#benedict bridgerton x you
Text
E̴N̴T̴W̴I̴N̴E̴D̴ - Series - Part 2
Part 1
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x f/reader
Warnings: Fluff and Sexual tension at the end -> Raw +18 warnings will come later in other chapters
Notes: Thank you for reading and for all the nice hearts you have given to this series <3 Ready for Bridgerton S3?
WC: 4.5K
It took all your strength to be on your right side of mind for a week. You called it a simple infatuation but your mind kept calling it... calling it... in reality, you didn't know how to call it but mere fixation was not. Was it supposed to happen in such a way that by only sharing a few glances, you could feel desire? This type of feeling was meant to be grown like plants, is it not? With talks, with promenades and tea and biscuits.
But you had those already.
Your eyes popped as the thought grew and grew. Indeed you have shared all of those with him. Seven years ago you started talking. He was your age, 21 and you 14 when by magic you two mixed like butter and toast. Talks? More than enough. Walks? More than a normal courtship can have. Tea and biscuits? More than you should have eaten.
You had scratched your forehead as you stared at the figure of Lord Coxingworth making his way to his carriage. The third talk of the week and you have learnt all the right things. All the proper ones. Benedict would have never.
"Stop it" you whispered as you shook your head, comparison cannot bring anything good, both are different and oh yes quite different "Ugh" you chastised yourself because your mind was going in circles "It is temporary," you said "My courses," you said looking at your dress, underneath "It might be that"
You were the most sentimental when your courses were expected. Indeed that was it, it is a good friendship and shall not be confused with anything more.
“Miss Ashbourne” the sound of Sarah appeared with a knock “an urgent note for you, from Eloise Bridgerton”
When you opened the small squared note you saw her handwriting in the fashion of urgency as she said “Let us exchange some judgemental words about the world. We should talk”
A sudden fear came to you, she knows. How could she? Benedict told her. How could he? No, he couldn’t.
You make no haste to walk out with Sarah by your side as you make your way to the park. It was a lovely day, the sun was out and there was no wind at all. The park was crowded and yet Eloise was easy to find, you knew where she would be, she loved the bridge and the pond.
“There you are future Lady Coxingworth or Marquise Ashdown”
“You should have brought swimming attire, it could have been the most useful when I threw you to the pond”
She smiled, her cheeks had the most beautiful glow as she gave you a hug and then proceeded to sit on the bridge. You sat beside her and let the sun hit your face and for a moment the focus was on another Bridgerton.
However, the crisp of the day proved to be more equipped than you two and so you decided to escort Eloise to her house. The grandiose of it always made your eyes soft.
“Well come on for a small refreshment and then you part” she offered and you accepted
And while walking inside the pastel drawing room you spotted the nape of Benedict as he kept reading the journal of the day.
“A bit late to read news is it not?”
He turned around from the soft couch and smiled at you “not at all, for me is morning still”
“Yes brother we all know you didn’t sleep last night”
Your stomach made a turn, why he didn’t sleep? Was he perhaps talking to someone?
“I have a commission coming next week and the deadline is approaching so I stayed awake working on the details and then I forgot it was morning already when I started drawing and... well it is done and here I am reading the news of the day with a headache” he closed the journal and stared at you “Miss Ashbourne, how are you this fine morning?”
You snorted, your morning was hours ago “Good thank you, the most wonderful morning” you followed the game “I came from the pond with Eloise”
“I have painted that” he commented “You’ll find a very badly angled canvas by the entrance"
“it is not bad, Benedict” Eloise said
“My profes-“
“Forget about art school, I can’t believe that you follow their word. Today’s art is bland like fish for breakfast”
He chuckles as you see their banter “They do have excellent points to give”
“And I am far from interested in them”
“What about you, Miss Ashbourne?”
“Me?”
“Interested”
In what? On who? You asked for yourself
“Well-“
“That is a yes” he stood up “sister would you mind…?”
“We have been walking and standing most of the afternoon, brother. She might be tired”
“Let her speak then”
Both pairs of eyes landed on you, how could you avoid a private chat with Benedict? Your heart was not prepared.
He offered his arm and you took it. Both of you walked downstairs, the colours of the sunset settling outside the majestic house.
“My mother has ordered them to hang every single painting I have made. Quite adamant I had to be with her for her not to hang my five-year-old pieces”
You laugh softly as the image comes to mind. “I would not blame her. Eloise is right”
“Hmmm”
“I am sure that professor had good points but art has proven to be the most emotional is it not?”
“Your point?”
“That one cannot structure emotions. One cannot compare the same canvas with the other one as if they were similar. They are not, they hold different emotions and perspectives.”
You stopped as Benedict looked at one of his paintings hanging on the wall. The fruit bowl had the most detail you have ever seen.
“You speak like a true artist,” he said still fixated on front
“I might not be one for the brush and paint but I do know other things”
He quickly turned “Like what?”
You instantly blushed. You were not going to start reciting mathematics or philosophy. So you shrugged in silence which made him smile.
“What about that stolen poetry book?”
“Oh” he remembered “in my room”
“Yeah? Well I don’t mind for a new poem today”
You snorted “I shall go, it’s getting quite dark outside and my mo-“
“I believe you don’t remember that for me is morning now”
You dropped your shoulders at the still childish game “Is it?”
“Oh it is”
“So on this fine morning” you smiled “you want me to fetch my book and come back so I can read one more poem?”
“Yes, after you have followed your pius girl routine”
“Meaning?”
“Aren’t you going to bathe?” He smirked as you slapped him with your hand“And eat with your mama and then prepare for bed?”
“Yes… I should do that” you whispered
“Come here before you sleep and read to me. I am not a stranger after all”
His smile and the glint of mischievousness were the things that made you follow that routine in its perfection.
The bathing went fast as the soapy rose water left your skin glistening, the dinner made your stomach fill and by the end when your mother said good night and your lady left you alone, you took the green robe by the end of your bed and did the most silent walk ever.
You walked with your velvet slippers and swayed across the gardens careful of not being noticed and minutes later you knocked softly on the window you knew the art studio was in.
It made you giggle, the thought of using the back door like any other servant. Such a sneaky way, such adrenaline of doing something like this and unaccompanied. If Lady Whistledown could see you now, tomorrow you were sure there will be a paper with only your name on it.
“You are late,” he said
“I am not, I did my things fast” you argued getting inside where the kitchens are “You have lost your sense of time today”
You didn't bother to close the door because it would have made a sound. The kitchens were empty and the only light that could be seen was the candle by the countertop.
"So which one would you read to me?" He said behind you
You turned seeing his face slightly darkened “Patience, let me sit down at least”
“You make me wait like a child”
“Are you not that?” You coyly smiled while walking to his studio, you knew above you the Bridgertons were sleeping and that only increased the adventurer within you. And when you entered, the same smell filled your lungs, you moved the robe and sat down on the maroon couch. You watched intently as Benedict eagerly closed the door and tried to move all the cluttered brushes and boxes.
You felt your body tense as he walked past the sofa and picked a book. You didn’t want to ask what the book was and why the sudden interest. You watched as he turned around with the book open.
“And what is that?” You questioned
“My own journal, I want to see if the poem will spark any sort of inspiration… for a painting”
“Very well” You nodded ready to split the book in your hands and ready but his hand as soft as a pillowcase stopped yours
“Forgive me, do you need something to drink?” He asked and saw the thoughts in your eyes “Perhaps something stronger than milk?”
“Brandy you mean?”
He shrugged “If you want a sip I can give you from mine”
“I am not a child. I am a woman”
“I know”
“Then I want a glass, a quarter of what you normally drink”
“Your wishes are commands, my lady, let me get us something and you shall begin reading while I look for it, yes?"
"Yes"
The candle by his desk was enough for you to see how he stood up and went to the corner where the brandy and the cups were. You opened the book on a different page and you adjusted your eyesight.
“I got it”
“Tell me the name” he ordered still pouring some brandy into what you believe is his glass
“Beneath the Velvet Veil”
“Ooooh” he remarked “beneath… the velvet rail. Do you believe is about what lies beneath a woma-“
“Benedict” you said harshly “not everything has to be about women”
“I disagree but please” he returned with the glasses and offered one “One sip before you start”
The smell of alcohol made your nose wrinkle nevertheless, you drank from the glass and let the liquor slip through. The burn in your throat made your eyes watery and it made you cough a little, the sweetness of it however made you feel more awake.
“Good?”
“Quite” You took another sip out of bravery and tasted it better, your eyes, suddenly fixated on the poem started to scan the first line
"Beneath the Velvet Veil"
Beneath the velvet veil of night,
Where shadows whisper, hearts take flight,
A silent war of classes rages on,
As dreams of change are fiercely drawn.
In cobblestone streets where lanterns glow,
The cries of the oppressed begin to grow,
Against the tyranny of wealth and power,
They yearn for justice in the midnight hour.
With fervent hearts, they take a stand,
United voices across the land,
For a world where privilege has no reign,
And every soul may dare to dream again.
Oh, let the winds of change arise,
And lift the veil from blinded eyes,
For in the hearts of those who fight,
Lies the dawn of a new, just light.”
Benedict blinked twice and rapidly formed a smile on his face “This one here can spark a revolution”
“It takes more than one poem to do so"
"True," he said drinking again "but it takes a poem with such desire to stir some passion in people" he leaned back and grunted "Does it say which year was published or at least... bind together?"
You quickly scanned it "No, there's nothing else"
"It can't be more than a few years old I assume, so whatever the fight this poem was trying to build... it failed" he snorted "We are still the same"
"Unequal wages outside London" you rapidly added "Social reputation as a means to oppress..." you sighed
Benedict curved his lips at the so sudden but so true comments coming from your mouth "You say it with such experience"
"I am a woman in society, Benedict"
"And a lovely one"
You blushed at his words, not the compliment that was given, but the way his voice was, a soft low tone as if he was singing and that made you stare at his lips for a second until you distracted yourself with one final sip of the fruity brandy.
"Thank you, what I mean is that I do know things"
He moved fast on his spot trying to stare at you "Yes you have said so already... please tell me, what are these precious things you know?"
You laughed and shrugged "A lot, Sciences, languages, music, social sciences"
Benedict snored and smiled "You are boring me"
You opened your eyes and took your hand and tried to pinch his arm "I am an accomplished lady. I am also quite observant"
"Are you?" he questioned, "are you really?"
"What does that mean?"
"Do you have an inkling of a clue as to why I have not slept?"
"Because you were working?"
"Partially" he took his hand and ruffled his messy strands of hair "That damned painting, the commission is taking longer"
"Because you can't sleep," you said
"No, because..." he dropped his shoulders and drank the whole glass "Because my thoughts are somewhere else"
You blinked slowly at his words "Are you well? I know a good doctor that-"
"I am well"
"But then what is it that is making your thoughts wonder?"
He licked his lips as the brownish liquid slipped through "You"
You swallowed as your throat went dry and as much as the fire within you wanted you to act confident... you just tried to be absorbed into the cushion as if you were retracting yourself.
Benedict took the silence as his turn to keep talking so he moved closer and rested his chin on the back pillow "Be so kind as to tell me how is it that inspiration works?"
what kind of question was that? you asked yourself and you again shook your head in silence.
