script, tucked between pages of books you read, or left on your pillow when he rose before you. Some were funny — ridiculous limericks involving the dog you’d told him you once had as a child. Others were serious, detailing moments where he noticed you, cherished you, even when he never said it aloud.
One read:
“You looked like the sun itself when you scolded Gregory for muddying the parlor carpet yesterday. Terrifying. Radiant. I love you more when you’re furious.”
You had snorted at that, but it made your heart ache in the best way.
Of course, courting you again meant courting the entire Bridgerton household by default — and they were not subtle.
Hyacinth and Eloise, having clearly assigned themselves as your personal chaperones, followed you everywhere with narrowed eyes and running commentary.
“If he writes another letter, I’m going to ask for one too,” Hyacinth muttered, arms crossed, peering through the railing of the stairs. “All I get from Colin are riddles.”
“You don’t even read his riddles,” Eloise replied. “You trade them for chocolates from Gregory.”
Gregory, meanwhile, was caught twice sneaking behind hedges to spy on your afternoon walks with Anthony. The second time, Anthony tossed a small apple at him without even turning around.
“Back to your Latin lessons,” Anthony said coolly. “And if you repeat anything I say to your mother, I will tell her about the frog you released into the bath.”
Gregory vanished.
The real interruption came one evening during a quiet piano session in the music room.
You were seated at the keys, playing something soft — not for performance, not for anyone else, but for yourself. Anthony sat behind you, not close, not hovering. Just listening.
When you finished, he said nothing for a moment, then murmured, “Play that again?”
But just as your fingers rose to strike the keys—
“Are you courting her or studying her?” Benedict’s voice broke in from the doorway.
You both startled.
Anthony turned, scowling. “Do you have to do that?”
Benedict shrugged, holding a wine glass. “You’ve been staring at her like she’s made of starlight all week. It’s unnerving.”
“She is in the room, you know,” you interjected dryly.
“Of course.” Benedict gave you a playful bow. “But you must forgive me, Lady Bridgerton. It is not often I see my brother turn into a poet.”
You flushed.
Anthony stood and all but dragged his brother out by the collar of his coat.
But despite the chaos, you couldn’t deny the way your heart had started to soften — to melt under the persistent gentleness Anthony had wrapped around you like armor you didn’t realize you’d been missing.
One night, under the golden hush of candlelight in the drawing room, Anthony approached you with something in his hand. A simple gold ring, laced with a tiny emerald.
“I know we already have vows,” he said, nervousness in every line of his jaw. “And I know we’re… starting again. But if I could, I would propose to you every day until you believed I meant it.”
You didn’t speak — only looked up at him, your throat tight, your heart open.
And this time, you reached for him.
It happened in the library.
Not the grand Bridgerton one in London, but the smaller, quieter one at Aubrey Hall. The rain had rolled in again that afternoon, soft and steady, trailing down the windows like a lullaby. Most of the household had retreated to their rooms or the sitting parlor for embroidery, leaving the rest of the manor hushed and still.
You had escaped there to read, to breathe, to feel the stillness. Anthony found you without needing to ask. He didn’t knock, didn’t announce himself — just stepped in quietly, as though he belonged there.
You were curled into the armchair by the fireplace, a book half-forgotten in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the embroidered edge of your shawl. You didn’t look up when he entered — but you knew it was him. You always knew when it was him.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, voice low, reverent.
You glanced up, and for once, there was no guardedness in your gaze. “Only if you promise not to stare at me like I’m about to vanish.”
That earned you the faintest laugh from him — soft, self-deprecating.
“I can’t help it,” he admitted. “You always look like you’re somewhere else. I’m afraid if I blink, I’ll lose you again.”
You closed your book slowly and rose from your chair. “You didn’t lose me,” you said. “You just didn’t know how to reach me.”
And with that, you crossed the space between you.
He didn’t touch you at first. He only looked — at your lips, at the way your hair framed your face, at the rise and fall of your chest as you stopped barely a breath away. You could see the storm in his eyes, not of anger — but of yearning held back for too long.
Then his hand rose — slow, deliberate — and cradled your cheek.
“May I?” he asked.
Your heart skipped.
You nodded.
And he kissed you.
Not hungrily, not with urgency — but with awe. His lips were warm and careful, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like this kiss wasn’t his to take, but his to earn. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t press. He simply kissed you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for the right moment.
And this time… it was.
