#bridgerton rp

[nixscriptum]

[faiology]

a season unpromised | anthony bridgerton

synopsis: you arrive from the americas to sign away your late father’s estate and is unexpectedly crowned the queen’s diamond of the season. suddenly, all eyes are on you. including his.

he had made a decision. long before the season began, long before the queen’s naming of a diamond, and long before you stepped onto english soil, anthony bridgerton decided he would not marry for love.

he could not.

to love someone—truly love them—was to risk losing them. he had watched it break his mother when his father died so suddenly, so cruelly. he had watched violet bridgerton fall into a grief so deep, so consuming, that he never fully believed she resurfaced. he had experienced this hurt of his own not very long ago with a particular opera singer.

he was the eldest. the viscount. it was his job to hold everything together. grief had no place in that equation.

so, anthony told himself: i will find a suitable woman. i will provide an heir. i will secure the family name. and i will never, ever love her.

he made a list. well-bred. poised. sensible. educated enough to raise his children, docile enough to not challenge him. someone who understood duty. someone who would not tempt his heart. someone who wouldn’t make him feel.

he was convinced this plan was not only wise—it was noble.

the letter arrived on crisp ivory parchment, sealed with a red wax crest you didn’t recognize.

you were still settling debts in boston, mourning the quiet and complicated passing of your mother, when word reached you: an estate in england—your father’s estate—had been left in your name. a father you never knew. a home you never imagined.

you had every intention of arriving, signing the papers, and leaving the damp greys of london behind for good.

but then there was her. lady danbury.

you were still dazed by it all—the house, the air, the way people looked at you when you stepped out of the carriage. not because they knew who you were, but because they didn’t. a young twenty something black woman from the americas, alone, with no chaperone, no explanation, and an estate tied to a name half the ton had likely whispered about once and then forgotten.

you didn’t know how long you stood staring at the house before a cane tapped against the stone behind you.

you turned, startled. the woman before you was dressed in the best gown, eyes keen.

“you have your mother’s eyes,” she said. “and her posture. heavens, she’d be scandalized to see you slouching.”

she continued. “we were young hellions together. she was one of my dearest friends. and now, you are one of mine.”

you nodded and listened to what more she had to say.

lady danbury didn’t ask if you would attend the season. she told you why you must.

“you are the daughter of a brilliant woman who never once bowed her head to society,” she said. “what better way to honor her memory than to let them see her strength still lives in you?”

“but i am nothing like those women,” you said quietly. “i’m educated, yes. i can speak multiple languages, yes. i can waltz, yes. but i am not and will not succumb to any man’s demands or desires simply for the kind of life he can offer me.”

lady danbury’s mouth twitched. “darling girl, a life of independence is no mere consolation. you are to wed for love. not for fortune.”

and with that, she sent for modite the very next morning.

lady danbury taught you the rhythm of the ton: which men to avoid, which women would smile to your face and sharpen their knives behind your back. she hosted tea with important widows, gave you books of poetry, taught you the subtle art of reading a room and commanding it without uttering a word.

you became something of a curiosity—this woman from the americas, with dark skin and a sharper tongue than most debutantes dared reveal. people expected you to fall behind, to wilt in the face of london’s polished cruelty.

but lady danbury made sure you didn’t.

“you are not here to be chosen,” she reminded you. “you are here to choose.”

the ballroom gleamed like something out of a dream.

every surface glittered. the chandeliers hung low and heavy with crystal. golden sconces flickered along the walls, casting a warm, forgiving glow over powdered faces and anxious eyes. it was lady danbury’s first ball of the season, and it was said—even before the first guest arrived—that it would be the most influential of the year.

you stood near the grand staircase, your gown carefully selected—a deep emerald satin that shimmered like bottled envy beneath the candlelight. lady danbury insisted on the color with it being one of the queen’s favorites.

“everyone will wear pastels to look innocent,” she told you with a smirk. “you will wear power.”

her cane tapped beside you, her presence grounding. “the queen is in attendance tonight,” she said softly.

your throat went dry.

“she also knew your mother,” lady danbury continued. “and she’s taken a personal interest in this season more than the others. if she likes you…” her lips curled. “she’ll make it known.”

you met the queen moments later.

you were introduced with care, your curtsy practiced, your name spoken with pride. “your majesty.”

queen charlotte looked you over from head to hem, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. you held her gaze, chin tilted just enough to show you weren’t afraid. her eyes flicked to lady danbury and then back to you.

“and you say she’s not of noble birth?” the queen asked, amused.

“her mother had nobility of spirit,” lady danbury replied coolly. “and as for her character—well. i have taken her under my wing.”