He opened his mouth "Because I was alright before returning to London. It has been two months since the season started and look at me" he snorted "I had a good smear of inspiration given by Aubrey Hall and its landscape. I come here and start talking to you again as we have done so for years but this time my inspiration fades away"
You frown, an honest confused frown "Bu-"
"Oh do not give me that face, Miss Ashbourne" he gulps "You are aware of what you have been doing, are you not?"
"If you say I am responsible for your inspiration fading away..." you blinked "I don't kn-"
"It faded, yes but only for it to move all over you" he whispered and looked into your eyes
You gasped, your breath suddenly short and your chest tight. The words inked deep now in your mind and heart.
"I am not joking, it is true" he scratched his chin "It is the most confusing thing ever because..." he snorted "I cannot stop thinking about your face or about you wholly and it is more confusing because I know I started seeing you in other colours since last season"
"But I was only-"
"Twenty years of age I know. A part of me tries to conceal that because I may be bold but not to that level yet I am honest and I had to tell you that"
You gulped.
"I often question my reason and told myself that we have not been together enough and that this.... in me" he touched his chest "Is just transitory"
You blinked at that, it is exactly what you have told yourself "I..." you said "I thought so too"
"Have you? And what conclusion did you arrive at?"
It was your time to talk so you clenched your legs and crossed your ankles trying to be straight as you said it "That..." you smiled "that there have been enough talks and enough walks and enough... secret readings for this to arise in us"
"Us?" he said "I was merely talking about me... do you mean you have felt it too?"
"Since last year" you whispered, your eyes fixated on him. His eyes widened.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it is improper, not that I have ever cared about that, but... as you said I was twenty"
"Right"
"I didn't want to believe it" you confessed "So I have been ignoring it"
"Did it work? Because my trials have failed if I could tell you what I have done, what I have thought"
For a second, or more than that, between your legs, you felt a tingling that made you gulp "What?"
"What?"
"What have you thought?" the question came too suddenly but by the look of it you could not retract it at all
"Things about you that should not be thought"
"What kind of things?" you insisted, the fire within you made you feel alive "Tell me"
Benedict touched his face and looked at you, you saw a hint of fear in his eyes as he opened his mouth
"Tell me" you insisted "If we have already confessed, what are the odds of doing it again?"
"A lot, Miss Ashbourne"
"I don't mind"
"Well" he laughed nervously "I..." he rapidly moved on the couch, he leaned to you, quite closely to your figure retracted on the corner of the couch "You must wash my mouth with soap after telling you this"
"I can take it, I assure you"
"I..." his lips opened, a soft and pinky pair of lips, you wondered if they would taste the same way his brandy did "I have seen you naked"
You frowned "Naked?
"In my mind, I have formed you. I have used what I know to construct that image. I..." he looked down at your white sleeping gown "I have seen your arms, the crease of your elbow and forearm. I have seen your neck and your shoulder blade and I remember when I saw your ankles once" he shrugged "Forgive me but as an artist, I must use any resources to form a muse"
"What else have you seen?" you asked in a whisper, you could smell the brandy out of your mouth too
"I have seen your chest, only the beautiful way the collarbone curves, and I have imagined the shape of your breasts... I have imagined the curves of your belly, your waist and hips and... your thighs and" he bit his lip as his eyes looked at your covered legs "and the rest"
Your mouth gaped and felt the air in the studio become thick and hot "Oh"
"Yes, forgive me"
"Don't" you whispered, the heat from your body becoming unbearable
"And..." he added, his face closer "I have used you in my mind with the purpose of-"
"Painting?" you asked
This time Benedict squinted his eyes and then stared at you "Not quite. It feels like a puzzle"
"How so?"
"I had it almost built with everything I know about you. I am sure I could write a book about your person and you won't know how I know those things yet I miss some pieces that I know I should be patient getting them" he slowly shook his head "And you?"
"Me?"
"Have you thought of me?"
"A little"
"More than a little?" he smiled
You were sure he was testing your level of knowledge. And indeed your level is high. You know the human male form if that is what he is asking. Have you thought of him in such state?
"I have wondered..." you murmured "What is about your lips that are always so... rosy?"
Benedict smiled "Do they look inviting?" he said leaning closer
For once you did not retract more into the couch, not that you could more. You took a breath and said "I don't know"
"Would you like to know?"
"Benedict"
"I am only asking"
"What else would you do if I said yes?"
"Taste yours in return"
Your lips parted and you were not able to speak. He was staring at you in a way that made your whole body tremble, the tingle in your belly becoming an actual throb between your legs.
"Miss Ashbourne"
"Mr. Bridgerton"
"Do I have to spell it out? I want to kiss you"
"Why?"
"Because I have been waiting a long time to do so"
"You said we are friends, friends don't kiss"
"Friends don't confess either but here we are" he moved a bit more, his lips only a few inches from yours "I need to know how is it that the world makes sense, how is it that I can have the inspiration that has left me in such a long time. Is it all the alcohol or is it you? You are the answer, right?"
"I don't know"
"Can I find out?"
"Please do"
The words made his heart flutter and the air became thick, his lips touched yours and it was like an electric shock. You felt the room spinning in darkness as you closed your eyes. You felt the softness of his lips against you and quite indeed the fruity lingering of brandy. It was the perfect mix of both. The kiss grew the opposite of chaste. The feeling was so overwhelming and you felt like Benedict was going to consume you and the most curious thing is that you were willing.
You felt his ample hand touching your back and pushing you against him and that made the kiss grow wild. You moved your head and let the passion guide the kiss. The world made sense like this and still, it made no sense at all.
"Y/N" he whispered between the kiss and moved to your cheek and kissed behind your ear
"What?"
"You have freckles here," he said and kissed your skin "Here" another kiss and another "and here. It is like admiring a masterpiece no one has ever left you get near before"
You grew impatient for how many words were coming from his mouth when he could have been kissing you more. You searched for his lips and found them in a latch that made him growl and move his tongue to play with yours. You were so lost in his kiss that the feeling in your stomach grew and grew and was about to explode.
Benedict's hands moved to the side of your hip and then the top of your thigh where he squeezed. A gentle moan escaped your lips, and he swallowed it.
"You are a dream," he said between kisses "A beautiful and vivid dream"
"And you are a madman"
"Perhaps," he said and pressed his lips to yours once more, the kiss was different, his lips moved to yours and it was as if he was trying to memorize every single spot. You felt your whole body reacting and it was becoming hard to breathe.
The feeling was so strong that it was unbearable. The tingling turned into a throb and it was making you lose control, your hands fought with your mind as if they needed to pull the skirt of your gown and touch yourself.
"You taste better than the finest whiskey," he said as his mouth moved to your neck. Your head fell back and gave him more access to your skin.
"Benedict" you whispered
"I love how you say my name. You always have so many things to say" he kissed deeply on your gentle skin "but now you only say my name"
How can this night end? So many scenarios ran through your mind but alas the wetness of his mouth made the rest disappear.
He pressed his body against you and his hand moved to your knee. A small moan escaped your lips and it made him look into your eyes.
"What is the matter?"
"N-nothing"
"It is something. Did I hurt you?"
"No"
"Then what?"
"I..."
"Y/N" he whispered
"I don't know how can this... be... grow more than a kiss"
He saw the innocence of your statement, of course, he could never compare you to the other women he has met. They knew with exactitude how this could "grow" and yet you, a different golden fruit in front of him were questioning whether a kiss is already what means intimacy.
"It can" he gulped seeing your shining eyes "It definitely can"
"How"
"I cannot show you now, my dear"
"Why?"
"Because I don't trust myself"
"But-"
"I want you, Y/N. Not only your mouth but all of you" he moved his hand and cupped your face "I cannot show you this tonight but if you will give me the chance, I promise I will do my best"
"To what?" your question carried a heavy responsibility in its meaning
"To..." he snorted "do something. I don't know" he laughed "Close that robe of yours and I shall accompany you to your house. You ought to sleep now"
"Impossible"
"Do your best" he kissed your forehead "Let's go"
The night was quiet, and as he held your hand and guided you through the back gardens of the other houses you kept yourself in silence. The soil under your slippers was not there you were sure. As if you were floating.
"Go on then," he said pointing at the backdoor "Be a good girl and sleep"
Suddenly the wetness you felt between your legs came back "Right... shall I see you tomorrow?"
He took your hand and placed a finger but he stole a very haste kiss from your lips. A grin on his face as you smiled inr return at the stolen kiss "You will"
"And the day after?"
"Of course"
"And the one after that"
"You are being too greedy but I'll say yes because it is you"
You nodded and turned the knob of the back door but a hand turned you gently away from it "Yes?"
Benedict stood there like a child. He was silent and then he softly smiled "Nothing, go on you, sneaky girl. Next time don't even bother bringing that poetry book. We won't need it"
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton#bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton fic#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton/reader#smut#fic#bridgerton fic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#benedict bridgerton x you#fanfiction#smut fanfiction#18+ only#18+ content#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton smut
97 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mirror, Mirror
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.
Word Count: 2.2k
Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3
It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind.
Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.
With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?
You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.
Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.
Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers.
You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy.
You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.
“Wife, what are you doing?”
You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.
“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre.
“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.
“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.
A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.
“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight.
Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch.
“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”
“That would be a scandal!”
There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.
“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.
He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom.
“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?”
“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”
Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away.
“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.
You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.
Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.
“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.
You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.
“Here?”
You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.
“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.
“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”
“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure.
Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.
His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.
He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.
As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.
You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.
Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.
His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.
“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.
You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.
Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.
Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.
Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion.
There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.
If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.
And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…
Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies
#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton smut#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton imagine
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
b.b. | With child
Summary: He was so absorbed by his own created misery; he hadn’t actually thought about what you could be thinking. How hard was it for you to congratulate all of your friends on their pregnancy, to watch over all of his nieces and nephews? It was all within easy reach and never really yours.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x f!reader
Warnings: angst ('cause I can't write anything else), alluding to sex (no description whatsoever), discussions around pregnancy, pregnancy, mention of alcohol.
Words Count: 2.1k
Author's Notes: Had this in the work for the longest time. I was actually thinking to publish it for his season (#4 I hope!). But we got new stills of Season 3 and it's nearly Valentine's Day so... Enjoy!
“Are you-” you asked when you noticed your sister-in-law had let her glass of wine and her plate untouched.
Your words stayed lost on your tongue, yet Daphne, sat in front of Benedict and next to you, knew exactly what you were about and nodded slightly, tears in her eyes. You let out a small cry of excitement and leant in to hug her. While you wore the most delighted expression, Benedict’s heart sunk a little at the news.
His sister was with child. Again. She was the second women of his family to be expecting this year, while he had yet an exciting news to share himself.
You both had wed a little over than a year and a half ago now and were yet to be blessed with a child. You were doing your best, of course, but none your efforts had been fruitful so far. Benedict did not mind; he had waited his whole life to meet you, he definitely could wait a little bit longer.
He did not mind, or so he thought…
Tonight, he thought life was particularly unfair to him. Every pregnancy announcement was only nourishing this harrowing feeling in his chest. All he could feel was his siblings’ bliss and it made him sick to the stomach. Yes, he was sick with jealousy - and ultimately selfish. He just couldn’t wait to feel your belly growing, to hold your children, to watch them playing around with their cousins, for them to grow older and become adults themselves. Just this simple thought made his very own heart felt extremely heavy.
Politely and quietly, he raised his glass wishing his sister a healthy pregnancy, before drinking away his sorrow.
The ride home that night was particularly quiet.