You melted into it, your hands rising to clutch at the lapels of his coat. You sighed against him, and he deepened it just slightly, his thumb stroking along your jaw, anchoring you in the moment.
When you finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.
“I should’ve kissed you like that on our wedding night,” he whispered. “Not because it was expected. But because I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to.”
You closed your eyes, fingers tightening in his coat. “Then kiss me like that again. Now.”
And he did.
There, in the quiet library with the fire flickering and rain tapping on the glass, Anthony Bridgerton kissed his wife — truly kissed her — for the first time not as a husband bound by duty, but as a man in love.
And everything after that began to fall into place.
At Last Part VI (Portia Featherington x Female Reader)
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI
Authors' note: Hello!! I am here still. Just slowly updating here and there. Happy Father's Day!! I know I'm a little late but it's worth it right? But anyways I hope ya'll like this one??!!
Summary: While recovering from a fever during a countryside storm, Portia opens up in her most vulnerable state, and Lady Danbury reveals the painful truth of her past.
Warning(s): Mentions of sexual assault, illness, emotional tramua, and more to be added...
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Bridgerton Masterlist
That evening, the house grew quieter after Colin and Penelope retired to pack for their trip. The faint sounds of their voices, muffle behind closed doors, were soon replaced by the soft crackle of the fire in the sitting room. You and Portia reminded downstairs, lingering in the space where laughter had just been.
Rain had begun to fall, gentle at first, then heavier-steady against the tall windows. The air held that fresh petrichor scent, and it seemed to wrap the house in a sort of protective calm.
"I don't think I've seen you this relaxed in weeks," you said, breaking the silence.
Portia, curled up on the chaise with a velvet throw draped over her lap, gave you a sideways glance. "Don't get used to it," she teased. "The moment I exhale, someone needs me for something."
You smiled, walking over with two cups of tea, handing one or her. "Well tonight, you're off duty."
Her fingers brushed yours as she took the cup. "Then I suppose I'll allow myself to enjoy it."
A moment passed before she looked toward the window, watching the raindrops streak down the glass. "You know... I've been thinking. About the country house. We haven't been there in ages."
You raised a brow. "Cotswold?"
Portia nodded. "It might be nice. Just us. A few days away from London, the gossip, the guests... everything. No obligations. Just peace."
You considered it. "That does sound tempting."
And so, a plan began to form-simple, quiet, and just for the two of you.
When those three days arrived.
The Cotswold countryside stretched wide in every direction, lush and green, dotted with wildflowers and the occasional grazing sheep. Your carriage had rattled down the gravel path until the old stone house came into view, nestled among rosebushes and climbing ivy. The estate was modest by Bridgerton standards, but it was warm, elegant, and rich with memory.
Portia stepped out first, the wind catching her curls and the hem of her coat. She paused for a breath, eyes closed, letting the fresh air touch her face like an old friend. "I forgot how quiet it is here," she said softly.
You came to stand beside her. "Too quiet?"
"No," she said, looping her arm through yours. "Exactly right."
Inside, the house still held the scent of lavender sachets and old wood polish. The fire was quickly lit, the pantry restocked by the housekeeper earlier that morning, and soon enough, you and Portia found yourselves wandering the halls like you were rediscovering a memory.
She led you to the study, where books lined the shelves, untouched in years. "My husband never used this room," she said. "It was always meant to be mine, but I never truly claimed it."
You stepped in after her, running your fingers over the desk's surface. "Then perhaps it's time you did."
Portia's gaze lingered on you. "Perhaps its time I claimed more than just a room."
There was weight in her words-but not the heavy kind. No, this was declaration of choice. Of freedom.
You spent the evening in that room-reading, drinking wine, watching the fire's glow flicker across her face. No obligations. No titles. Just two women sharing space, sharing silence, sharing something deeper.
And as the wind picked up outside the rain swept across the Cotswold hills, you realized that you didn't need grand adventures or glittering ballrooms.
You just needed this.
Her. Here.
The next day, the storm came in fast, faster than either of your expected. The sky, once a soft lavender at dusk, had darkened into a slate gray, and the wind howled like a wounded thing across the fields. Rain pelted the old estate windows, heavy and insistent, making the glass tremble in their frames.
By nightfall, you and Portia had gathered in the main sitting room, the fire crackling as thunder echoed in the distance. The lights flickered once. Twice.
Then slowly the only standing light. Was the fire, casting the room in gold and shadow.