“hm.” the queen sipped her tea, lips twitching. “we shall see.”

a string quartet played a graceful waltz. the crowd had thickened, laughter mingling with gossip and the clink of champagne flutes. ladies clustered in corners, watching, whispering. your presence had already stirred curiosity.

but you were thirsty. and slightly overwhelmed.

you slipped toward the punch table, careful not to trip on anyone’s train or ego, and ladled yourself a glass of the bright red drink—tart, sweet… and unmistakably spiked with rum.

you smiled to yourself. so lady danbury throws parties worth attending.

and that’s when you heard it.

you paused behind a pillar near the refreshment table, not eavesdropping—not intentionally—but close enough to catch voices.

male voices.

“you are impossible, anthony,” came one exasperated voice—benedict, you thought.

“you mean logical,” anthony bridgerton replied coolly. “i do not wish to marry for love. it is inefficient. love… it ruins you. i wish only to a woman to bear my children. carry the bridgerton name.”

you stilled.

“our father loved our mother,” colin added gently.

“and look what it did to her when he died,” anthony bit back. “she broke. i will not. i need a wife who understands that this is about duty. legacy. nothing more.”

you stepped away quickly, smoothing your skirts, ignoring the curious glances as you made your way across the floor.

“may i have this dance?”

his voice, low and steady, stopped you in your tracks.

you turned to face him—anthony, standing just close enough to smell the expensive cologne on his cravat.

but you smiled politely. “no, my lord. i am otherwise engaged.”

before he could speak, another voice came from behind.

“my lady,” said a tall, handsome man with hair like sunlight and shoulders broad enough to part crowds, “i’ve been waiting for a moment with you all evening. would you do me the honor?”

your smile deepened. perfect timing.

“certainly,” you replied, accepting lord oaklee’s arm.

anthony stood frozen as you and the blonde lord glided past.

the dance was easy. graceful.

lord oaklee was charming—clever, too, with a wicked sense of humor and a flattering lack of entitlement. he spoke of travel and books, of how you wore green better than the duchess of kent’s prized peacocks. he asked about your time in the americas, and when you gave a knowing look, he said, “i listen better than i speak. it’s why I’m not married yet.”

you laughed softly, and in that moment—just as you twirled back into his arms—the room seemed to hush.

the queen rose.

her voice cut through the ballroom like a blade of silk.

“i should like to make an announcement,” she said, with that imperial calm that silenced even the drunkest lords.

the musicians stopped. the room turned toward her throne-like seat near the orchestra.

she smiled.

“this year’s diamond has revealed herself—not through family name, nor titles of the past, but in poise, spirit, and character.” her gaze swept the floor, until it landed on you.

a collective inhale swept the room.

“you, my dear,” the queen said, lifting her fan and pointing directly at you, “are the diamond of the season.”

the room erupted.

your heart did too.

lady danbury beamed across the room. anthony’s fists clenched. lord oaklee gave you a wink.

and you?

you curtsied deeply, head held high, pulse thundering in your ears.

you did not plan for any of this.

but somehow, you’d just become the most watched woman in england.

and anthony bridgerton would be the first in line.

[mythshire]

°✧*:·゚  𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐘 ··· a collection of regency drama, forbidden desire, reputation & ruin, propriety abandoned sentence starters. genre: historical romance, angst, scandal, duty versus heart.

You've been seen. We've been seen. Do you understand what that means?

I cannot marry you. My father has already promised me to someone else.

The ton is calling you ruined. What were you thinking, being alone with them?

You dance beautifully. Pity this will be the only waltz society allows us.

I saw you in the garden with Lord/Lady [Name]. Does your betrothed know?

Take off your gloves. Let me see your hands properly, just once.

The wedding banns have already been read. It's too late to change your mind now.

You've been compromised. I'm afraid I must insist on doing the honorable thing.

Mama says I'm not to speak with you anymore. She says you're a rake/ruined.

How dare you show your face here after what you did to my family's name.

I received your letter. I burned it, as I should have burned all the others.

The Queen has struck you from her list. You'll never receive a royal invitation again.

You think a country dance means I've forgiven you? How naive.

I don't care what the marriage contract says. I will never share your bed.

Your reputation precedes you. They say you've left a trail of broken hearts.

I saw the way you looked at them during the musicale. You're not as subtle as you think.

My dowry has been withdrawn. I bring nothing to this marriage now but scandal.

You were supposed to be my friend. Instead, you told everyone my secret.

The modiste sent your measurements to the wrong household. The entire club is laughing.

I cannot be seen arriving with you. Meet me by the rose garden in one hour.

Your brother challenged mine to a duel. Over me. What have we done?

I am with child. Unmarried. Do you comprehend the gravity of this?

They're calling me a fortune hunter in the scandal sheets.

You must marry someone suitable. I am neither titled nor wealthy enough for your family.

I heard the whispers. They think we're having an affair.

The settlement papers are drawn. Sign them and this farce of a betrothal ends.