Silence had never been a thing between the two of you. Benedict was usually the most talkative, telling you about his days, about whatever painting he was going to paint, about that book he had been reading. You would listen, looking back at him with your big bright eyes and a soft smile onto your lips. Other times, he would watch you pacing back and forth in his study while passionately debating about politics. He would be drawing imaginary circles on your soft skin as you were lying in bed, you telling him about another one of your days chaperoning one of his sisters. He would listen to your laugh at one of his jokes. Even your fights would be followed by soft apologies, quiet words, whimpers, and love.
On the contrary, that night, the air was thick with something he couldn’t quite describe, and the coach was wrapped up in dark clouds, a genuine storm in the awakening. Sat on the opposite side, you were looking through the window, your face only light up by the few shines of the full moon. Benedict was so focused on his own thought that he didn’t realize you hadn’t had a word for the rest of the night.
He was so absorbed by his own created misery; he hadn’t actually thought about what you could be thinking. How hard was it for you to congratulate all of your friends on their pregnancy, to watch over all of his nieces and nephews? It was all within easy reach and never really yours. It only made him angrier at the entire world. Why couldn’t they let you live this as well?
He would have liked to discuss this with you - his regrets, his hope - but he was too afraid you would realize what a failure he was. How disappointed with him you were. How you would hate him for not being able to offer you this. So, he sat back in his seat and watched out of his own window.
When the coach stopped in front of your residence, Benedict got out first, offering his hand to help you getting down the small step like he always did. You smiled at him, thanking him politely, and let go of his hand as soon as your two feet were on the ground. It didn’t mean anything, he tried to reassure himself, you needed both of your hands to grab the tissue of your dress to prevent the hem from getting wet and dirty. Yet, he couldn’t help the sharp pain in his chest.
Silently, he followed you inside, hat in his hands, jaw locked. You were welcomed as usual by your housemaid, who got both of your coats and stayed there, in the uncomfortable silence, arms full, waiting for one of you to dismiss her. As you took off your gloves and didn’t dare look at Benedict, he nodded sharply to let her know she could go and watched her somehow disappear in an instant.
Suddenly, it was only the two of you again and it was all too much for him. He couldn’t breathe properly; his chest being crushed by the invisible weight of his sorrow. He couldn’t bare staying with you one more second. He needed to get out of here.
“Good night,” he said firmly, before walking to his study.
Would he have looked back he would have seen you watching him disappear in the corridor. You, all alone in the middle of the hall, arms dangling. He would have seen the frown on your face and the hurt in your eyes. Would he have looked back he would have run back to your side. Instead, he did none of that. He continued marching, head up high, trying to escape his own misery.
You sighed before turning in the opposite direction and to your shared bedroom.
Benedict went to bed less than an hour after you.
He had been haunted by guilt as soon as he had reached his study, sadness evaporating once he had stepped inside the room. Instead of turning back and chasing after you, he had tried to put his head in order. He then had tried painting whatever he was feeling, but he could only stay in front of his white canvas, terrified of laying his brush on the cotton. He had tried writing it, but he couldn’t concentrate enough; his thoughts always drifting to you, alone in your bedroom. He had then settled on having a drink to wait long enough for you to fall asleep before he could go to bed - his other option would have been to sleep in his study if he got too drunk, which he did not.
He had thought long about the whole situation. It wasn’t like you were not trying. Sometimes, even with doing the right things, it didn’t happen. He would need to accept this. And he couldn’t continue being a terrible husband. It wasn’t your fault; it wasn’t anybody’s fault actually. What he knew more than anything though was that he loved you. Whatever would happen, he could not afford to lose you.
He had decided he would come clean tomorrow, but for now, he only wanted to sleep with you by his side.
In the dark of your room, Benedict undressed and lied besides you as silently as possible.
All he could hear was your uneven breathing; whatever dream you were having did not seem to be pleasant. He reached out to your arm, hoping that you could feel his presence through his touch and know he would always be there for you.
It wasn’t until your body was rocked by a hiccup that he understood that you were not having a bad dream, you were crying.
“Y/N?” he asked, lying on his side to face your back.
“I am so sorry,” your voice was only a whisper.
He gently made you roll on your side. Even in the dark, his right hand was able to find your face and his thumb to rub the tears away. Before he could ask what was wrong, you spoke:
“I am so-” You chocked on – yet – another sob and it took you a couple of seconds to even out your breathing so you could speak properly: “So sorry- for not being able to get you- get you what you ever wanted.”
“My love,” he sighed, grabbing the back of your neck to bring you closer. Instinctively, you hide your face in his chest, and he started stroking your hair to try and calm you. “My love, do not ever feel guilty on this.”
“I have tried every tea, every method that is supposed to help,” you cried some more.
It broke his heart to realize the burden on your heart - of course, if he was feeling it, you would have too. He finally understood how selfish he had been, how centred on his own pain he was and so oblivious to yours. It had never been a subject between the two of you, but it was slowly crushing you both.
“My love, this is not your fault.”
“You don’t see the pity in their eyes. You don’t hear them whisper.” You sniffled against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. “We are even blessed Lady Whistletown has not written about us.” He heard the frustration in your voice and the ton of it made him understand how you had tried to suppress the guilt but failed. It pained him that out of all of this, it was you who were the one being charged guilty by everyone - you included. As if you couldn’t imagine it being his own fault. As if you couldn’t imagine it being anyone’s fault but yours.
“Perhaps, I-” he stopped, running a hand through his hair out of frustration. “I drink loads of Colin’s stupid tea; I paint with all sorts of chemicals substance. Perhaps, I can’t-”
“Ben, of course, no!”
“Perhaps we won’t ever-” he confessed, but he couldn’t even say it out loud. It was all too much.
You moved against him, and he felt both of your hands grabbing his face, your forehead resting again his. He felt your hot breath against his skin, and he hugged you tighter, crushing your bones, making sure you were close.
He had you, he kept repeating himself. It was all that mattered. Of course, it was a dear wish of his to see mini versions of yourselves running around, but not at all costs. He wasn’t willing to sacrifice what you both had, right here, right now.
“We are both healthy, it is more than all I could ever wish for.”
“Will this ever be enough for you, though?” you asked so quietly he nearly did not hear you.
Benedict frowned. Was it really what you thought? That he would leave you? That your own self was not enough for him? He had been an even more terrible husband he had thought to lead you thinking this. He had failed you on so many levels.
“I was so absorbed by my own desire of having my own family,” he whispered back like he was telling you a secret, “I never asked if you also desire to have children of your own.”
“Ben, of course, I want your children!”
Benedict wanted to express how grateful he was to have you in his life, but no words came to his mind at that moment. He only reached out to your lips, trying to express how much he loved you.
If he could not tell you, he could still show you…
Hours later, while you were lying in bed, your head on Benedict’s chest, his left hand drawing invisible love words on your back and the other holding you close, he thought that there was nothing else he would like to do than stay with you, like this, forever.
“We should just take some time away from here.”
“What do you mean? The season only began-”
“To hell with worldliness. Some time away, just the two of us.” The sun was slowly peeking through the blinds, its yellow light was painting on your naked skin a glowy spectrum. “I heard South of France is particularly beautiful, this time of the year.”
Your chin on his chest, you looked back at him, eyes bright. He was looking at you the same way you had catch him do a million time: a soft smile on his lips, his eyes filled of this spark, shinning only for you. You didn’t care how beautiful France would be, he was the most beautiful view you had ever laid eyes on.
His hand brushed some hair out of your face, and you grabbed it to kiss his knuckles.
“France, it is then.”
Little did you know, you would be coming back home a few months later, bearing your own little miracle.
One of the many to come.
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton x fem!reader#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x female reader#lea's writing#benedict bridgerton fanfiction
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
the ultimate deception | benedict bridgerton (part one)
summary: you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?
pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!(artist)reader
word count: 4k
warning(s): poor writing and dialogue (sue me, I'm rusty lol), very unedited so if there are mistakes, I apologize, misogyny, penelope aka Lady Whistledown's biggest defender
a/n: this is definitely going to be more than one part, but I wanted to post something after so many months. Let me know how you like it (or don't like it haha)...comments and feedback are much appreciated <3
• • • • • •
“I wish I possessed merely an ounce of your talent.”
Benedict’s gaze seems to be wholly absorbing your latest painting, a depiction of the botanical wonders of London’s Royal Kew Gardens.
You puff out a breath, blowing on the feathery end of one of your writing quills. In your haste, it had gotten loose, tickling your face irritatingly. Tucking it back behind your ear, you wave him off. “You have much more talent than you give yourself credit for.” You admit through squinted eyes, scanning your work. “You simply lack conviction. And you worry far too much about what others think of you.”
Benedict smiles, receiving your words as the highest of praise. He reaches out to take a better look at the piece of art before him. “You flatter me.” He mumbles in awe. “But I suppose there’s a chance you could be right.”
Chuckling at his words, you grin knowingly. You’re right. It’s more than a chance…you just are. He knows it too.
You both continue to steadily eye the painting, you out of critical evaluation of your work, and him in sheer admiration of it.
Benedict’s favourite part remains the beautifully bloomed magnolias that are scattered across the canvas. He’d been sure to tell you numerous times of their elegance while you’d been working on it, eagerly awaiting the finished product. As you’ve come to realize, Benedict loves watching you work. It’s one of the prices you’ve had to pay for his allowance of your workstation being at Bridgerton House, if you could even call it that.
You are grateful, truly. You wouldn’t be able to make your own living without his kindness. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself in the way you prefer to.
“When will Augustus Leighton be displaying his latest work of perfection?” Benedict’s question reminds you of your fate as an artist.
Augustus Leighton is the pseudonym you paint under. Using his name, you have become a well known artist among the ton, even going so far as to have a painting hung at Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult, you must admit, pretending to be someone else. But it’s a necessary evil.
Painting as a woman would get you nowhere. Especially as a woman with no money (particularly at the time you began), no status, and no husband.
Your mother is a seamstress with little to her name and your father was a servant to Violet and Edmund Bridgerton, before his heart became too weak. He passed away when you were thirteen, only a few years after the Bridgerton children had lost their own father. You’d grown up with little money, but Violet had been kind to both you and your mother, seeing how close you’d become with her children.
You were raised alongside them, Benedict and Eloise becoming your closest of friends. At three and twenty, there are five years between you and the two siblings in either direction, with Eloise being freshly eighteen, and Benedict having turned twenty eight. To this day, they remain two of only three people who know of your true identity, outside of Penelope Featherington.
You hadn’t exactly meant for Eloise or Penelope to find out about it, but once they had, it became comforting to have more than just Benedict to speak to about your predicament. Especially considering, although Benedict has been wonderfully supportive, he could never understand the struggle a woman must endure in a male dominated world.
“Likely never. This one is a gift for Lady Danbury.” You answer Benedict’s inquiry after a bout of silence. “She’s spoken about her love of these gardens quite regularly, so I thought, why not have Mr. Leighton recreate it for her?”
“How will you get it to her?” He questions.
A smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I have my ways, lest you worry about it.”
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
The next few days are interesting to say the least. You’d somehow managed to get the painting delivered to Lady Danbury, and as far as Violet had been willing to speak of her latest visit with the formidable aforementioned woman, you have been made aware that she adores it.
You’d also heard more about it from Benedict, who’d mentioned something about her being at a loss for words, an ultimate shock to both him and his mother. They’d never seen her look so bewildered.