"Well," Portia said with forced levity, her arms folded tightly around herself, "this certainly wasn't part of the countryside charm I remembered."
You draped a heavier shawl around her shoulder, letting your hands rest there a moment longer than necessary. "Perhaps you forgot the part where the country house liked to test its guests."
She huffed a small laugh, though her voice had grown hoarse over the course of the day. A little cough had bloomed that afternoon-nothing serious, she claimed-but her cheeks had taken on a faint flush, and she'd been rubbing her arms more frequently as the cold settled into the old walls.
"You're cold," you observed, concern etching your tone.
"I'm fine," she insisted with that particular kind of pride only a Featherington matriarch could possess. "Just tired. That storm woke me at dawn."
"And the sneezing, the sniffled, the red nose?"
"Coincidence," she said primly, and then immediately stifled a sneeze behind her wrist.
You raised an eyebrow. "Right."
But before you could press her further, a pounding knock startled you both.
Portia sat upright. "At this hour?"
You moved quickly to the door, unfastening the latch with caution. The wind howled the moment it opened, nearly snatching it from your grip-and there, cloaked in rain and wind and thoroughly drenched, stood none other than Lady Danbury.
Her feathered hat was limp with rain, and she looked thoroughly unamused.
"Well?" she snapped, "Are you going to let an old woman die in the cold or invite me in?"
"Of course, my lady," you stammered, stepping aside. "Do come in."
She swept past you, her cane tapping against the stone floor, watcher trailing in her wake. Portia blinked in disbelief from the fireside. "Lady Danbury? What on earth are you doing here?"
"Trying not to drown, for starters."She handed off her soaked clock and hat to you. "My carriage was forced off the road a mile back. A wheel snapped. The storm wouldn't let up, so I told the driver to stay with it and walked to the nearest light I saw. Which happened to be yours."
You exchanged a glance with Portia, and despite the chaos of her arrival, you could both see the absurdity-and humor-of it.
"I must say," Lady Danbury continued, her sharp eyes flicking between you both, "this is an interesting little retreat you've found yourselves in. A secluded countryside home... no staff present... only one bedroom made up, I assume?"
Portia opened her mouth, closed it, then coughed instead-though this time, it seemed strategic.
"Don't worry, my dear," Lady Danbury said, settling into a chair with surprising grace. "Your secret's safe with me. I haven't had this much scandal to keep to myself in years. Feels positively revitalizing."
You offered her a cup of hot tea while Portia attempted to regain her composure, now red in the cheeks not from the cold but from being caught in such a compromising-if unspoken-truth.
Once Lady Danbury was settled, you returned to the couch beside Portia and tucked the blanket tighter around her. She leaned in without protest this time, her pride worn down by exhaustion and the warm weight of your presence.
She whispered so only you could hear, "I didn't want anyone to know. Not about the cold. And certainly not about us. "
You looked at her, softening. "But you let me know."
Portia nodded, her temple pressing to your shoulder. "Because it's you."
Lady Danbury gave a small, knowing hum from her seat by the fire, and then cracked open a book from your shelves as though she weren't watching you both with the curiosity of someone preparing gossip for the next season.
And so the storm raged outside, wind battering the windows and rain flooding the garden paths. But inside, there was fire, warmth, a bit of scandal, and two women-one finally learning to accept care, and the other always willing to give it.
The secret may have been spoken aloud now, at least to one. But the truth of it-the affection, the tenderness, the quiet love that had grown from something once hidden-had never felt more secure.
The rain had lightened by morning, no longer thundering down in sheets but tapping lightly at the windows like a child asking to be let in. A thick mist still clung to the hedgerows outside, and the garden was sodden, puddles shining like silver in the overcast light.
You rose early, wrapping yourself in a wool shawl before heading downstairs. The house was quiet, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Lady Danbury had taken the guest chamber and, remarkably, had not complained once about the modest accommodations. You found a note tucked neatly beside the kettle:
"If I'm not awake by eight, presume I'm dead or simply bored. Either way, tea." -L.D.
You smiled, brewing a pot just in case, and set out to do what needed doing. After checking on the stable, you harnessed your own carriage and made the muddy journey to fetch the footman and retrieve Lady Danbury's stranded coach.
It would give them time, you thought. Portia and Lady Danbury. Time to speak honestly without you acting as a buffer, or perhaps a shield.
Back at the cottage...
Portia sat in the drawing room with a blanket draped over her lap, her curls pinned up but unruly from sleep. Her teacup rested, barely touched, on the arm of the chair.