You've had three seasons and not one acceptable proposal. Mama is beside herself.

I saw you leaving the library together. Was the door locked?

Your name is attached to mine in today's Whistledown. We're ruined.

I don't love you. I don't even particularly like you. But I need your name.

The Duke/Duchess has withdrawn their support of your debut. You're finished.

You kissed me in front of the entire garden party. What were you thinking?

I will not be your mistress, no matter how persuasive your arguments.

My chaperone fell asleep. We have perhaps ten minutes before she wakes.

You've been courting my sister while writing me poetry. Which of us do you actually want?

The marriage mart is closed to you now. No respectable family will receive you.

I found your love letters. Hidden in a book of sermons, of all places.

You're engaged to be married in a fortnight. Why are you in my chambers?

The scandal has reached the Queen. She's demanding an audience.

I cannot give you an heir. The physician confirmed it this morning.

Your gambling debts have bankrupted the estate. We've lost everything.

I saw you at that club. The one respectable gentlemen/ladies don't speak of.

You must choose—your family's approval or your heart's desire.

The wedding is tomorrow. Tell me now if you're going to flee.

I heard you refused three proposals this season. Are you waiting for someone?

Your mourning period isn't even over and already you're entertaining suitors.

The settlement requires an heir within two years. That's all this marriage is.

I found the annulment papers in your desk. You've been planning this all along.

They're saying you bought your title. That your wealth comes from trade.

I will not be paraded around ballrooms like a prized mare at auction.

[ariels5aday]

006 | DEAREST READER [LINK]

a one [1] page single muse google doc based on lady whistledown’s society papers from bridgerton.

notes:

this doc is not mobile friendly.

how to use:

after purchasing, you will receive a link to the live template. after following the link, select “file” and then “make a copy”. ensure that nobody can make a copy of your copy before sharing (instructions on product listing).

regulations:

do not remove my credit.

[glimmerfics]

In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, you have your pick of the three Bridgerton brothers who are vying for your attention -- so, who will it be?

🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices! [Playthrough by Anonymous]

"I suppose I should make myself presentable before lunch," you say, glancing down at your water-logged state. "Though I maintain the rain-soaked look has a certain artistic merit."

"The only merit it has right now is making puddles on Lady Bridgerton's floors," Alistair replies, but his eyes are warm. "Go on, then. Frances is probably already pacing a hole in your chamber floor, armed with towels and dire predictions about pneumonia."

You gather what remains of your dignity – along with your dripping skirts – and start toward your room. "I'll be down shortly," you promise over your shoulder. "Properly attired and ready to face whatever scandalized looks await me."

"Properly attired meaning trousers?" he calls after you, amusement clear in his voice.

You pause at your door, offering him your most innocent smile. "Why brother, would you expect anything less of me?"

His laughter follows you into your chamber, where, as predicted, Frances awaits with an expression that manages to convey both deep affection and utter despair at your current state.

After changing into a fresh gown and allowing Frances to restore some semblance of order to your hair, you made your way downstairs. Lunch passed in a pleasant blur of conversation and knowing looks from your brother, who managed to deflect most questions about your earlier adventure with remarkable skill.

Now, as afternoon settles into a gentle grey twilight, the family has gathered in the music room. The rain continues its steady percussion against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere that feels both intimate and oddly charged. You've positioned yourself near the window seat, a cup of tea warming your hands as you watch Benedict work.

Or rather, pretend to work.

His sketchbook rests against his knee, but his pencil hasn't moved in ages. Instead, his gaze keeps finding yours with an intensity that makes your tea grow cold. You recognize that look – it's the same one he wore at your first ball, when you discussed art in hushed tones while the rest of the world waltzed by.

"Perhaps," you say softly, setting your cold tea aside, "you'd have better luck with the light if you moved closer to the window." You shift slightly on the window seat, making room beside you, the invitation clear in the gesture.

Benedict's eyes meet yours again, and a slow smile curves his lips. He rises with that casual grace that seems inherent to all the Bridgerton brothers, gathering his sketching materials. "An excellent suggestion," he murmurs, settling into the space you've created. "Though I warn you, you'll be trapped here until I finish."

"Trapped?" you echo, watching as he adjusts his position, his knee barely brushing yours. "That implies I have somewhere else I'd rather be."

The rain drums steadily against the glass, casting shifting shadows across his features as he opens his sketchbook again. "And do you?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Have somewhere else you'd rather be?"

Before you can answer, Eloise's voice cuts through the quiet. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Benedict, if you're going to sketch her, at least be honest about it."

A flush creeps up your neck, but Benedict merely grins at his sister. "I am being perfectly honest. I'm capturing the light."

"The light," Eloise repeats flatly, "just happens to fall exactly where she's sitting?"

"Precisely," Benedict says, and though his tone is teasing, his eyes when they meet yours are serious, almost intent. "Some things are simply meant to be illuminated."