According to Eloise, Lady Danbury had been surprised to receive such a gift, especially of something so near and dear to her heart. She’d said it reminded her of her time with the Queen, telling the young Bridgerton woman about the months just after her husband had passed, when a new independent lifestyle began to bloom for her.
The painting itself reminded her that women like her could be free, and one day, they would be. That sort of metaphorical mindset had definitely appealed to Eloise’s sense of social justice. She’d been more than excited to tell you about the older woman’s reaction to your art, claiming it to be a wonderful revelation.
Today though, as you sit in the Bridgerton’s common living room, the opposite representation of said female autonomy rests in your hands. The paper feels rough against your skin as you pass it to Eloise who’s propped excitedly to the left of you. You’ve never been a fan of Lady Whistledown’s gossip column, although you can admire her unabashed confidence. But despite her strong will as an author, which could be seen as an inherently empowering trait, you are of the impression that she goes about it in an entirely backward way.
Women don’t need to put each other down to build themselves up. It accomplishes nothing, consequently acting as a source of nourishment for the patriarchy you find yourself trapped in.
“You’re not going to read it?” Eloise asks as she takes the pamphlet from you.
“I never do.” Is your instant reply.
Penelope perks up at the mention of the column, eyes trained curiously on you. If you had known better, you’d say she was a little too interested.
But at this moment you shrug it off, listening with no suspicion as she asks a simple, “Why?”
You don’t have the hindsight to understand why your stomach turns at her question, but you respond anyway. “I tend to think of Lady Whistledown as a poison.” It’s the first time you’ve voiced such an opinion.
Penelope and Eloise turn to you in surprise. “Come again?” Penelope’s soft voice cuts through.
“She is a poison.” You repeat before explaining yourself. “Do not get me wrong, I hold admiration for her bravado, but her words, the things she writes, they cause nothing but pain and conflict for those she chooses to sink her teeth into.”
“But she’s an independent woman.” Eloise interjects. “One who is doing more than any of us could dream of. She is making a name for herself!”
You try to think about your next words carefully, but your mouth makes quick work of a reply. “A name which she hides behind, casting stones through the guise and safety of anonymity.”
Penelope lets out a scoff from beside you. She’s always been one to defend the infamous gossip columnist. “At least she does not hide herself behind the mask of a man.” That feels like a shot. “The people know full well of her gender, despite her true identity remaining a secret.”
You hear the implication on her tongue. The same cannot be said for you.
And she’s not wrong. You do hide yourself behind the mask of a man. You’d never once denied that.
You sigh. “I know you must think of me as a hypocrite.”
Eloise agrees hesitantly. “Only a little.” She admits. “It’s just that you do the same as Mr. Leighton.”
You soften at her honesty. Truthfully, you understand where she’s coming from, but you can’t help the urge you feel to defend yourself.
“I disguise myself as Augutus because I know that no artist or art critic alike will take me seriously as I am. I want to share my work with the world, that is simply all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted.”
“Does that not make you a coward?” Penelope inquires, although it feels less like a question and more like an opinion. This is what she believes. And she's entitled to that.
“Perhaps.” You nod in acknowledgment. “But it has also made me uniquely successful. And I take great pride knowing that my work is highly regarded, in spite of the fact that I have to be someone else to succeed.”
“Does that ever bother you?” Eloise persists. “Knowing that no one will know you for the work you have done?”
Before you can respond, Penelope chimes in with a query of her own. “Does it ever make you feel guilty, lying as you do?” This feels like a challenge.
You turn to Eloise, answering her first. “No, I feel quite unbothered. I like the privacy it provides me.” Your gaze flicks between the two girls, a fire in your eyes as you speak.
You answer Penelope’s question next. “Guilt is one of the last feelings to cross my mind.” You feel content with it. “Because of Augustus, I have my own money, my own independence. I do not need a man to survive or to be happy. I have choices. And that's a facet of my life I never dreamed could have existed. If there is anything more empowering for a woman than that, I cannot think of it.”
Eloise listens to your words carefully, absorbing them, reveling in them. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. Independence is a sign of true equality. And you have that. Not because of the name you hide behind, but because you’d used the insecurities of men to your advantage. You’d played the game and won.
“I suppose I have been quite short sighted.” There’s much less arrogance in her tone. Eloise sounds humbled. “You’ve given me a new perspective to think about.”
Penelope does not enjoy the direction this conversation has headed. “Surely you cannot think yourself above someone such as Lady Whistledown.”
Your face scrunches in thought. “Above?” You stipulate. “I do not think myself above anyone, gender aside. But I do think I have a much higher sense of self respect than she does.”
“And how could that possibly be?” Penelope has to bite her tongue. She wants to say more, defend herself more. But she cannot.
Eloise cuts in. “Lady Whistledown has the utmost confidence in herself. I dare say more than all the women in London combined. As much as I have come to see your side, I cannot agree with that.”
“One’s high level of confidence is of little concern here.” You deliver. “Often, in matters regarding the human condition, such as these, it can act as a detriment.” Your eyes narrow as you speak. “Self respect and self confidence can coincide, but they are not the same.”
Eloise laughs out of confusion. She’s not used to being this clueless. “I don’t understand.” She says.
“Ah,” you decide to stop tiptoeing around the subject. “I merely think that no self-respecting woman would use the pain and suffering of other women, or any other person for that matter, for their own profit and entertainment.”
Eloise’s smile drops. “Oh.” Again, she hadn’t thought of it that way. But what resonates with her most is that you’re not wrong.
“Is that what you truly think of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope’s voice is calm and collected for the first time this afternoon. It almost scares you.
“Yes.” You say, before voicing, “However, I mean no offense to either of you. I know how much you girls adore her column. I just want more for you than what she does. A life of gossip is dangerous, and you deserve so much more.”
If you had known you’d been talking to Lady Whistledown herself, maybe you would have kept those opinions to yourself. But little did you know how much your life was about to change, how dangerously you’d walked the line, and how much vengeance rests in Penelope Featherington’s soul.
Future note to self, do not play with fire if one does not wish to get burnt.
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
“(Y/n), I think you need to see this.” Benedict holds up the newest edition of London’s famous gossip column.
Your heart sinks at the look in his eyes. I’m sorry they seem to say.
You haven’t even read it and you already know it’s bad. Handing it to you, Benedict looks hesitant, almost in preparation of what's to come. As you take it from him, you glance down at the ink on the paper, her handwriting etched in your brain.
You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to read:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It has come to this author’s attention that a certain individual is playing an unforgivable game of deception within the world of classical art that this ton so highly regards. This artisan has gone to great lengths to keep their true identity from you, painting under a well recognized pseudonym.
By now you may have guessed, this artist is a woman. One who has tricked you and lied to you by passing her work off as that of a man’s. What a horrid crime it is to keep such a secret from you, and a desperate one, I must admit. A woman so foul as to seek such attention for her art, far too greedy to be content with the life so many of the wonderful women of the ton lead. Instead, she parades around disguising herself so she can live a life she feels entitled to.
This author asks you to consider the arrogance of it all. But the question remains, as I am sure you are desperate to uncover: who is the serpent who remains among us?
And so it is with great sorrow that I announce the once beloved Augustus Leighton is a fraud. A man never seen in the public setting, has given us a reason why. He is a woman.
And her name, ladies and gentleman of London, is (Y/n) (L/n).
As I am sure you, gentle reader, are shocked at this revelation, I will take a moment to address the woman this particular entry concerns.
May I remind you Miss (L/n), I have ears and eyes everywhere. Or did you forget? It would do you a world of good to remember that the next time you think about besmirching me. And, as I write this, I must say, this warning goes for all. Heed it, live by it, breathe by it. I am not a woman you want to cross.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown
Panic crawls through your body. You want to cry, scream, maybe even simply die from the anxiety you’re feeling.
“What am I going to do?”
Your voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. Shattered, ragged, and tired, and Benedict can do nothing but hold you.
Again, as your body shakes and caves into the pressure you think, what am I going to do?
• ж • ж • ж • ж •
The moment Eloise enters the room with Anthony at her side, your mind is sent ablaze. Only three people had known about Augustus. Only three people could have possibly let it slip, and you know for a fact it wasn’t Benedict.
As much as you want to believe Eloise would never do something like that to you, you can’t help but feel like she might have offhandedly mentioned it to someone. Her mouth had always worked much faster than her brain.
Benedict’s gaze meets yours in understanding. He hopes his sister hasn’t done this; he’ll be furious if she has.
You’re about to say something when a certain eldest Bridgerton catches you off guard. Anthony smiles when he sees you, eyes twinkling uncharacteristically so.
“I had no idea you could paint like that.” He says. “I must admit, I’m quite proud of you.”
You blink rapidly in confusion. Proud? In all the years you’ve known Anthony, he’s never told you he’s proud of you.
“So you’ve read the column then?” Your head hangs in shame. Everyone in London has probably read it by now.
“Everyone has.” Eloise pipes in timidly, confirming your suspicions.
She’s nervous, understandably so, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. You assume when you finally catch her gaze that she’ll avert it quickly, but instead, she holds it well.
We need to talk.
Benedict, reading the room perfectly, coughs in apprehension. “Brother, how about we let these ladies be for a moment? I’m certain they have some things to discuss.”
“Of course.” Anthony nods with a smile, not before reminding you how proud he is of you.
If anything good can come of this, it might just be that.
Once alone, Eloise is eager to assure you of her innocence. “I spoke to no one.” She promises. “Blood be forgotten, you’re my sister (Y/n). I would never betray you like that.”
The look on her face is one of pure panic; she needs you to believe her. And despite everything, you do. It almost makes you feel guilty that you questioned her.
“It’s alright.” You assure her. “I know you wouldn’t.”
But that only leaves one person…
“I think Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” You're taken aback by Eloise’s words, like a stab to the chest. Twisting the knife in further, she corrects, “I know she is.”
Moments of silence pass before you can collect your thoughts. “How long have you known?”
This is where Eloise loses her composure. Pure shame is etched upon her features. “I caught her a few weeks ago.”
A few weeks. A few weeks… A FEW WEEKS?
“Oh.” Your murmur is dejected and weak.
Eloise had known you’d been slandering Lady Whistledown in front of Lady Whistledown, and she’d done nothing to stop you, except defend her best friend’s honour. No wonder she’d been so reluctant to agree with you.
“I wanted to say something.” Eloise stammers. “But I couldn’t. Penelope doesn’t know that I know.”
You inhale a staggered breath of air, face falling to your palms. “I’ve been such a fool. How could I have been so stupid?”
“You have not.” The girl beside you opposes before continuing, “Trust me, I am furious with Penelope. The things she’s done and said about me, about the people I care about, I’m not sure I can forgive her for it.”
You scoff lightly. Trust her? How are you supposed to do that?
Sure, Eloise has certainly been burned by Lady Whistledown before, but she’s always had her name to fall back on. “You have no idea what it’s like, Eloise.”
“I’m sorry.” She slumps in apology, shrinking in on herself. Eloise likes to think she can understand where you’re coming from. She’s a woman, same as you, one who has the same struggles against the patriarchy, and yet, hers are much different.
“Don’t.” You dismiss her apology in frustration. It feels harsh but necessary. “You always speak about feminism and the difficulties of being a woman. How it is impossible for you to hold title and rank, or to be recognized for your accomplishments. But you are a Bridgerton Eloise, and that comes with more privilege, more title, more rank, and more acknowledgment in society than you seem to understand.”
