[hawk knows anthony has pipes of his own, but he does at least send a helping of the specific flavor of his own tobacco with this letter. american - slightly more bitter, distinct.]
𝑽𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕,
Well, I'd think nothing of the sort from a firstborn son - especially not a Bridgerton. Rest assured, this gift wasn't meant in offense to your no doubt impressive selection from the newest fabrics at the mercer in town, nor the tailor that sees to your needs from head to toe in bespoke finery. This was meant to be far more personal, a memento, maybe - enough that you might think of me when you saw it. They say scent triggers far more vivid details, the kind you can replay to near visceral memory. Call me selfish if you must, but I want you to remember them. Relive them like it's just yesterday.
You'll likely be just as surprised to know that I do too, on occasion. When I am with your sister, most especially. But privately, I like to think of it at my own convenience - which, as I'm sure you've surmised - also leads to my own pleasure.
That's right, you did. I had an ulterior motive in sharing it - I just wanted to see lips as lush as the greenery your family has cultivated on its grounds wrapped around something firm and reminiscent of something more physical. Do I need to explain this as well, or is it on the mark, this time?
They say patience is a virtue. It can be - when it's long and drawn out and downright spoiling.
I've changed my mind, however. I don't want to see you wear it. I want you to make your mess among the silk I've given you, secondhand, but still as fine as the ones in your drawers - and send it back to me as a token of appreciation I can verify myself. Multiple, if you can manage.
Don't even dare think about giving it a wash.
I expect a hefty letter in return with a blow-by-blow of your experience, Anthony.
no subject
𝑽𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕,
Well, I'd think nothing of the sort from a firstborn son - especially not a Bridgerton. Rest assured, this gift wasn't meant in offense to your no doubt impressive selection from the newest fabrics at the mercer in town, nor the tailor that sees to your needs from head to toe in bespoke finery. This was meant to be far more personal, a memento, maybe - enough that you might think of me when you saw it. They say scent triggers far more vivid details, the kind you can replay to near visceral memory. Call me selfish if you must, but I want you to remember them. Relive them like it's just yesterday.
You'll likely be just as surprised to know that I do too, on occasion. When I am with your sister, most especially. But privately, I like to think of it at my own convenience - which, as I'm sure you've surmised - also leads to my own pleasure.
That's right, you did. I had an ulterior motive in sharing it - I just wanted to see lips as lush as the greenery your family has cultivated on its grounds wrapped around something firm and reminiscent of something more physical. Do I need to explain this as well, or is it on the mark, this time?
They say patience is a virtue. It can be - when it's long and drawn out and downright spoiling.
I've changed my mind, however. I don't want to see you wear it. I want you to make your mess among the silk I've given you, secondhand, but still as fine as the ones in your drawers - and send it back to me as a token of appreciation I can verify myself. Multiple, if you can manage.
Don't even dare think about giving it a wash.
I expect a hefty letter in return with a blow-by-blow of your experience, Anthony.
To a night of many messes,
𝑯𝒂𝒘𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒔