Work Text:
Francesca does not understand why she is being punished like this.
She does not know what she did to upset a godly deity to be punished with such a life.
Still not with child, Francesca is growing more bitter by the second. They are trying. She is trying. And God she is trying her hardest not to lose it. Her love for John is unmeasurable, truly. But something just does not fit the way it should, lately.
Maybe it is the presence of his cousin, Michaela. Another thing that Francesca does not really understand at all. She is infuriated by her. The things she does, the clothes she wears, the way she speaks and the goddamn way that she holds herself makes Francescas skin feel like it might curl up into itself. A feeling she has not yet dealt with ever before.
On top of everything else that has decided to not play into Francesca's favor, comes her ongoing problem with a certain pinnacle. She loves John. She does. But it is turning out to be rather frustrating to be intimate with a man and not experience the point most sought after. Especially since she has had a talk with Penelope about it. She made it sound so special and simply inevitable that she yearns to experience it. And best believe her, she has tried. She has tried so hard. Francesca listened to the notes Penelope offered. Spontaneity and recklessness did not help her. Hell, she even tried pretending to reach it just to feel closer to it.
Still, nothing. The tingling, it starts very slight and soft, muted almost. She is feeling good and.. nice. And then it just.. stops. John reaches his personal pinnacle, and it stops being nice and warm. He is a good man, and he is really trying his best. If not with his lower body, he tries to guide her with his hand. Nothing ever surpasses a low tingling sensation between her legs. Sometimes Francesca asks herself if she is simply build this way. It rather feels like an excuse of some sort, but she cannot help it.
She so desperately wants this for herself. Not only for the chances to become with child, no. She just wants to feel it. This burn, this ache one has for another. The love? She feels wrong, even after Johns encouraging words and Francesca does not even dare to begin imagine how John must feel about her inability to.. feel? Nothing in her life could have turned out worse. The best thing she ever had just for herself is becoming increasingly frustrating, and Francesca has tried everything she can think of.
Especially since Michaela takes up a great deal of her time. If not in person, she is creeping inside her thoughts, consuming her and her ability to function. Michaela has not done anything to deserve the hatred Francesca has been showing her. Again, Francesca does not understand why she must be punished this way.
If Michaela would have had at least given Francesca a proper reason to not make her like her, it would not feel as bad as it does. In fact, John has picked up from it the very first second Michaela stepped back into both of their lives. In that incredible dress with that annoying smile and those perfect eyes. Francesca cannot seem to like her at all! This ruse continued all the way to Scotland and back, without any real justification. Every mistake is making Francesca's life harder currently, and not even the Pianoforte is helping ease her mind now. It used to be her safe haven, the place where she needn't be anyone at all. Now, every time her fingers touch the keys, her mind wanders off to strange places. Most of them to do with Michaela.
Her bewitching eyes and how they look at Francesca almost mockingly. These lips that curl into the most devilish smile, just to taunt her. And that skin that reminds her so much of John and her love for him.. Almost as if she should feel similar for Michaela. Ridiculous.
Since Francesca wants as little to do with these uncontrollable thoughts, she avoids even the Pianoforte like the plague. Another reason why her body is wound so tightly.
It all triples in magnitude one certain night.
Her desperate attempt at a pinnacle fails again and not soon after, John is snoring lightly next to her. Francesca is dressed in her nightgown and lays flat on her back. Frustrated. She tried not letting John notice it, but she is certain her husband is not as dull.
She lays awake a few breaths longer before she hears something taking a tumble in one of the halls. It is a rather soft sound, but she hears it, nonetheless. Looking over at John, she decides to go investigate if sleep is not in search of her either. Grabbing a candle and a wide scarf to go over her arms and shoulders, she makes her way along the halls to find the cause of disruption.
Since Michaela is offered refuge in their home for her stay in Mayfair, Francesca is certain she already knows who the ultimate reason for the unknown sound was. But.. Francesca always was rather nosy, was she not?
As her feet drag slowly over the carpeted wood, more sounds arise. Coming from the guest rooms, of course.
The closer Francesca comes, the clearer the sound of giggling becomes. Michaela did warn John that she was going to be out in the town; some clubhouse Francesca did not care to remember. Michaela was likely inebriated and careless. Francesca is not sure if she really desires to be talking to Michaela like that in her current state of distress. Halting her movements, Francesca ponders whether to turn back as she hears it.
A soft, breathy moan.
Thinking that this cannot be true, she takes another step forward. But then again, a sigh is reverberated through Kilmartin house. Her veins feel as if iced. Her heartrate rises to unhealthy measures, and she feels as if she should run from this situation, hide under her blanket and never show her face to Michaela ever again, but her feet are stuck in position. A shy glance forward and she realizes the door is opened the slightest gap. Candlelight streaming out and casting a ray of glow at the wall to her side.
Instead of turning back, Francesca acts on impulse and steps forward. Her eyes are now on the same level as the gap between door and frame. This is utterly unholy and exceeding any boundary of privacy. Still, she cannot win against her body.
She sees Michaela. Alone. In the bed Francesca had be made for her.
Her dress is discarded somewhere that Francesca cannot see, her nightgown pulled on all wrong. Not that it matters much anyway since it is currently bunched up on her waist because her hand has found its way into her undergarments. Francesca feels her icy veins burn and her blood to reach boiling temperatures. Surely, this must be hell’s invitation already knocking.
She cannot see Michaela's face, which is a good thing, Francesca thinks. She might have screamed if she saw that face, contorted in pleasure as her hand works its merry way in her undergarments. Her brows must be furrowed, while a lip might have been pulled between teeth, to stifle-
Moans.
More Moans spill from the room, and Francesca's head starts floating. It must. Not a single thought is graspable for her. She sees the second hand snake its way up to her breasts, squeezing and pulling in tune with the sounds she is producing. More frequent now, but muffled. As if she has stuffed her mouth with something. Francesca does not dare think about it, as more blood rushes through her, thrumming. Her legs burn and her core feels as if it is close to explosion. The hand in the white undergarments now furious; the sounds grow desperate. Francesca feels herself panting, as if physically exhausted.
She stands there, engulfed in devilish heat as a string of loud, unkempt moans filter through. Her eyes water as she sees Michaela arching like a cat before shaking like a mad man with one final, deep moan. Right as she hears Michaela start deep breaths, her body springs into action, and she sprints back into her room as silently as possible, terrified to get caught spying like a perverted person.
Back in her room, John is still deeply asleep, snoring safely. Good. She lets herself rest at the door, still breathing too loud to immediately slip into bed next to him. As her brain starts to process what it had just witnessed, guilt overcomes Francescas very being; her panic starts flaring up again. However, every time she tries closing her eyes, to try to make this feeling feel less consuming, pictures start flooding her very eyes and guilt is replaced by heat. Pounding heat. Sounds start replaying, and Francesca feels like she might collapse to the ground. Let hell take her before she is tempted to even worse.
Grounding herself with her hands, she gets her body calm enough for her to slip into bed next to her husband, but sleep does not come. The only thing coming to her mind is Michaela in all her glorious unholiness. Her smooth skin and the rise of her ribcage as her hand desperately palms away at her breasts. Her fingers working just like hers on the pianoforte; inside her undergarments. It is torturous. It is even worse, that she yearns for nothing more than to experience that feeling herself. Not only is she guilty for feeling things this way, but most of all, she is jealous. Because she still does not know what it was that made Michaela cry out into the night. Sleep is a thought long forgotten as the sun and along with it, John, slowly rises. As he sees her awake and asks about it, Francesca feigns illness. An uncomplicated way out of responsibility for the day. John leaves her for his first official meeting as a member of parliament this season, but not before he sends for the maids to leave Francesca be for the day. He knows how she wants to rest alone for the days on which she is feeling unwell.
Sleep overtakes her a few hours after John has left, exhaustion simply too strong. Too strong even, for her to not form any dreams. This might have been the best way for her to regain composure after such rattling experiences. Book in hand, she tries to distract herself further from any feelings that might occur up until the maids bring her some foods easy to digest. The smile from the maid told Francesca they seem to be thinking she has turned out to be with child. Francesca’s mood sours further.
The Bridgerton keeps this charade up a few more days. The heated thoughts have softened, and curiosity has taken its place. John has offered all sorts of gently help, as the kind man he is. A massage, a nicely drawn bath, more books, and an open ear. Francesca really does love him. She wishes things to be easier. And her thoughts to be quieter.
She has not yet seen Michaela again. Which only increased her curiosity for the feeling she has witnessed. John was currently at his workplace again, and dinner was soon to be brought to her.
So, she expected the knock to come, but not for Michaela to be stepping in with her tray of food in hand. The book lands on the duvet with a thud, and Francesca feels as if her face started catching fire.