Eloise’s brow furrows. “More often than not, that name is a burden, something you could not possibly grasp.”
“And I should not have to.” Your lips pull into a thin line. This isn’t a competition, but you feel it necessary to defend your point wholly. “I am the daughter of a servant and a seamstress. I have no money, no control, and no future if I am not to marry. Since the day I was born, I belonged to someone else. You talk of struggle, but you have no idea what it truly means.”
Eloise doesn’t like what you’re implying. “You think I live a life of luxury? That I am a stranger to the adversities life has to offer? I can assure you, I know much more about the struggles of which you speak. My mother has prepared me for the purpose of my future; finding a husband is imperative.”
“You plan to remain unmarried, correct?” You ask her seriously.
“With every fiber in my being.” Is her scathing reply. And it only serves to prove your point. But you can see her side of things too.
“El, you defy your mother with your distaste for society. And while I applaud your determination to fight for equality, your fault remains in your failure to recognize the entitlement that has been bestowed upon you simply by having that choice. Unlike so many women, you can choose to live your life as a spinster. For you, those options exist. For me, I have not one choice besides finding a well suited, at best, middle class husband, because that is all I am suited for.”
In this moment, her heart shatters for you. Is that really what you think of yourself? “You cannot possibly mean that.”
“It’s how it has to be.” You affirm.
“It’s not.” She disagrees. “There’s so much more for you than a husband.”
Both your defenses are down, walls have collapsed, and you’re starting to get through to each other. She’s starting to grasp the gravity of what this means for you. Your career is more than likely over, as is the steady source of income you’d managed to build. Except where before you’d had less than no money to your name, you now had a healthy dowry (that you’d earned no less) to find a more comfortable suitor.
Eloise sees it now. What Penelope has done is monumentally life changing.
However, as emotional as this circumstance is, you still feel the need to reach out. She’s your sister after all.
“Eloise,” your eyes search hers. They tread in a sea of empathy. “I never meant to imply you have lived a life without misfortunes. I’m not trying to diminish your hurt. But I thought if you heard my side, you might come to understand mine.”
She softens at your admission, having gotten carried away in defending herself. Nodding, she smiles gently. “I do.” She says. “And while you may not bear the Bridgerton surname, you do have us. Every Bridgerton will stand behind you, always.”
Against every fibre in your being, you believe her. Somehow you’ll always have this little family of yours, somehow you hope you’ll be okay…
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton x fem!reader#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x female reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 — benedict bridgerton x female reader . in which benedict discovers a lady asleep on his bed after retiring from the annual bridgerton ball for the night.
3200 words | a fluffy mess ! | masterlist | suggest fics ideas
The last thing that Benedict had expected to see when stumbling into his bedchambers after retiring from the ball for the night, still slightly tipsy, was a lady fast asleep on his bed. But Alas — there you were. Fast asleep, chest slowly rising and then falling again, your lips parted and the material of your ballgown draped in a rather messy manner around you.
He rubbed at his eyes harshly, as if doing so would prove that you were indeed a figment of his imagination, that he was coming down with a fever and therefore hallucinating, that a shadow had taken form on his bed and he had simply mistaken it for a girl. But no. You were actually there. On his bed.
Benedict felt his mouth fall open and shut again – bewildered but slowly coming to his senses. He finally closed the door behind him, so as to ensure nobody would see you, that your reputation wouldn’t be ruined over something which wasn’t anything. “Alright… alright.” he mumbled to himself, taking a few steps closer to the bed and kneeling onto the mattress besides you. Hoping that perhaps his weight shifting underneath would wake you up but… no. Instead you just mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, shifting onto your side as you did so.
The annual Bridgerton ball had taken place that night, was still taking place downstairs in fact, and was still running into the early hours of the morning. But Benedict decided that he had had enough of the ton for one day, that he would get a somewhat early night. Instead one of his mother’s guests was napping in his bedchambers. Which he had to admit was something completely new to him, in their many years of hosting balls he had never experienced this.
“Um… Excuse me? Miss?” he half whispered, placing a light hand on the soft skin of your arm and attempting to gently shake you awake. “You really need to wake… You don’t wish to be caught alone together, hm? Especially not in my bedchamber…”
Upon further inspection, Benedict noticed that your hair had been lazily removed from its updo, and instead fell around you, framing your face and complimenting your features perfectly. He brushed a piece away from you, tucking it behind your ear and frowning as he stared down at you. He was entirely unsure of what to do, and far too aware of how the situation would appear to anybody else - your reputation would be completely ruined if you were caught in this situation. Benedict wanted to ask his mother for help, but was frightened to leave you here alone. What if something happened to you? What if something had already happened to you?
Benedict was unaware that just a few hours earlier, you had began to grow incredibly bored of the ball – by the mundanity of it all, the endless stream of men that your mother insisted on parading in front of you, the dances, the meaningless and far too polite conversation. You had instead decided to plant yourself in a corner nearest to the drinks table… where you had been drinking the night away ever since.
You were unsure of how much you had actually drank, but when the entire room began to spin in a rather unpleasant way you had decided that it was probably time to stop. You had managed to stagger out of the ballroom and into a hallway – though you can hardly remember the journey upstairs and through the hallways into Benedict’s bedchamber, nor can you remember falling asleep, but you know that you certainly didn’t intend to fall into such a deep slumber.
“Miss?” your eyes fluttered open to the sound of a concerned voice – a man. You sat yourself up quickly, too quickly. You immediately regretted it as the room began to sway again, the unfamiliar surroundings rocking back and fourth. You soon discovered the source of the voice, sat besides you on the bed with his eyebrows pulled together in concern. A Bridgerton. You weren’t entirely sure which one, but you knew that he was a Bridgerton.
“Oh dear God.” the words fell from you before you could stop them, bringing your hands upwards in an attempt to cover your face. Although you were still very drunk, you had enough sense to be embarrassed, mortified in fact, by the entire situation. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Mr Bridgerton.” you mumbled — refusing to meet his eyes, which were burning through you with an undeniably intense curiosity.
Benedict blinked in surprise, he had never got quite used to the entirety of the ton being aware of who he was — most of the time they cannot tell him apart from his brothers, but they are still aware that he is a Bridgerton, meanwhile he is half asleep when introduced to people by his mother, it can be quite rare that he actually remembers a name.
“Are you quite alright?”
“I’m a little bit...”
“Drunk? I know that. I can smell the alcohol on you. But are you alright? I mean you were hiding in my bedchambers, asleep on my bed. Did something happen? Other than the copious amounts of alcohol.” Underneath his concern, his curiosity, his twenty questions – was amusement. You could tell that he was repressing a smile, perhaps even in a small laugh.
You felt your cheeks begin to warm, feeling completely and utterly embarrassed – he could smell the alcohol on you after all. You stood from the bed as soon as you could get up, an action which ended up being a complete mistake, you began to stagger sideways almost instantly. Benedict having to stand from where he was sitting in order to prevent you from falling. He placed two firm yet gentle hands on your arms, holding you in one place.
“It’s alright… I’m not angry, if anything I’m quite amused…” you were forced to make eye contact with him at that point, and discovered that he was practically gazing at you, smiling as if he was biting back a laugh – he became serious again rather quickly. “But are you alright? Has anybody hurt you? Or was the annual Bridgerton ball just that boring?”
You shook your head quickly. “I’m quite alright… I didn’t mean to fall asleep, do you see? I just needed a rest.” Your excuse didn’t give you any comfort, here you were, apologising to someone who was practically a stranger for falling asleep on his bed because you… needed a rest.
“So you’re fine. Just sleepy, I suppose.”
“Just sleepy.” You confirmed.
“And drunk… Too much of my mother’s famous punch.”
A quiet giggle fell from your lips – he was actually quite amusing. Why couldn’t your mother have paraded him in front of you instead of the magnitudes of bores who she insisted on you at least considering?
“Do you care to tell me your name?” Benedict questioned, his head tilting to one side as his eyes scanned across your features, not making an attempt to hide his curiosity.
“Y/N.” You replied, raising your head in the most confident and self assured manner that you could muster.
“Well… It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Y/N.” He removed his hands from each of your arms, instead taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin, before gently releasing you. “I’m Benedict — You don’t have to bother with the Mr Bridgerton stuff, I’m just Benedict afterall.”
“I must be getting back… Benedict.” You smiled, hesitating at first but ultimately enjoying the way that his name sounded on your tongue. Benedict — you decided that you could get used to it. “I am sure that my mother will be worrying.”
Benedict raised an eyebrow, sitting back on the edge of his mattress. “You can hardly stand, Miss Y/N. I’m not sure that you’re in any fit state to return to the ball just yet.” He stretched his legs out, removing his waistcoat and discarding it somewhere across the room.
“I appreciate the concern but I am perfectly fine.” you crossed your arms across your chest, feining irritation as you stared down at where he now practically laid across the bed. Unbeknown to you, your words were still slurred – very slurred.
He was now laying back, gazing up at the ceiling. “You’ll be the talk of the town! I can picture it now… Do you think that you’ll be the main feature on Lady Whistledown? Or instead one of the more minor segments?” You stayed silent, arms staying tightly crossed. “Miss Y/N…” He held out an arm dramatically above him “drunken disaster…”
“That is very rude! Were you not taught never to speak to a lady in such a manner?” you exclaimed, picking up what was nearest to you and throwing it across the room, where it landed on his chest – luckily, it was quite a small book, and did no damage when it came into contact with him.
Benedict seemed utterly unfazed, laughing quietly to himself and opening the book to a random page – where he seemingly pretended to be utterly engrossed in the chapter. “Apparently not… I have four sisters so I am quite used to bickering with these so called ladies that you speak of.” He paused for a moment. “I will find something to sober you.” he stood, suddenly serious, his gaze turning to where you stood. “But only if you promise to stay here for the time being. If someone sees you leaving my bedchambers it would look most suspicious.”
You nodded quickly, knowing that as much as you wanted to disagree, he was most definitely right. “Just sit.” Benedict pointed to the bed, and you did so without hesitating, being very obedient. “And stay there. I won’t be gone for very long.”
Benedict managed to leave his bedchamber without being spotted – using the servants staircase in order to avoid seeing anybody, and making his way down to the kitchen in order to fetch tea and biscuits for you. Meanwhile, you sat on the edge of Benedict’s bed, inspecting the surroundings the best you could without moving. You noticed an easel in the corner of the room and raised an eyebrow – you wouldn’t have guessed that he was a painter, but then again, you hardly knew him.
The minutes dragged on for what felt like eternity, waiting for Benedict to return to his room, and when he finally did you weren’t expecting him to return carrying a huge tray in a rather clumsily manner. He placed it down on the table besides his bed, shutting the door behind him as quick as he could. “Sorry that took me so long I…” He hesitated for a moment, seeming to carefully think his words over. “If I’m being completely honest I couldn’t work the stove to heat the water… but I got there eventually. Tea and biscuits, for you.” Benedict smiled sheepishly, before beginning to pour you a cup of tea. He handed it to you, and you gratefully took it. “You actually stayed sat there, how obedient!”
You rolled your eyes, attempting to pay no mind to the way that particular comment made you feel – deciding to ignore it completely. “Thank you, Benedict.” Silence fell between the two of you, Benedict pouring a cup for himself before sitting besides you. “You’re an artist?”
He glanced over at the easel in the corner of the room before looking back to you, nodding as he did so. “Something like that… I like to draw, but whether I am an artist or not is most likely up for debate.”