You lean slightly closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "And what exactly are you hoping to illuminate with this sketch, Mr. Bridgerton?"

Benedict's hand stills on the paper, his eyes lifting to meet yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Truth," he says simply, though there's nothing simple about the way he's looking at you. "Art has a way of revealing what we try to hide."

"And what am I hiding?" you ask, heart quickening at his proximity.

His fingers brush yours as he adjusts his sketchbook, the touch so light it could be accidental – except nothing about Benedict feels accidental right now. "That's what I'm trying to discover," he murmurs. "Though I suspect it's the same thing I am."

From across the room, Violet clears her throat pointedly. "Benedict, dear, perhaps Lady Ryann would like to see some of your finished works?"

"Oh yes," Eloise chimes in with poorly concealed glee, "show her the ones from Italy. The ones with all the...illumination."

Benedict shoots his sister a look that manages to be both amused and warning. "I prefer to focus on the present," he says, turning back to you. "The past can wait for another day."

The rain seems to drum louder against the windows, matching the rhythm of your pulse as you realize just how close you've drawn together over his sketchbook.

"Perhaps," you say, voice soft as the rain against the windows, "we could sketch together." Your fingers brush his as you reach for the pencil. "Share your perspective, as it were."

Benedict's breath catches, almost imperceptibly. "Share my..." He glances down at where your hand rests near his, then back to your face with an intensity that makes your chest tight. "Yes," he says finally, shifting the sketchbook so it bridges the space between you. "Though I warn you, I can be rather particular about my tools."

"Can you?" you murmur, accepting the pencil he offers. Your fingers overlap his for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "How fortunate that I have a steady hand."

A quiet laugh escapes him, warm and low. "Do you? Even with me watching?"

You begin a light stroke across the paper, hyperaware of his presence beside you, of how he leans closer to observe your work. "I suppose we'll find out."

"Benedict," Eloise's exasperated voice cuts through the moment, "if you make her draw the entire room while you just sit there staring—"

"I am providing artistic guidance," he protests, though his eyes never leave your hand as it moves across the paper.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Colin mutters from his place by the fire.

You focus on the sketch, trying to ignore how Benedict's arm presses against yours as he adjusts his position, how his breath stirs the loose strands of hair near your ear. The rain drums steadily outside, creating a private rhythm that seems to exist only for the two of you.

It's fascinating," you murmur, your pencil pausing on the paper, "how different everything looks from here. The shadows, the way the rain makes patterns on the floor..." You gesture subtly toward where Penelope sits reading, framed by the grey light. "She looks like she belongs in a painting."

Benedict follows your gaze, and you feel rather than see his smile. "You have an artist's eye," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Most people see only what they expect to see. You notice the stories hidden in plain sight."

Your hands have stilled on the paper, the pencil forgotten between you. "And what story do you see right now?"

He turns to you then, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "One that's still being written," he murmurs. "Though I find myself rather invested in how it ends."

A sudden burst of laughter from Colin breaks through the moment, and you realize with a start how close you've drawn together, how the sketchbook has somehow shifted to rest against both your knees, creating a bridge between you.

"I believe," Benedict says, carefully taking the pencil from your loosened grip, "this perspective deserves more attention. Perhaps..." He pauses, glancing toward the terrace doors where the rain continues its steady fall. "Perhaps when there's better light."

You understand the invitation in his words, the promise of a more private continuation. "Yes," you say softly. "Better light would make all the difference."

"Do you often find inspiration in the rain?" you ask, watching droplets trace abstract patterns on the windowpane. "It seems to bring out different qualities in everything it touches."

Benedict's hand moves across the paper, adding soft shadows to the sketch between you. "The rain has a way of washing away pretense," he says thoughtfully. "It reveals things as they truly are." His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost confessional in his gaze. "Though sometimes what it reveals is... unexpected."

"Unexpected," you echo softly, "or simply overlooked until the right moment?"

He sets down his pencil, and you notice how his fingers linger near yours on the sketchbook. "Both, perhaps." His voice drops lower, meant only for you. "Like how the same view you've seen a hundred times can suddenly become..." he pauses, searching for the word.

"Illuminating?" you offer, remembering his earlier comment.

A smile touches his lips, genuine and warm. "Precisely." He glances toward the terrace doors, where the rain has begun to ease into a gentle mist. "Though I find some revelations are better appreciated in solitude."

You understand the subtle invitation in his words, the promise of a more private conversation to come. "Yes," you agree quietly. "Some things deserve to be viewed without an audience."

From her seat across the room, Eloise sighs dramatically. "If you two are quite finished discussing the artistic merits of precipitation..."

"Never," Benedict replies cheerfully, though his eyes remain on you. "There's always more to discover in the rain."