Lady Danbury sat across from her, perfectly composed despite the stormy night she had endured. One hand rested on her cane, the other on the armrest, her gaze unflinching.
"You're quieter than usual this morning," she said without looking up from the book in her lap.
Portia sighed softly. "I think I've run out of things to pretend."
Lady Danbury closed the book, setting it down gently. "Good. Pretending exhausts even the sharpest minds. Trust me."
There was a beat of silence before Portia shifted in her seat. "You know why I never said anything," she murmured. "Why I kept this-her-a secret."
"I do." Lady Danbury's voice was gentle. "Because you are a woman born into a world that demands you only ever be two things-gracious and silent. And you, my dear, are far too clever to be either."
Portia gave a tired laugh. "I didn't want scandal. Not after everything. Not after... raising daughters who still bear my name. not when I finally carved out a place for myself."
"And yet here you are, tucked away in the country with someone who makes you smile like you did when you were seventeen."
Portia looked over, startled. "I... do?"
"Like the wind could lift you if you let it," Lady Danbury replied, smiling faintly.
Portia's breath caught. She looked down at her tea. "She's kind. And patient. And she makes me feel like I matter... not for what I host, or who I mothered, but simply because I'm me."
"Then hold on to her," Lady Danbury said firmly. "You're a grown woman, Portia. You've survived heartbreak, expectation, marriage, motherhood-and now you've found joy again. Take it. No one needs to know. But it they ever do? Let them choke on their own propriety."
Portia chuckled. Then coughed.
It started small-just a tickle in her throat-but quickly turned into a series of rough, chesty coughs. Lady Danbury was beside her in an instant, placing a hand on her back.
"You're I'll," she declared.
"I'm not-" Portia started, only for her voice to crack again as she shivered. "It's just a bit of a chill."
"You're flushed. You're sniffling. You're trying to sit upright like you haven't already faded halfway into that chair. Don't argue with me. I've buried one husband and lived through three pandemics."
Portia blinked. "Three?"
Danbury didn't blink. "Yes. The first was men thinking I'd outlive my usefulness at fifty. The second was influenza."
That earned another smile from Portia, but her body betrayed her with another shiver. Her pride fought it-but her exhaustion had already won.
"Go to bed," Lady Danbury ordered. "If you insist on being dramatic, at least do it under a blanket."
"I'm not-"
"Now, Portia."
And for once, Portia obeyed. She rose slowly, the blanket still around her shoulder, and shuffled toward the stairs.
"Danbury?" she said over her shoulder, stopping halfway up.
"Yes?"
"...Thank you. For keeping this between us."
The older woman nodded. "I kept your mother's secrets. I can certainly keep yours."
With that, Portia retreated to her bedroom, collapsing into the warmth of her sheets. For the first time, she let herself be sick. Let herself rest.
And just before she drifted off, she thought of you-out on the rose, no doubt fretting. She hoped you'd come back soon.
Because her secret might've been safe with Lady Danbury...
But her heart was safe with you.
By the time you returned, the rain slowed to a mere whisper, like the clouds were finally sighing in surrender after a long, breathless storm. Your cloak was damp from the journey, boots heavy with mud. As you stepped inside the quiet country house, the first thing you noticed was the stillness.
No Portia.
Just the low pop and crackle of the fire, casting a golden hue over the drawing room. Lady Danbury was nestled in the same high-backed chair as before, her book now balanced on one knee, a teacup half full beside her. She didn't look up at first-but when she did, her sharp eyes softened ever so slightly.
"She's resting," she said before you could ask. "I ordered her to bed. The woman was practically sweating and shivering all at once while trying to convince me it was a chill."
You offered a faint smile, hanging your cloak and stepping into the warmth of the room. "That sounds like her."
Lady Danbury studied you for a moment, then gestured toward the chair opposite hers. "Sit. Warm up."
You obeyed, stretching your hands toward the fire, your fingers tingling as they thawed. Silence settled between you for a few minutes, thick but comfortable. Then, with the kind of care that only came from someone who had carried far too many stories alone, Lady Danbury began to speak.
"I remember the first time I saw her," she murmured, her voice not as stern as usual. "Portia Worthington. Hair like fire, eyes that missed nothing. Clever for her own good-too clever, really. People don't like that in a woman. They never did."
You glanced over, listening intently as she continued.