“Are you any good? Would you be able to capture my likeness? Can I see one of your sketchbooks?” You inquired, questions falling from you with zero difficulty. You thought that perhaps you might be speaking too much, but Benedict entertained every question that you asked him.
He paused for a moment, eyes scanning you up and down – you couldn’t help but shiver underneath his gaze. “Hm… I’m certainly not a bad painter, though sometimes I doubt myself – I suppose we all doubt ourselves at times.” He was quiet once again, choosing his words carefully. “I’m unsure whether I’d be able to capture your beauty, but I’m always up for a challenge.” Benedict began to search through his bedside drawers, holding multiple sketchbooks in his hand. “I’m not sure if all of my sketches would be exactly… appropriate for a lady.”
Once again, your cheeks warmed in embarrassment, and you turned your attention quickly to your tea to hide just how flustered his words made you – trying to ignore him as he began to flick through the pages of the filled books, tossing a few aside as he deemed them as being too inappropriate for your eyes. Of course you were curious, but you chose not to press on.
You crossed your legs underneath you in the best way that you could manage whilst still wearing your ballgown, leaning forwards with interest as Benedict opened a sketchbook on the bed in front of you – pointing to the charcoal sketches. “My sisters… Daphne, Eloise, Francesca and Hyacinth.” he pointed to each picture, smiling proudly as he did so – proud more so of his actual sisters than he was of the drawings (although he knew that he had captured them well.)
“They’re beautiful, truly. You’re quite gifted.” You turned the page, smiling as you took in each sketch.
You certainly didn’t miss how Benedict’s cheeks flushed a reddish hue with each compliment, how his lips turned up at the corners into a shy smile. He was clearly passionate about his work, cared more than he wanted to about what others thought of his art, that he valued your opinion. “Thank you… it means a lot. Truly.”
The two of you spent as long as possible, talking, laughing, looking through Benedict’s sketchbooks, discussing books you had read recently – until you had sobered up… at least a little bit. The tea and biscuits soaking up some of the alcohol in your system, though there was nothing wrong with being a little bit merry at an event.
“I suppose you truly should be off now.” Benedict sighed, helping you to your feet. “Most people will be leaving soon… and you don’t want your mother to end up sending out a search party to find you.” You were certainly a lot more steady on your feet this time around, taking a few hesitant steps with the help of Benedict and feeling fine.
You nodded, sighing quietly to yourself – you had had a much more enjoyable night, with better conversations in the short amount of time spent with Benedict than you had had at any other ball. “Thank you, for being so kind… and I’m sorry again.”
Benedict shushed you, pressing a gentle finger to your lips – apparently feeling rather more bold than he usually would. “There’s no need to apologise – as strange as it was, I’ve had a lovely time. A better time than I would had I spent more time actually socialising.”
“Me too.” You admitted, smiling sheepishly at him. Benedict turned from you, creeping to the door of the room and slowly opening it in order to prevent it creaking — he peered out, eyes scanning the hall to ensure that nobody was around. “It’s clear.” He reached out his hand to guide you to the door and you gladly took it, enjoying the warmth of his skin on yours as you were lead from the door. Benedict walked you to the end of the hall, pointing as he gave you directions back to the ballroom.
You couldn’t help but feel a sadness within you as you walked the halls, taking in every tiny piece of detail: the paintings; the wallpaper; the furniture; the flooring – certain that you wouldn’t be returning. “Well… Goodbye.” You whispered shyly, offering a small wave before turning and beginning to descend the grand stairs.
“Wait…” Benedict mumbled, turning and taking your hand in his and spinning you around to face him. You felt your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, watching as he hesitated with his words before finally blurting out the question – “Can I see you again?”
“Of course you can… Mr Bridgerton.” You smiled, and in a feeling of unnatural and rare moment of courage you leaned up to kiss his cheek – pressing your soft lips to his skin before pulling away and watching as his face began to flush to a pretty shade of rosy pink. Unbelievable. You had managed to make Benedict Bridgerton blush.
Before he could speak, you practically ran from the scene, gathering up your skirt in your hands to ensure that you wouldn’t trip. You knew that it was probably quite a dangerous thing to do, considering the fact that you weren’t exactly sober.
Benedict watched as you ran from him until you were completely out of sight, his lips slightly parted in surprise as he struggled to process all of the events from that night — it all felt very much like a fever induced dream.
On returning to his bedchambers, Benedict flipped to a new page in his sketchbook and began to draw – wanting to sketch you to the best of his abilities before his memories began to fade. Despite his previous desire for an early and long night of sleep, he ended up staying awake for most of the night working on the portrait, ensuring that it would be ready before you awoke that morning.
And when you awoke one of the first things that you discovered was a grand bouquet of roses left on the table besides your bed, made up of all sorts of different shades and sizes… alongside a note. Your lady’s maid had brought the flowers into your room whilst you had slept, creeping along the wooden floor so as not to wake you. She was secretly excited for you, having sneakily seen the note which came with the bouquet – she had unfolded it before tucking it back into place.
Hours after the flowers had arrived, you finally awoke. Still in your nightgown, half asleep and still in your nightgown, half asleep and sporting a small alcohol induced headache - you had leaned over to inspect the flowers before reaching for and unfolding the note — discovering a drawing of yourself.
A small gasp escaped you as you took it in. Benedict. He had made you look beautiful, so beautiful – he had captured you perfectly, all of you, seeming to even capture the soul behind your eyes. You just seemed so alive. His signature was at the bottom of the portrait, alongside the words “Sketched with love and care for Miss Y/N. – Benedict Bridgerton.”
You ran your finger gently across the words, careful not to smudge any of it – the words repeating in your head again and again. A contented sigh falling from your lips, you fell back onto your mattress, holding the drawing close to your chest as the night’s events really sunk into you. It was hard to believe – yet the words on the page were there as proof — sketched with love and care for Miss Y/N. Benedict Bridgerton.
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton fanfic#benedict bridgerton fluff#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton blurb#benedict bridgerton x you#bridgerton fanfic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x reader
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Home.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
18+ MDI
Based on a request you can find here <3
Warnings: angst, mentions of family member death, mentions of alcohol, arranged marriage, awful reader relationship with mother, vaginal sex, nipple play, vaginal fingering, praise, making love
A.N: Hello my loves, and hello to my lovely anon. I'm so sorry for being MIA, I had midterms and good god they almost killed me ‘︿’. Anon- I hope that this is what you wanted, I am not the most experienced in writing angst but I found this quite fun (perhaps my love of making a dramatic story lol). Thank you all for the love, as always. Mwah ≧◡≦
He did not expect you to change so much in your time away. Sure he expected you to mature in the four years you were gone, you were coming back at the new age of twenty-one. He just did not expect all of the light, the light he loved, to be gone. His Y/N had changed. She had gone from warm to cold, from happy to sad, in such a short time.
Your father and his father were close friends. Both of them being Viscounts meant that they spent a lot of time together. You, being the eldest of your family but also too young and rowdy to really click with Anthony, got on just as well with Benedict. There was always an unspoken love between the two of you that neither of you were brave enough to admit.
The only one with who you got on better than Benedict, was your father. It was apparent for anyone to see that the two of you had a unique bond. A bond that you most certainly didn't hold for your mother. She was cold and extremely cruel, your father had only married her for convenience. So, when your father died, Benedict expected you to be devastated. Who wouldn't be? He had been sick for many years before his death, a case of scarlet fever that just never went away. It was expected, but that did not mean it was less painful.
The night he passed, you showed up at his family's doorstep in tears begging for the footman to bring him down. So, after being woken up by said footman, he tugged on a robe and rushed down the stairs. He saw you and immediately knew. He rushed to you and scooped you up in his arms before taking you up into his bedroom and soothing you into sleep. Proper decorum be dammed, he stayed with you the entire night and then had a carriage bring you back home at dawn.
A week later, you, your mother, and your younger sister showed up at the Bridgerton's door dressed in all black. Violet led you all into the drawing room and gathered the rest of the Bridgertons as well, after hearing your mother mention that she would like her dear friends to be present for a big announcement, always the attention hog. Benedict was dragged in by Eloise, expecting another lecture about the upcoming social season, but his face quickly fell when he saw you.
You already looked so defeated, so tired. You looked up and forced a sad smile, moving over on the sofa so he could sit next to you. He walked towards you quickly, and sat down next in the space you made, discretely offering his hand. Your face softened, and he could tell you were holding back tears, but nevertheless, you gripped his hand tight in your own before focusing your attention on your mother.
"We are going to France, where my family lives. I feel the girls should get to know the rest of their heritage now that their father has passed on." She says bluntly, the cold look on her face never changing. His eyes widen and instantly snap over to you, internally pleading with whatever power he can think of that this is not true. That you will not be swept away before he even has the chance to try and win you over.
You are chewing on your bottom lip, the anxious habit you have had ever since you were young. You look over at him slowly, your eyes filled with unshed tears that he knows you will not let fall. That is when he knows that it is true. His Y/N is leaving. For God knows how long. To be stolen by God knows who.
You sigh as you get out of the carriage that has trapped you for the past eight hours, stretching out your limbs before taking in the scenery. That damn two-day carriage ride from the port had been nothing but exhausting. The estate you grew up in is standing tall right in front of you, and yet it is almost unrecognizable now.
It looked the same, sure, but something about it seemed a lot less colorful without your father. The impending doom of your arranged marriage hanging over your head probably didn't help that fact either. Your mother had been clear in what she wanted when you got to France, a rich man. Not for herself, but for you. Someone who could expand upon the rather large dowery your father had left you. Someone who could make her rich, your happiness be damned.
And so that is just what you found. The hunt for a suitable husband had begun a year after you arrived in Paris, your eighteenth birthday coming and going without a peep from anyone but your sister, Lucy, and a long letter from Benedict. Your grandmother was just as cruel as your mother, if not more so. She quickly introduced you to a man named Noele Beaumont, a man in high-up places in French nobility. An extremely wealthy man.
In the three and a half years you had known him, the two of you had done nothing but fight. Well, the fighting consisted entirely of him shouting at you until you were either in tears or hidden away in the closet somewhere, your chest rising and falling much too fast. It seemed that cruelty was, in some sick and twisted way, attracted to you.
Your mother, after much convincing, had allowed you and Noele to take your home in London upon marriage. That, and, she had allowed for the marriage to be held in England. You were home, finally home, and now you were realizing that it does not matter if you are home or not. The world had lost its color.
"Y/N, whatever is the matter?" Lucy piques up from beside you, taking your hand. "I miss him, Luc. That is all. I miss him and I wish that he were the one here instead of mother." You whisper, wiping an escaped tear from your eye with the back of your hand before turning to your sister. "But at least I have you, and at least we are home." She smiles sadly in response, gently leading you inside.
Your mother greeted you both with a flat expression, having insisted on traveling home a week before to make sure nothing had gone awry in the years that you had been gone. Noele and his family will join you in a month, during the week of the marriage. It seems that neither of you wish to spend more time with each other than necessary. "You have a letter already, Y/N. From one of the Bridgerton's. Do make haste of reading it, we have no time for silliness." She mutters, handing it to you before walking off with your sister.
You sigh and walk into the drawing room after handing your cloak to a maid with a smile. You look around the familiar room and breathe deeply, hoping for the comforting smell of the tea your father used to brew, but are quickly disappointed when all you smell is your mother's obnoxious perfume. You sit down on the chair by the bookshelf and open the letter.