"I should rest before dinner," you say, carefully rising from the window seat. Your fingers brush against the sketch as you stand, a deliberate whisper of contact. "Though I imagine the rain will continue to provide... inspiration."

Benedict's eyes meet yours with quiet understanding. "Some inspirations are worth pursuing," he murmurs, closing his sketchbook with careful precision. "Even in less than perfect weather."

You feel the weight of his gaze as you move toward the door, your steps measured and unhurried. "The terrace can be quite lovely in the evening mist," you observe casually, though your heart beats a little faster at the implicit invitation.

"Indeed," he agrees, and though his tone is light, there's an undercurrent of anticipation that makes your pulse quicken. "One might even call it... illuminating."

As you leave the room, you catch Eloise's exasperated sigh and Colin's poorly concealed chuckle. But it's the sound of Benedict shifting in his seat, the subtle rustle of his sketchbook being set aside, that follows you up the stairs.

The evening air carries the lingering scent of rain as you step onto the terrace. Candlelight spills from the drawing room behind you, creating a warm glow that battles with the misty darkness. Your heart quickens as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

Benedict emerges from the shadows, his evening jacket slightly undone, dark curls dampened by the evening air. The artistic disarray of his appearance makes your breath catch.

"I thought everyone had retired for the evening," you say softly, though you both know this isn't true.

He moves closer, moonlight catching the intensity in his eyes. "How could I? The evening wasn't finished." His voice drops lower. "The light wasn't quite right."

You smile, remembering your earlier conversation. "And now?"

"Now..." He steps nearer, close enough that your sleeve brushes his. "Now everything is perfectly illuminated."

The garden stretches before you, silver puddles reflecting moonlight like scattered mirrors. A distant rumble of thunder echoes your heartbeat as Benedict's hand finds yours in the shadows.

"The rain changes everything," you murmur, watching moonlight glint off the wet roses. "It strips away all the careful artifice, leaving only what's real." Your voice grows softer. "What's true."

Benedict's thumb traces a gentle pattern on your wrist, making your breath catch. "Truth can be dangerous," he says, his voice low and intimate. "Especially on nights like this."

You turn to face him, emboldened by the shadows and the lingering scent of rain. "Is that why you're here? Searching for dangerous truths?"

His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch deliberate and lingering. "I think I've been searching for you," he confesses, the words barely above a whisper. "Even before I knew what I was looking for."

The candlelight from the drawing room catches his profile, highlighting the intensity in his expression. You're acutely aware of how close he stands, how the damp air makes everything feel more immediate, more vital.

"Show me," you breathe, though you're not sure if you mean the truth, or himself, or something else entirely.

His response is to guide you deeper into the shadows, where the vine-covered wall meets the terrace steps. The privacy here feels absolute, intimate - a pocket of space where the world narrows to just the two of you, the rain, and whatever truth you're both about to discover.

"Have you found it?" you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the patter of rain. "The composition you were seeking?"

Benedict's eyes darken as he studies you, his artist's gaze taking in every detail of your face in the shadowed light. His hand, still holding yours, tightens almost imperceptibly. "Almost," he murmurs. "But something's still... constrained."

You feel the heat of his body, so close now that the edge of his coat brushes against your skirts. "The constraints of propriety?" you suggest, your heart thundering against your ribs.

"No." His free hand comes up to trace the line of your jaw, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. "The constraints of pretense. Of holding back what wants to be expressed." His thumb brushes your lower lip, sending a shiver through your entire body. "I don't want to paint this moment with careful strokes, (Name). I want to capture it exactly as it is."

The air between you feels electric, charged with possibility and the threatening rumble of distant thunder. "Then show me," you breathe, echoing your earlier words but with new meaning. "Show me how you'd compose this truth."

His eyes, dark and searching in the moonlight, hold yours for one endless moment. "Are you certain?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint. "Once we step past this line..."

You answer by letting your fingers find his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fine linen of his shirt. "I think we crossed that line the moment you followed me out here."

You take half a step back, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest. The sudden space between you feels charged, electric with possibility and restraint. "Perhaps we should maintain some... artistic distance," you murmur, though your racing pulse betrays your true desires.

Benedict's response is immediate and devastating. He moves forward, matching your retreat until your back meets the cool stone wall. His hands come to rest on either side of you, not touching but effectively caging you within the circle of his arms. The vine-covered trellis above casts dappled shadows across his features, making him look wild, untamed.

"Distance," he says, his voice rough with barely contained emotion, "is the last thing I want between us right now."

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of rain on his skin. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath warming your lips. "And what do you want?" you whisper, your last pretense at resistance crumbling.

"To lose every careful line I've ever drawn," he murmurs, one hand moving to trace the curve of your neck. "To create something real. Something true." His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling its rapid flutter. "To paint you exactly as you are in this moment – breathless, beautiful, and completely unleashed."