"She was only sixteen the season she debuted. Loud, sharp-tongued, always correcting the men quoting the classic incorrectly. Oh, how it made them bristle. They called her unruly. Said she'd never be tamed. The men never looked at her the way they looked at Violet. Violet was soft-spoken. Polished. The new brunette darling of the ton."
A pause. Lady Danbury sipped her tea, her eyes distant.
"Portia had a sister, you know. Younger, pretty, ambitious-but everything she did, she said it was for Portia's benefit. That girl... always whispered what was proper, what was expected. And then, of course, the family begun pairing them off, one by one. Her sister was promised to a man twice her age before she'd even turned seventeen."
Her voice dropped slightly. "Then it was Portia's turn."
You shifted closer to the fire, your heart already tightening, but Lady Danbury wasn't finished.
"She fell for someone," she said. "Older. Refined. The kind of man who saw her wit and adored her for it. They were inseparable. He made her laugh in that deep, unguarded way she thought no one noticed. I did. Everyone did. And she was set to marry him."
A long silence passed, the kind that weighed down the room like fog. You knew something darker was coming.
"But then... Archibald Featherington entered the picture."
You froze at the name. You'd heard it before, rarely from Portia herself. Always in half-tones. Always behind pain.
"Archibald was from a some what lesser branch," Danbury said. "He needed the money and he had the title. Her father needed their family name kept clean, their place in the ton secured. And Portia? She had something every man craved-noble blood and undeniable allure. He wanted her, but he didn't want her love. Just her dowry. Her name."
Danbury's eyes, so often amused or cunning, now held the weight of grief. "The night before her wedding, Portia disappeared for hours. I went looking for her and found her crying in the garden, her dress torn, her arms scraped. Blood on her dress. I asked what happened. She didn't say. But then I saw him-Archibald-slinking back inside like a satisfied wolf."
You covered your mouth, your chest twisting.
"She told me-only me-that she didn't want it to happened. That he took her, stole what was meant for the man she loved. She begged me not to say anything because her father had already arranged the marriage. He said no respectable man would want a ruined daughter."
Lady Danbury looked into the fire now. "I argued with him. Screamed. But Portia's mother agreed with her husband. 'Better one scandal silenced than the whole name ruined,' they said. So she was married off to him. Archibald. The same man who took what wasn't his."
Your breath hitched.
"And her love?" you asked softly.
Danbury's mouth tightened. "He came to the wedding. Told her, the very morning of her vows, that he was marrying someone else. 'A woman untarnished,' he said. As if Portia had ever been anything but gold. She smiled at him, then walked back inside like nothing had happened. But that night, I found her again in the garden. Alone. Still in her down. Weeping like the world had ended."
The fire flickered, and your heart ached.
"She never spoke of it again," Danbury whispered. "Not in words. But in her eyes. Int eh way she carried herself. She turned that pain into armor. Into sharp looks, sharper words, and the perfect image of a wife and mother."
She finally looked at you. "Until you."
You swallowed hard, throat burning.
"I saw her smile, truly smile, for the first time in years when you walked through that ballroom door last spring. She looked up at you like she had remembered what it felt like to be wanted-for herself. No pretense. No expectations. Just love."
The wind outside had quieted, but the ache inside you had not.
"She deserved to feel that again," Lady Danbury said, her voice suddenly gentle. "To feel safe. To feel seen. And she finally does. With you."
You nodded, tears threatening to rise but held back by something stronger-resolve.
"I'll never let her carry that pain alone again," you said.
Lady Danbury smiled. "Good. Then we understand one another."
You stood, slowly, the fire now warm enough to chase the chill from your bones. You cast one glance toward the stairs, where Portia was sleeping.
You wouldn't let her past define her worth.
Not anymore.
You lingered by the fire a moment longer, the silence folding in once more, though this time it felt like shared reverence-for the things spoken, and for the woman upstairs who had endured far too much in silence.
You turned slightly toward Lady Danbury, your voice softer now, like a child asking about a hidden chapter in a favorite book.
"May I ask... why did she return to the ton at all? After the wedding? I know she and Archibald left-went north, didn't they? For years. Why come back?"
Lady Danbury didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached for her teacup and took a measured sip before setting it down with an audible clink.
“She didn’t want to,” she said plainly. “Portia had every intention of disappearing. Of starting over, somewhere where no one knew her name. But Archibald… well, his pride could never resist the sound of his name echoing through a ballroom.”
You frowned. “He made the decision?”