“I noticed your absence, Lady Kilmartin. I simply wished to see how you are feeling.” Michaela answered, truthfully it seemed. A little smile tugged at her corners. “I- uhm” She struggles. She does not even understand what words were trying to come out. “Yes. I- was- am! I am still a little unwell. Nothing time is not able to correct.” Francesca forces out a smile, already painful to pull, surely worse to look at.
Michaela halts for a second before remembering the steaming soup sitting in her hands. “I am pleased to hear.” She smiles “I asked the maids to be the one delivering the goods.” Michaela jokes and places the tray on her nightstand, before turning towards the door. Francesca first smelled the food, but not long after, a rich and savory, almost masculine scent filled her senses. She had to close her eyes to not leap out of bed and run from her impure thoughts again. Maybe this was what tipped her over now. Made her loose the last string of sanity she possessed.
“Michaela.” She paused; now certain it is not herself speaking right now. “Might I ask you something?” She finished, keeping her eyes cast downwards; onto her hands fiddling in her lap. Michaela twists her body and raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting this. “Of course,” she nods. And suddenly Francesca is overcome with courage and fire. She straightens her back. “Let me ask you something wicked.” The Bridgerton breathes quickly as Michaelas' eyes widen in surprise. “Something that I definitely should not be asking you.” She adds, casting her eyes downward again as heat creeps further up her chest. Michaela chuckles, ever the charming, infuriating woman. “Well, well Miss Francesca. Do ask.” the woman crosses her arms Infront of her chest. “I wish for you to explain to me what a pinnacle is. In the bedroom.” She clarifies. “And how I achieve one.” She adds, small voiced; the courage disappeared just as quickly as it came. Michaela takes a sharp breath. “You mean you have not-?” She leaves it hanging in the air.
Francesca shakes her head.
Michaela steps forward and gently sits down at the foot of the bed. Francesca lifts her gaze and catches Michaelas’ seemingly for the first time since she has heard her moan out into the night. At the thought, her heart rate rises even higher. “A pinnacle with... a partner.” She winces, clearly thinking about John. “Is easier to reach if you know what you are trying to achieve.” Michaelas' voice drops lower just so. “If you know what you desire, you are easier to find it again and again.” Francesca looks puzzled. “How do I know what I desire?” She asks and unknowingly slips forward her legs, reaching out for Michaela without realizing.
“You need to listen to your body.” She breaths deeply, collecting her thoughts. “You can begin to explore your skin, feel what makes you feel, truly and deeply. Start with your arms, caress them, and make the bumps arise.” Francesca’s skin prickles under her words. “Stroke your neck, your throat and test what makes your breath hitch. You might not like it; you might adore it. Any discovery is a welcome one.” Michaela leans back on one hand.
“You can travel down your stomach, feel around with pressure and the amount of contact you would like. You can stroke or squeeze, whatever you enjoy.” Francesca’s legs squeeze together unbeknownst to her or Michaela. She swallows, feeling the hellish burn bubbling again. “Then you can continue with your legs, really let yourself feel all the sensation you have yet to experience.” Francesca is not sure if she might be imagining things, but Michaela is getting more fidgety and her voice is turning to gravel. It makes her furious. “Every body has especially pleasurable points one has to discover. While the ones Men possess seem quite straightforward, the Women have mysterious and hidden ways, but they are oh so much more glorious.” She raves. Francescas hands twitch, itching to touch and feel.
“Your breasts might be a place to search for in pleasure, squeezing and rubbing the way it makes you melt.” Francesca’s mind jumps back to a few nights ago, Michaelas hand, squeezing roughly at her own breast. Her leg jumps forward a few more inches, touching Michaela feather lightly. “But that’s for you to discover.” She closes her eyes “The biggest and most scandalous of places lies right between your legs, Frannie.” The name throws Francesca off guard, and she gasps before squeezing her eyes shut again, panting. Michaela grows even bolder now. “Your hands are so skilled at the pianoforte, I am certain you will have no problem discovering that little bundle of pleasure with just the right level of expertise, Francesca.” Michaela got up from the foot of the bed. Before Francesca can react, she can feel Michaela’s presence close to her side. Her breaths coming up against Francescas Face and the Bridgerton keeps her body still and her eyes closed. “I really hope you find what you are searching for, Lady Kilmartin.” hits her ears in a hushed whisper tone. Francesca swallows a whimper at the improper closeness and the air that was blown cold to her burning face. She feels as though she was slapped as the door falls close. She is alone now. Alone with her body set positively alight.