You recognize the handwriting immediately, Benedict. He wishes to see you as soon as he can, but more importantly, he has asked you to be a model in the latest portrait he is painting for his classes at the academy. You smile softly to yourself, taking in the woodsy scent that comes off the letter, the world getting a bit brighter if only for a moment. You sigh and walk up to your bedroom, smiling at the comfort that washes over you, before sitting down and drafting a letter of your own, telling him that you will make time for him come noon tomorrow.
You run your fingers over the parchment when you have finished signing your name. So many words left unsaid. You smile sadly and fold up the letter, sealing it with the wax crest of your family before passing it to a maid with instructions to take it to the Bridgerton household before the evening comes.
Oh, how you despise your mother. After about two hours of arguing yesterday, she had finally given up and allowed you to go and see Benedict. You were used to the names she called you, 'whore' and 'harlot' being the two she most often used, but she had far stepped over the line yesterday.
She had run out of insults to call you and moved on to Benedict. Insulting his artwork, his standing in his family, his habits, anything she could grasp at she used.
"You are to be married to a nobleman in a month, Y/N! You will be tainted by that boy, he is nothing but a disgrace! His head has always been in the clouds, you know that!" She shouted from where she stood in your bedroom. You grit your teeth. "Take that back this instant, you moron! That family has done everything for us! He has done everything for me, he cares more about me than you could ever dream of!" You shouted right back.
She had gone on for at least a half-hour more, finally giving up when Lucy walked in and pleaded with the both of you to stop. "You are nothing but a whore looking for attention, Y/N. You will ruin yourself with him. You will, and I will not help you out of the hole you dig yourself into." Your mother huffed, before turning and walking out of your bedroom.
Your sister had stayed with you last night. You had fallen asleep in her embrace, nothing but a mess of sobs. You wished for nothing more than to go to him right now and run away to the countryside, and leave all of it behind. But you had a duty, you had to look out for Lucy's happiness so she would not be doomed to the life that you are now forced to live.
You had woken up in the early morning, your lady's maid helping you into a dark blue dress before leaving you to your own devices. You spent the hours up until eleven reading and avoiding your mother like the plague. You walked downstairs once it was time to leave for the Bridgerton estate.
A short carriage ride later and there you are, in the same position that you were four and a half years ago, knocking on his door with tears in your eyes. You had become emotional about five minutes out, overcome with the joy of finally seeing him. Finally being able to speak to him, rather than imagining what his voice sounded like when you read his letters. You had missed the feeling of home when you were around him, you had missed how the world looked when he was in it. You had missed him.
He had been unable to sleep once he had written your letter, and unable to do anything but read in the drawing room in the hours before your arrival. He was sitting on pins and needles, waiting for the familiar sound of a knock on the front door to come so he could rush to it before any of the servants. He wanted your welcome home to be comforting, as he had known how much you had been through in France.
When he had gotten the letter explaining the marriage you had been dragged into he locked himself in his studio for weeks on end, being unreachable to anyone, even Eloise. He had spent the first two laying on the chaise, looking up at the ceiling with an unstoppable rush of tears slipping down his cheeks which only stopped when he fell into a restless sleep.
The tears turned to anger, which he let out through pages upon pages of poetry. Confessing his love, damming his foolishness or lack of words, berating himself into oblivion for why could he be so stupid as to not tell you to wait for him? To hold onto hope that he would save you?
Then the weeks of anger turned to inspiration, hours spent drowning his sadness with art. Countless paintings of you, of your favorite flowers, of the hill the both of you held so many memories upon, anything that could get him out of the depression he had been sucked into. It was the point that he was at now, a melancholic feeling lingering over his head that he refuses to let himself feel.
The knock comes right when the clock strikes twelve and he practically throws his book to the side, rushing to the door and throwing it open. You are finally home.
The tears start before you can stop them and he quickly tugs you inside, closing the door before wrapping his arms around you. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and finally, after months of not allowing yourself to cry, you sob. You sob hard, a million pent-up emotions releasing like the snap of a string in your chest.
You look up at him through your teary eyes and smile. "I have missed you dearly, Benedict." You whisper a hidden meaning you hope he can uncover buried beneath your words. He flashes that silly crooked smile you have come to adore before ruffling your hair. "I have missed you too, Y/N. You will never know how much I missed you." He says, wiping your tears before taking a step back.
"You have grown up. You look so... mature." He comments, almost as if he is trying to figure out something about you. Something that even you cannot decipher. You smile in return. "You have as well. I believe I have the right to call you an old man now." You hum, beginning down the hall to where you know the room he has painted in his entire life is.
He chuckles from behind you, before following. "I am but eight and twenty." He whines playfully and you laugh. "That is two years away from thirty, and if Anthony is old then so are you." You opine, looking back over your shoulder at him before stopping in front of his studio's door. He grins and nudges your shoulder before opening the door for you.
You marvel at the surrounding room when you walk in. You knew that he was a good artist, it came naturally to him, but he had improved in your time away. You walk into the center of the room, walking in a slow circle to take in all of his works which line the walls and stack up upon the floor. Most are of women in various states of dress, ever the lady's man Benedict Bridgerton.
You are glad that some things do not change, but it also makes a strange feeling of longing bubble up in your chest. You wish to be naked like the women in the paintings, talking and flirting with him for hours on end. Making love to him when the heat of the room becomes too much. You wish to wake up to him beside you in the morning, for every morning for the rest of time.
You shake the feeling off and look over at him, noticing that he has already taken his place behind the easel. It looks as if he has already started his sketch. "It is gorgeous in here, Ben. You are the most talented artist in all of England." You say, a look of pure adoration in your eyes that he immediately picks up on.
You wish to die with nothing but the image of that sweet pink color that overtakes his cheeks to remember. He quickly turns his attention to his canvas and nods slightly, clearing his throat. "And you are the best flatterer in all of England. Thank you Y/N." He says quietly. When you begin to turn to face him fully he holds up his hand. "I quite liked the position you were in when you were looking over your shoulder. If it is not too uncomfortable, might you hold it? You had the most beautiful look in your eye." He says kindly, looking up to meet your eyes.
It's your turn to blush at both his kindness and his way of complimenting you. He had always said these types of things in passing, not realizing how much they affected you. You nod and take your original place in the room making him smile. "Perfect, as always." He whispers to himself before returning to the sketch.
After about an hour and a half, your legs grow tired. "Benedict, might we take a break? My legs are getting achy." You say, and he meets your eyes. "Of course, I shall have the maids bring us some tea and you can tell me more about your time in France." He says, gesturing with his arm for you to sit on the chaise that sits by the window.
You do so gladly, taking in the image of him wiping his hands of charcoal. You blush at the thought of the feeling of those hands around your waist, or cupping your cheeks. God, this is torture. You wait for him to come back, which only takes a moment.
He sits down next to you and offers his hand. You look down at it and smile softly, taking it in your own just like you used to. What happens next, you could have never predicted in a million years. He lifts your gloved hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it. Your eyes widen and you open your mouth to speak, but you are quickly cut off by him slowly kissing up your arm.
"Benedict stop." You whisper in a tone that is a far cry away from the authority you wished for that statement to have. He doesn't, he presses kisses to your elbow, continuing to work up your arm. "Benedict, I am serious we mustn't." You say, a bit firmer as tears gather in your eyes, but he still does not relent. "Benedict!" You shout, ripping your arm away and standing up.
"Oh please." He scoffs. "Do not tell me you did not wish for me to do just that." He says, standing up with you and stepping close. "Have you gone utterly mad?! I am to be married by the end of the month!" You shout in return. You wish for nothing more than for him to continue but he cannot. You have a man to marry, a sister to set free. Nothing can come between that.
"You do not love him! You have told me those words exactly!" He shouts back and you shake your head, beginning to walk out of the room. You get all of two feet away before he grabs your arm, pulling you to his chest. He leans down, his breath ghosting over your ear. "I have loved you since we were children, Y/N." Your heart shatters when he whispers the word love in your ear.
"You cannot do this now." You say, trying to tug out of his grasp but he keeps his hold tight. "I have to say it now, I have been a fool. I have kept my mouth shut for far too long, but I can save you. I can take you far away from this place, I-" He starts, but you are quick to cut in.
"How could you possibly save me, Benedict?!" You shout, finally getting away. You turn around and look at him dead in the eye, your eyes beginning to water. "By running away?! We cannot! My sister will be left to deal with that woman all by herself and then my fate will be hers! I cannot let that happen!" You shout, tears streaming down your cheeks.
"I left and came back married and suddenly you gain the confidence to say this now?! It is far too late!" You sob. His face softens and he brings you into a tight embrace, one hand at the back of your head while the other runs up and down your back. "You are too late. Why did you wait?" You sob into his chest and he says nothing, allowing you to cry.
He places his chin on the top of your head as he rubs your back, rocking you from side to side. "You must think of yourself, Y/N. Your happiness. Your father left you his money for a reason, you know that." He whispers after a few minutes of listening to your sobs. You look up at him and he cups your cheek with the hand that was on your head. "Your mother, however terrifying she may be, does not hold the power over you she once did. Your father made sure of that." He continues.
"You own the estate, you have the money, and you can make your own decisions. You just need to tell her, you must be brave." He whispers as your crying calms. "But what if she... what if she does something to Lucy-" "She will not. She will not have the power to." He interrupts.
Lucy is capable, you know that much is true. You also know that he is right, you have the money and the house, and therefore you have the power. A final gift from your father that you were too scared to realize. You look up at him and before you can think twice about it, you press your lips to his.
He smiles into the kiss and pulls back after a moment, pressing his forehead to yours. "You are a fool, Benedict Bridgerton." You whisper, taking a deep breath. He chuckles. "Perhaps, but I am also a fool who wishes for nothing more than to marry you." He says and you smile. "I shall do what you suggest, what my father meant for me to do." You whisper and he nods. "And I will be right there with you." He murmurs before kissing you again.
After an hour of warm tea and affectionate words, he takes you back to your estate. You go back and forth with your mother for an hour, trying to be kind, but it is when she starts the insults that you snap. You threaten to sell the house in France and never speak to her ever again, let alone give her any money, and she quickly shuts up.
You write Noele and the engagement is called off within the week. For once you thank the man's hatred of you, for it made him all too eager to get away. The engagement between you and Benedict is announced the next week, and the wedding is planned for two months in advance. The ton gossips about the timeline, of course, but the two of you pay no mind. You have both waited far too long to get married, why wait even longer?
You lie restless in bed the week before your marriage, your thoughts filled with nothing but him. The kiss you shared when he confessed running through your mind, sending tingles between your legs. The hot feeling that overcomes your body makes you want to do the things you saw men and women do in the paintings that lined the walls of your favorite salon in Paris.
Sex. You knew what it was, anyone who spent more than five seconds in Paris knew what it was. You had fantasized about it before, only ever with Benedict. You wanted his hard cock buried deep inside of you for hours on end, you wanted his head between your thighs, your lips around his length. You wanted all of it, yet he had insisted on waiting until your wedding night.
You sigh, tugging on the silk sheets and rubbing your thighs together to try and ease the dull ache that settled in your core, whining in frustration when the feeling did not go away. You hear the tapping on your window, almost as if it was hailing in the middle of May.