"Then paint me," you whisper, your fingers finding his and guiding them to the delicate laces at your back. The touch sends shivers down your spine, each point of contact burning through the thin fabric of your gown.

Benedict draws in a sharp breath, his artistic hands stilling against the intricate knots. "Are you certain?" he asks, though his voice has dropped to a dangerous octave. "Once I begin this composition..."

You turn slightly, pressing his palm more firmly against the laces. "I trust your vision," you breathe, feeling the tremor that runs through him. "Show me how an artist loves."

His control splinters. With agonizing slowness, he begins to work the laces free, each loosened knot accompanied by the brush of his fingers against your skin. You feel the gown gradually loosening, the cool night air kissing your newly exposed flesh.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his lips finding the curve of your neck. "Every line, every shadow..." His free hand slides around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. "You're the masterpiece I've been waiting to create."

The last lace comes free, and your gown whispers a promise of surrender.

The silk slides from your shoulders like water, pooling at your feet in the moonlight. Benedict's breath catches audibly, his hands stilling on your waist as he drinks in the sight of you. The night air kisses your exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that his fingers quickly trace.

"Perfect," he breathes, and there's reverence in his voice. "Like a Titian come to life." His hands ghost over your stays, finding the edges with careful precision. "But even these lines need freeing."

You lean back against him as his clever fingers work at the restrictive garment. "Show me," you whisper again, feeling the thundering of his heart against your back. "Show me how an artist loves."

The stays loosen under his touch, each small release of pressure making you feel lighter, more real. When they finally fall away, you take your first full breath of the night air, feeling truly unveiled before his gaze.

Benedict turns you slowly in his arms, his eyes dark with appreciation and barely contained desire. "The composition improves," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your bare back while the other cups your face. "But I think..." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I think we need to move this masterpiece somewhere more... private."

"The composition is perfect," you breathe, your fingers finding the buttons of his waistcoat. "Right here, where the moonlight knows how to paint us." The shadows of the vine-covered wall create a natural sanctuary, the distant rumble of thunder masking any telltale sounds.

Benedict's eyes darken with understanding and barely restrained desire. "Here?" His voice is rough as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall silently to the damp stone. "Where anyone might discover us?"

"Here," you confirm, bold in the silver darkness. "Where it's real. Where we're true."

He groans softly, his control finally shattering. His mouth claims yours with artistic passion, tasting of rain and desire. His hands, usually so precise with a pencil, now map the curves of your body with desperate appreciation. You arch into his touch as he guides you back against the cool stone wall, the contrast of temperatures making you gasp.

"My masterpiece," he whispers against your throat, his fingers working quickly at his own remaining clothes. "Let me worship every line, every shadow..."

You help him shed the last barriers between you, your hands trembling with equal parts nervousness and desire. When he finally stands before you, bare in the moonlight, you understand why the old masters painted their gods this way.

"Compose me," you breathe against his mouth, surrendering to his artist's vision. "Show me how this masterpiece ends."

Benedict's response is immediate and overwhelming. He lifts you onto a low stone ledge beneath the vines, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. His hands, so precise with a pencil, now trace your body with deliberate intention, each touch drawing soft gasps from your lips.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth following the path of his fingers. "Every line, every curve..." He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, mapping you with lips and tongue. "You deserve to be worshipped like this."

You arch beneath his touch, fingers tangling in his dark curls as he explores your body with artistic devotion. The distant rumble of thunder masks your soft cries as he finds particularly sensitive places, his talented hands drawing pleasure from you like he would draw beauty from a blank canvas.

When he finally rises to claim your mouth again, you feel the hard length of him pressed against you. "Please," you whisper against his lips. "Complete the composition."

He enters you slowly, reverently, both of you gasping at the exquisite sensation. Your legs wrap around his waist as he begins to move, each thrust carefully measured like brush strokes on canvas. The vine leaves whisper above you, providing shelter from prying eyes as you lose yourself in his artistry.

You surrender completely to his artistry, letting waves of pleasure build with each precise movement. Benedict's hands grip your hips, holding you steady against the cool stone as he drives deeper, harder, his control finally fracturing under the weight of shared desire.

"Let go," he whispers against your throat, his voice rough with passion. "Let me see you come undone. Show me your masterpiece."

The words, combined with a particularly deep thrust, send you spiraling over the edge. You cry out softly, the sound lost in the rumble of distant thunder as pleasure courses through your body. Benedict follows immediately after, your name a broken prayer on his lips as he finds his own release.

For several long moments, you stay perfectly still, connected in every way possible. The night air cools your heated skin as his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. The scent of rain and roses mingles with the musk of passion.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. "Absolutely perfect."