Danbury nodded. “He thought the scandal had cooled. That enough time had passed, enough reputations had faded. He wanted her back in society so he could wear her like a badge—the clever, untouchable wife he had tamed.”
Your stomach twisted at the thought.
Danbury's eyes glimmered with faint amusement then. “It was Penelope who caused the most delightful disruption on their return.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“Mm.” Danbury smiled. “She was still so little. They came to a garden gathering outside Aubrey Hall, one of those spring affairs with lemonade and absurd amounts of white lace. And there Penelope was—bright yellow bonnet, curious eyes, sticky fingers. She darted past the hedge and startled Colin’s horse, quite literally slapped him in the face with that bonnet.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, imagining it perfectly. “He fell?”
“Flat on his back.” Danbury chuckled. “Portia was mortified. But even then, I saw it—the softness in her. She knelt down and checked Penelope first, even as Archibald barked at her to apologize to Lady Bridgerton. She barely listened to him. Her instincts were always maternal, always fierce.”
You smiled. “That sounds like her.”
Danbury grew quiet again, eyes dimming. “She came back because he told her it was time. Because she was never truly allowed to decide anything for herself. Until now.”
You nodded, taking in every word, every scar the story carried.
And then you rose.
“I’m going to check on her,” you said.
Danbury waved her cane in your direction. “Good. She’s too proud to admit she’s aching. But she needs someone who’ll know without being told.”
You climbed the stairs with careful steps, the air cooler up here, quieter too. Portia’s door was slightly ajar, just as you’d left it earlier. You pushed it open with a gentle hand.
She lay tangled in the blankets, her face turned toward the window, cheeks pink from the fever she still stubbornly insisted wasn’t there. A soft sigh left her lips, her breath uneven and laced with sleep.
You stepped in quietly, setting the small tray of warm soup, cloths, and tea down on the bedside table. The scent of herbs and broth filled the room, and Portia stirred faintly.
“Mm…?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
You sat at the edge of the bed, brushing a curl from her flushed forehead. “Just me, darling. I brought something warm.”
She blinked up at you, eyes glassy with exhaustion and fever. “You… came back.”
“Of course I did.” You soaked the cloth and gently dabbed at her forehead. “You didn’t think I’d leave you in this state with Lady Danbury as your nurse, did you?”
That earned you a sleepy, slightly crooked smile. “She’d scold me to death before I got better.”
“She nearly tried,” you said with a smirk.
You helped her sit up slowly, tucking the pillows behind her as you lifted the bowl. “Do you think you can eat a little?”
She nodded faintly, and you fed her in quiet, small spoonfuls, her head lolling slightly after each one like the warmth alone was making her sleepy all over again.
Halfway through, she shook her head. “No more… I’ll melt.”
You set the bowl aside and ran your fingers lightly through her hair. She sighed, then leaned forward and—without warning—curled into you, resting her head against your chest. Her arms slowly wrapped around your waist, and she let out the smallest whimper of contentment.
You froze for a moment—only because the sight of her like this, curled up, warm and sleepy, her stubborn armor discarded—was breathtakingly adorable.
She sniffled, voice muffled into your side. “You’re comfy. Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
One of her hands clutched your sleeve, her fingers still warm but trembling slightly. You pulled the blanket higher around her and wrapped your arms around her, pressing a kiss into her curls.
She was utterly adorable like this—half asleep, fiercely cuddly, still trying to maintain some semblance of control and completely failing.
“Don’t you dare fall in love with me when I’m sweaty and sick,” she mumbled.
You laughed softly. “Too late.”
She let out a weak, sleepy huff. “Idiot.”
But her grip tightened, and her breathing slowed again as she slipped back into sleep—tucked into your arms like she had always belonged there.
And you held her through the night, guarding not just her fevered sleep—but the pieces of her heart that she was finally starting to trust in someone else’s care.
Good Old Fashion Lover (Violet Bridgerton x Fem! Reader)
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV
Author's note: So I'm getting ready to have some exciting news and maybe even be able to start writing more once I'm able to get out of some situation I'm in right now. But nevertheless I am still here trying to write.
Summary: Violet finds unexpected love with a woman who had been hiding her noble identity as a maid, leading to heartfelt revelations and family tension.
Warning(s): Mild emotional conflict, mentions of grief, class/social tension
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The Bridgerton Masterlist
Violet's fingers brushed yours again, this time with intent, as if achoring herself to the moment. You felt her hand slip into yours, and she led you gently down the hallway, away from the library and the vulnerability it had witnessed. Neither of you said a word; the silence that understood, that accepted, that held promise.
She brought you to a quiet sitting room bathed in late morning sunlight. The dust in the air danced like gold, and the faint aroma of fresh tea still lingered. Violet closed the door behind you and turned, her expression softer now, but still carrying that flicker of uncertainty.
"You don't regret it?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, though it carried the weight of so much more.
You stepped toward her, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her. "Not for a second," you said. "Do you?"
She hesitated-not from doubt, but from the sheer enormity of what she was feeling. "No. I only regret not letting myself feel it sooner."
A shared smile passed between you, and with it came a warmth that settled deep in your chest. You guided her to sit with you on the couch, your hands never parting. She leaned her head against your shoulder, and for the first time, it felt like everything in the world had slowed just enough to let you both breathe.
There were no plans laid out yet, no declarations of what came next. But there was peace. And that peace, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment, was enough.
Until she murmured against your shoulder, almost dreamily. "They'll talk, you know."
You let out a small laugh. "Let them."
She lifted her head to look at you. "You're not afraid?"
"I'm terrified," you admitted. "But I'm more afraid of pretending this isn't real."
Violet studied your face for a long moment before pressing a kiss to your cheek-slow, deliberate, reverent. "Then let's not pretend."
And so you didn't.
The room stayed still, as if even the air didn't dare disturb what had just passed between you and Violet. The light had shifted slightly-golden hues giving way to warmer tones as the sub climbed higher. But neither of you moved, too tangled in the quiet gravity of what you'd just begun.
Violet's hand stayed on your chest, her fingers drawing idle shapes as if to memorize the rhythm of your heartbeat. "We can't stay here forever," she murmured, almost apologetically.
"I know," you replied, your voice just as soft, "but maybe just a little longer."
She smiled at that, the kind of smile you only see once someone had finally let their guard down. "Then a little longer."
Minutes slipped by in silence, not uncomfortable, but grounding. Your breath synced with hers, slow and steady. When she finally pulled back to look at you again, her eyes shimmered-not with tears, but with something braver.
"I don't want to go back to pretending in front of everyone," she said. "I don't want to be careful around you anymore. If they talk, they talk. I'm tired of hiding the parts of me that feel alive when I'm with you."
You reached for her hand again, anchoring her to the moment. "Then don't hide. Let them see. Let them wonder."
Her lips curled into a grin, this one wilder, freer. "You know this won't be easy."
"Nothing worth it ever is."
She leaned in again, this time faster, more certain. Her kiss wasn't just reverent now-it was claiming, grounding, tethering herself to you in a way that dared the world to challenge it.
And when she finally pulled away, breathless and glowing, she whispered, "So... what happens now?"
You looked around the sun-drenched room, at the way her shadow curved into yours, and smiled.
"Now," you said, "we stop waiting for the perfect moment-and we make this one count."
The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows through the windows as dusk settled over the house. The golden light had softened into a dusky lavender that painted the walls with a hush, and yet, the quiet inside still felt louder than the world beyond.
You and Violet had moved only once-to close the curtains, not to shut the world out entirely, but to keep this one moment untouched by it. The outside could wait.
Now, you both sat on the floor, dinner forgotten on the coffee table beside half-drunk glasses of wine. Violet's legs were curled underneath her, her head once again leaning against your shoulder, fingers interlaced with yours like they had the intention of staying that way.
"I used to imagine what this would feel like," she admitted softly, as if the quiet was sacred. "But it was never like this. Not this real."
You looked down at her. "What did you imagine?"
She smiled, eyes distant. "Something stolen. Secret. Like I'd only ever get a piece of you. But now..." She looked up at you. "I don't want pieces. I want all of it."
You brushed a kiss to her forehead, your voice low. "You already have it."
There was a stillness again, but this time it wasn't born of hesitation. It was comfort. And as the minutes ticked into hours, the outside world finally started knocking.
Whispers buzzing.
Then again. And again.
"They've noticed."
You nodded. "Let them."
She hesitated. "And if they try to make me choose?"
You turned to her, brushing her hair back, your expression unwavering. "Then we remind them you never had to."
Violet looked at you like she was memorizing your every word-like the foundation she's been terrified to stand on had suddenly become solid beneath her feet.