The rain continues its gentle percussion against the terrace roof as you lie beside Benedict on the stone ledge, his coat draped carefully over both of you. The urgency of moments before has mellowed into something softer, more intimate. Your body hums with lingering pleasure as the cool night air kisses your heated skin.

"Well," Benedict murmurs, his voice deliciously rough, "that may be the first time I've ever finished a piece and immediately wished to start it again."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, surprising in its lightness. "Ever the artist—never satisfied."

He shifts onto his side, propping himself up to look at you properly. In the moonlight, his dark curls are painted silver, his eyes holding a warmth that makes your heart flutter. "That's not dissatisfaction," he corrects softly. "That's admiration."

You arch an eyebrow at him, feeling playful despite your state of undress. "Is that what you call it?"

His fingers find your face, brushing away a strand of hair with infinite tenderness. "I call it inspiration. Though I suppose it's the same affliction that's ruined countless painters before me."

You catch his hand before it can retreat, pressing a kiss to his palm. "If I recall, most of them managed quite well despite their muses."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Duty & Desire" by Neaphant

[rpstartersinc]

* 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍: 𝐒𝟏.

feel free to change pronouns / wording!

" are you to complain the entire day? "

" i feel like a princess. do i look like one? "

" if this is not a sight for my sore eyes. "

" someone may hear us. "

" i will always protect you. "

" i am looking out for you. "

" i am protecting you, it is my duty. "

" you have no idea what it is to be a woman. "

" is that envy i detect in your voice? "

" you appear displeased. "

" it would be better if you refrained from thinking about me at all. "

" i assure you, i am anything but interested in you. "

" do not make this any more difficult than it already is. "

" i cannot see you anymore. "

" you said you would always protect me. "

" i did not know you would be here. "

" do you think yourself better than me? "

" you cannot possibly be thinking of marrying him. "

" if this is to work, we must appear madly in love. "

" there is too much blood. "

" if i were truly courting you i would not need flowers, only five minutes alone with you in a drawing room. "

" no one can know about our little arrangement. "

" would it pain you to wear some colour? "

" i was afraid even of my own reflection. "

" i am quite capable of speaking for myself. "

" i was trying to help. "

" i do suppose if i was forced to take a wife, you would be the least objectionable option. "

" you look in a great deal of pain. "

" one cannot judge a book by its cover. "

" i will not tolerate a bully. "

" that was entirely your fault. "

" i could not sleep. "

" it seems the art is not the only beautiful thing on display at present. "

" are you spying on me now? "

" i wanted to see you. "

" you are only here because you are jealous. "

" i am here because i miss you. "

" i cannot think of anything else. "

" you are perfection itself. "

" i misjudged you. "

" are you to tell me you're actually sorry to see me go? "

" love changes nothing. "

" we are not friends. "

" it is not safe out here. "

" there is no expectation or judgement here. "

" you can feel free to be yourself here. "

" what if you get yourself killed? "

" for what it is worth, i am sorry. "

" your apology is worth nothing to me. "

" are you hurt? tell me! "

" you deserve everything your heart desires. "

" while you may be content to accept defeat, it is certainly not how i approach things. "

" you have always been a terrible shot. "

" i cannot sleep. "

" why must everything be so bright? "

" we should not be alone in here. "

" i can hardly believe i am saying this, but we cannot go further. "

" everyone enjoys secrets. "

" i cannot stop thinking of you. "

" i am yours, i have always been yours. "

" you burn for me? "

" tell me what you thought about, when you were alone. "

" you have been a true friend. "

" you chose this for yourself. "

" you chose to lie to me. "

" i did not realise i had a choice. "

" something troubles you. "

" so you admit it now, you were acting a fool? "

" you may hurt now, but the pain will pass. "

" you will be better off without me. "

" you're angry, but not with me. "

" i envisioned myself on your arm, dancing the entire night away. "

" you are lost, and i cannot allow you to set me adrift as well. "

" pride, it will cost you everything and leave you with nothing. "

" there is nothing you cannot do. "

" just because something is not perfect, does not make it any less worthy of love. "

" i am tired of pretending, and i cannot continue acting as if i do not love you. "

" i love all of you, even the parts that you believe are too dark and too shameful. "

" i do not want to be alone. "

" that decision shall be left entirely up to me. "

[roanokesilas]

Open Bridgerton RP Starter

Relations between the United Kingdom and the small archipelago nation of Jasari had always been close, forged long before either nation quite knew it when Queen Charlotte (future Queen of England) befriended Queen Aiyana (future Queen of Jasari). Each attended the other's wedding, wrote countless letters and even spent summers going between each other's homes, allowing their children to mingle.

This was how Silas became accustom to the world of British customs, including all the pomp and ceremony that came along with it. So, when his latest visit to his "Aunt" Charlotte's side of the globe coincided with the London social season, the Queen of England was more than happy to throw a huge ball as a welcome celebration for a prince she had a considerable soft spot for.