Later, when the night was deeper and the wine gone warm, you ended up on the couch again-her body half on yours, a blanket tangled around your legs, and the faint flicker of a candle dancing nearby.
"I don't think I've ever been this scared and this sure of something all at once," she whispered, the moonlight brushing her face in silver.
"Good," you said, smiling against her temples. "That means it matters."
And when she finally drifted off in your arms, your heart matched the steady rise and fall of her breath-quietly, reverently, completely hers. Tomorrow would come with questions. With opinions. With noise. But tonight was just yours.
And it was enough.
The morning after had been quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with unspoken promises. Violet stirred just after sunrise, her body still curled into yours, the sheets tangled around your limbs like silk bindings. There was peace in her eyes when she opened them. And there was resolve too.
She knew what she had to do.
By mid-morning, the decision had become action. Violet dressed with care, every pin in place, her bodice laced tight, as though readying herself her battle. She reached for your hand before leaving the room and pressed a soft kiss to your fingers.
"Stay close," she murmured. "I want them to hear it from me. But I want them to see you."
And so, you followed her into Bridgerton House.
The drawing room was bright and impeccably arranged, but a storm loomed in the space nonetheless. Anthony stood tall near the hearth, his brows already knit with confusion the moment he saw you beside his mother.
"Mother," he began, his tone polite but laced with suspicion, "is there a reason you've brought one of the maids into the parlor?"
Violet inhaled slowly, lifting her chin. "She is not a maid."
Anthony blinked, caught between concern and disbelief. "I've seen her in uniform, dusting banister, delivering tea. Forgive me, but-if she is not a maid, then who is she?"
You stood silent for a moment, the room's tension thick as the space between centuries. But Violet's hand found yours again, a quiet act of defiance in a world where such things were rarely forgiven.
"She is someone who chose to hide for reasons for her own," Violet said firmly, "And it was never for deception. It was for safety, for peace. And because, at the time, it was the only way she could remain near me."
Anthony looked between you both, trying to parse the pieces together. "So, you mean to tell me she is-what? A noblewoman in disguise?"
"I am," you answered, stepping forward. "Or I was. My family name was once one of honor, until scandal and misfortune tore it from the pages of the peerage. I came to London with what little I had left-my name, my dignity, and a desire to disappear. I never expected to find her." You looked toward Violet. "But I did."
"And now you wish what?" Anthony asked, disbelief painting every syllable. "To wed her? My mother?"
"No," Violet cut in. "She does not wish. We do. Together."
Anthony's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening. "Do you understand what people will say? About you, Mother? About the family? She was seen with dust on her hands and cloth on her head. You know how unforgiving society can be."
Violet didn't flinch. "I have spent my entire life dancing in that society, Anthony. I have played the part of the perfect viscountess, the perfect hostess, the perfect widow. I have smiled when I've wanted to scream. I have hosted when I have ached in silence. And now-for the first time-I choose not to care what they say."
Anthony stepped back, as if those words had stuck deeper than he expected. "And what of Father?" he asked, quieter this time. "Would he have approved of this?"
Violet's face softened. "Your father was a good man. He gave me love, gave me you, gave me this family. But he is gone. And I am still here. I've mourned, I've raised you all, and I have served this family well. Do I not deserve to choose happiness, now that I've found it again?"
Anthony turned away, hand dragging through his hair, as silence fell once more.
Then... he sighed.
"I thought something was strange," he muttered. "You've been smiling again. You've been humming in the garden." He looked back at her, finally seeing her-not as the window who kept their world spinning, but as the woman who had, quietly, longed for something more. "You were happy. I just... didn't understand why."
He approached slowly now, his gaze shifting to you. There was still suspicion, still uncertainty-but also something else: resignation, and perhaps even reluctant understanding.
"I don't know who you are beneath the apron," he said, voice even. "But if my mother says you make her feel alive again... then who am I to argue with that?"
Violet's shoulder relaxed, and she let out the smallest laugh-one of relief, one of freedom.
"You'll come around," she told him with a smirk. "You always do."
Anthony huffed but gave a half-smile. "I'll need time. But... I suppose I've seen stranger things in London ballrooms."
He turned on his heel and left the room, the door shutting softly behind him. The moment he was gone, Violet turned to you, her expression glowing with triumph and affection.
"See?" she said. "We're still standing."
You stepped closer, letting your forehead rest against hers. "No more hiding?"
"No more pretending."
And outside the window, the flowers bloomed brighter than they had in years.