Lords and ladys from all corners of London rolled out for this ball including the household of the Viscount Bridgerton and the Hastings who had travelled a considerable distance for this event.

Watching on from the sidelines was the prince who was being honoured with this ball. Silas was the wallflower of his nine siblings, preferring quiet family occasions to huge blowout celebrations but he knew exactly how Queen Charlotte liked a huge occasion out of any sort of reason. Silas leaned against a marble pillar, arms folded against his chest as his pale green eyes scanned the floor of dancing people.

He hadn't even worn his royal attire, opting for something more casual to just blend in amongst the other lords in attendance and thus far, it had worked to his advantage. Silas had been able to sip his drink and leaning against the pillar, just quietly watching like a owl perched on a branch in the evening time. However, that's when his eye was caught by someone also attempting to avoid the crowds and the dancing.

To say he was intrigued would have been an understatement...

@discreet-eccentric-affairs

[threadsbare]

bridgerton inspired / regency romance plots someone should give me, please and thank you. ( faceclaims & your muse details are 100% flexible! )

muse a is a ruined nobleman whose late father bankrupted the estate through a series of increasingly embarrassing addictions and vices and scandals. muse b is the most popular debutante in england. he’s been in love with her for years, but has never said a word as he has nothing to offer. but this season, after putting it off for a handful of years, she’s declared it's time for her to find a husband. he smiles, congratulates her, wishes her luck. what else can he do? internally, however, his heart is cracking. he's about to lose her for good, without ever being brave enough to try. what he doesn't know is that she has always wanted him too---she's just done waiting for a man who's never going to come. ( wanted faces: my philip frossaint vs your aslihan malbora. )

muse a is the mischievous rakehell son of a good family, muse b is the dutiful and demure daughter of another. their parents are encouraging a courtship between them ( or maybe they've already been betrothed against their will ) but neither of them are thrilled about it. he finds her horribly dull, she finds him utterly ridiculous. he's fixated on the most enchanting lady he met at a recent masquerade, who he spent the night dancing and flirting with, but whose face he never saw. she's similarly pining for a scandalously charming gentleman who wooed her at the same ball---she just wishes she asked his name before the night ended! neither of them realize they're searching for each other while simultaneously avoiding each other. or are they simply unable to accept it? ( wanted faces: my giorgio belli vs your charithra chandran. )

muse a is a nobleman / untitled gentleman, muse b is the widow next door who he's been having a affair with for a handful of years. discreet, affectionate, and absolutely lovely, of course, but he knows it’s run its course. it's time for him to find a wife and settle down. but as he navigates the social and courts to the fresh crop of debutantes, his thoughts keep drifting back to her. it's preposterous---she's older than him, already has children, and - crucially - has sworn off marriage entirely after the death of her dreadful husband. she’s made it clear she wants her independence, and he respects her choice. and even if she was willing, the match would cause such a stir. and yet he can't picture a life with anyone else. ( wanted faces: my antonia thomas vs your sean teale. )

muse a is a nobleman's ' orphaned cousin ' and ward. meaning, of course, that she’s his bastard. her father did his duty by taking her in and raising her under his roof, but his health is rapidly declining, and her step-mother has always resented her. she's terrified that she'll be thrown into the streets when her father passes, and has resolved to marry the first eligible idiot she can con into asking for her hand. muse b is the potential idiot she's got in her sights. seemingly trusting and easy - going, with status and funds enough to provide for her. all she needs to do is make herself his perfect match, and she's always had a talent for playing her part. the hunt is on. ( wanted faces: my maddison jaizani vs your calahan skogman. )

muse a is a young lady recently wed to a nobleman, with little choice in the matter on her part. her husband is far older than her, treats her like a nuisance and a pet intermittently, and often leaves her alone for weeks at a time. she's miserable. and worse, she's lonely. so who can blame her, really, if her gaze keeps drifting to muse b---her husband's handsome young valet, who is gentle and courteous and treats her like a person, and seems to think she deserves a romance far better than the one she was forced into? and who can blame him if he looks back? her husband is hardly going to notice. ( wanted faces: my steve sanghyun noh vs your amelia gething. )

muse a is yet another young lady being forced into a match by her family, but this one takes a stand and runs away. it's . . . ill - advised, to put it gently. a spoiled, sheltered, somewhat bratty debutante out on the streets of london, living among the common folk? it's a wonder she didn't end up dead in a ditch. instead, she somehow found a position as a secretary / clerk for muse b---a forbidding young solicitor who's a rising star in london's legal system. and she's atrocious at her job. he should have fired her weeks ago. and yet, every time he considers it, he somehow finds himself threatening her greedy landlord or teaching her how to darn a sock instead. what's wrong with him? ( wanted faces: my sterling sulieman vs your zhu xudan. )