You stand and walk to the large window that leads out to a view of the garden. A pebble hits the glass and you jump, placing a hand over your now racing heart, and look down at the garden. You grin when you find your fiance looking up at you with the crooked grin that has such a hold on your heart. You open the window and lean out.
"What on earth are you doing down there?" You laugh, leaning your elbows on the window and placing your chin on your hand. "You are meant to say something about Romeo." He calls back, his grin only widening as you giggle more. "I shall not. You must answer my question." You smile.
"You are no fun." He groans, dropping the pebbles on the ground. "I wished to see you. I have been nothing but restless tonight and I thought I would spend that restlessness with you. Might I come up?" He calls, already beginning to climb the lattice that lines the estate walls. You nod, even though he did not wait. "I am quite restless as well." You sigh, watching him climb. "You do not need to sneak, mother is already back in France and Lucy cares not of what we do." You hum as he climbs through the window.
He wraps his arms around you and picks you up. "It is more romantic to sneak through the window." He murmurs in your ear as you wrap your legs around his waist. "It was very romantic, I promise you." You whisper as he lays you back on the bed, stripping down to his trousers before sliding into bed with you and pulling the covers up over the both of you.
He nuzzles your neck and places his hands on your hips, pulling you close. It's quite an innocent gesture, but it sends that tingle you were experiencing earlier to your core. Arousal begins to dampen your panties and you press yourself against him, silently asking for more.
He smirks against your skin when you rub up against him. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before leaning back to look at you. "It seems you were restless for the same reason as I was, love." He teases, which makes you blush. He chuckles and cups your cheek, running his thumb along your cheekbone. "Might I request something of you?" He whispers.
"Of course." You return, leaning into his touch and closing your eyes. "I wish to make love to you, now. I cannot wait one more second, and I most certainly cannot wait until our wedding night" He whispers in your ear, kissing the skin below it.
He makes a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, making you moan softly in response. "Please." Is all you can manage as he bites down on the skin of your shoulder, making sure to leave a mark. He grins and pulls back, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You return it eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck. This time, a moan slips past his lips and his hands tighten around your hips.
He moves his hands down your legs, slipping them under your nightgown and cupping your breasts. You whine and break the kiss, pressing your forehead to his as you pant. He watches the look in your eye as his thumbs swipe over your hardened nipples, making your mouth fall open. He groans at the guttural moan that escapes you before taking his hands away and throwing back the covers.
"Benedict please." You breathe, grasping at his arms. He grins but shakes his head. "Patience my love. It will feel so much better if I tease you." He opines, unbuttoning his britches. You gasp when they come off, leaving him in nothing. His cock stands proud against his stomach, it is big and thick, much bigger than you imagined. You grow antsy with the fear that it will not fit inside.
He senses your apprehension and bends down, peppering your face with kisses. "Worry not, dearest, you need only to tell me to stop or to wait and I shall." He whispers, patting your hips as a signal to sit up, which you do. "I will get you plenty warmed up for me, I promise." He breathes against your skin, making you shiver.
He lifts your nightgown up and over your head, throwing it to where the rest of his clothes lay against the floor. He groans at the sight of you in nothing but your panties, his cock twitching with delight. He unties the ribbons that hold your underwear up on your hips, throwing them across the room before capturing your peaked nipple in his mouth.
Your head shoots back and you cry out, laying back on the bed. He follows, situating himself on top of you without releasing your nipple. His tongue swirls around the hardened bud as his other hand cups your other breast, his thumb and pointer finger tweaking your nipple.
Arousal drips down your thighs as you cant your hips up, desperate for more. He growls when the soft skin of your stomach meets his already weeping cock. He pulls back from your nipple, moving the hand that is not occupied with your breast down to your hips. He presses down on your hip bone and you whine when you realize you have lost your ability to brush against him.
"You are doing so well, darling. You mustn't move, it is making me want to bury my cock inside you right now and fuck you until you see stars." You moan at the thought, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him into another kiss. He grins against your mouth, letting you kiss him for a moment before pulling away and moving his hand off of your breast.
He moves that hand down to your hips, pressing down with just as much force as the other did. The one that was on your hips moves to your breast just as he takes your nipple into your mouth, giving your breasts the same treatment as before.
You are a moaning mess beneath him, your thighs and cunt soaked with your arousal as sweat drips down your neck. "Please, Ben... Need more. I... more." You whine, tugging on his hair. He lifts his head and smiles, making your heart flutter. He can go from a growling, groaning man to a loving partner in just seconds. It's intoxicating.
"Tell me where you need it, sweet girl." He whispers, kissing down your stomach and stopping just above your pubic hair, inhaling almost lewdly with a groan. You whine and your cheeks turn rosy with embarrassment.
"Between my legs..." You whisper, pressing your face into the pillow as the embarrassment of wanting him so much washes over you. He pats your thigh gently, making you look down at him. "Louder. Do not be ashamed. I want it just as much as you do." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your abdomen.
You smile softly, warmth blooming in your chest. You sigh and let out a breathy moan as he sucks on the skin just above where you wish he would. "I want you between my legs, Benedict. Please. I.. have thought of nothing else for nights." You beg, loudly now as his kisses turn sloppy.
He groans at the thought of you laying in bed, unable to sleep because of the thought of him fucking you, of him pleasing you with his fingers or your tongue, with your hand between your legs. Rubbing at your swollen clit until you come calling his name. He wishes for nothing else than to watch.
He runs his fingers through your soaked folds, the both of you moaning in unison. He rubs his nose through your patch of hair before pressing his tongue against your engorged clit, sucking and swirling as he pushes one of his long fingers into your body, making you cry out.
You silently thank God that Lucy insisted on sleeping in the room downstairs, as now you do not have to silence the steady stream of moans that slip from your lips as he sucks and fingers you into a headspace you have never been to.
You clench around his fingers as he slips another one into your tight hold, his tongue still swirling around your clit. Your hand shoots down to grab at his hair when he starts thrusting and curling his fingers into your body, the other grasping the silk sheets that rest across your bed.
You scream his name when his fingers find a spongey spot inside you that sends a bolt of pleasure right to your already abused clit, and you see stars. You gush down your thighs and his chin, and he pulls out his fingers. He peeks up from below, wiping his face with the back of his hand before sucking your juices from his fingers.
The sight sends you back into a state of arousal so strong that all you can think about is his big cock ripping you open as he fills you to the hilt. He grins when he sees the look in your eye, coming back up so he can give you another open-mouthed kiss. You wrap your legs around his waist and he moans deeply, an almost feral noise coming from somewhere deep inside him.
He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours once more, kissing your nose. "Can I?" He gusts, his breath hot against your skin. "Please." You whisper back, taking one of his hands in yours, the other resting upon his shoulder.
That is all the incentive he needs, he slowly pushes into your body, groaning loudly at how tight you are. You cry out, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulder. He bottoms out and moves his forehead to rest on your shoulder, waiting for you to adjust. God he's so close already, the thought of being the first and only one to take you enough to make him come, but he holds back.
After a moment he looks up at you and you nod, needing him to fuck you hard. That is just what he does. He sets a brutal pace, his thighs meeting yours as your ankles rest on his hips. You cry out and squeeze his hand as his tip nudges the same spot his fingers do, making you clench.
"Fuck." He grunts, picking up the pace as he chases his release. He pounds into you now, making you nothing but a moaning piece of putty ready to be molded by his hands. "Benedict- Again.. I'm going to..." You whine and he nods, pressing his lips to yours as his thumb finds your clit.
Your back arches as you reach your peak once more, dragging your nails down his back and leaving angry red marks on his skin. That is what sends him over the edge, spilling his seed deep inside of you before collapsing on top of you.
After a moment he pulls out and rolls onto his back, catching his breath before standing up and walking to the bathroom, leaving you on the bed to do the same. You rest your arms over your eyes as your breathing calms. He comes back with a washcloth and cleans up the mess he made before snuggling up to you in bed.
You flip onto your side and snuggle up to him, his arms encircling your body immediately. He presses a kiss to your forehead and traces the ridges of your spine with his fingers. "I love you." You whisper, already half asleep.
He smiles at the sight of you drowsy and flushed, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. "And I love you, my heart." He whispers back, closing his eyes and quickly following you into slumber.
Oh, what a joy it is to finally feel at home.
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton#bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton fic#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton/reader#oneshot#smut#fic#bridgerton fic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#benedict bridgerton x you#fanfiction#smut fanfiction#18+ only#18+ content#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton smut#bridgerton oneshot#fic request#benedict bridgerton angst
644 notes
·
View notes
Text
Madness
I wrote this so long ago and then abandoned it because I didn’t know if the ending was satisfactory or not. I thought it would have a greater plot as well but when I couldn’t find it, I was dissatisfied until I reread it and realized the prose was too good not to publish.
Fluff but also a little bit of angst if you squint hard enough.
In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.
She was beautiful. Too beautiful, if Benedict was being perfectly honest with himself. Not the kind of beauty that had him picking up a paint brush and painstakingly striking an easel with lovely swirls of color but the kind of beauty that distracted him, made him brood in a dim corner of the room, watching the little twists of her mouth and the subtle way she arched a brow. Beauty to the point of distraction, like spending hours watching shooting stars dash across the night sky, not realizing as dawn approached on the horizon.
It was utterly maddening.
She was utterly maddening.
How was he meant to live, to exist and breathe, to witness such great beauty and yet have none of the capacity, the right, to keep it?
Just a glance from her, a single curve of her lips, and Benedict could feel his faith in God strengthening as easily as he could deny the Lord’s existence. Only a benevolent God could create such ecstatic beauty and yet no benevolent God could exist in this world if Benedict had to bear the cruelty of Y/N’s indifference.
Maddening.
He sighed, the sound bereft as he continued to watch her charm the eligible men of the ton. She had a veritable cabal of men gathered around her and if any other debutant had been in her position, they surely would have been overwhelmed by now.
But not Y/N.
Never Y/N.
With her head held high and her smile demure, she directed the men as easily as if she was holding court. A slight clearing of the throat and already, someone had a glass of lemonade in their hand while a flap of her hand would have the men falling over themselves in an attempt to get her a chair.
A queen holding court, indeed.
Benedict rolled his eyes at the man to her right, who practically shoved at the man on his left in order to catch Y/N’s attention. Not that it really mattered though, especially not when Y/N’s attention was focused on Benedict.
Even from across the room, the tension between them felt palpable. Exhilarating. It always had been with Y/N. Thick and smooth, the connection between them as tangible as their own beating hearts. Just a shared look between them and the world fell silent, the edges of his vision practically darkening at the edges until he saw only her.
Beautiful. Even as her face contorted with hurt for the briefest of seconds, her eyes pulling away from him and returning to the crowd of men that surrounded her.
Benedict gritted his teeth, the only sign of annoyance he let himself show.
“I see you are not quite so enamored with our diamond.”
Benedict’s head whipped to the left, finding Lady Danbury watching him with those shrewd eyes of hers. The old crone had her cane gripped tightly in her hands and Benedict fought his grimace at the phantom pain that shot up from his ankles. The dowager countess had a terrible habit of whacking gentlemen she didn’t like with that sturdy cane of hers and Benedict had felt the brunt of that pain far too many times for his liking.
Still, as a gentleman, he couldn’t very well ignore the woman. It would have been terribly rude of him to and it went against every fiber of the etiquette that had been drilled to him as a child.
He spared Y/N another glance before he spoke. “You think all those men enamored with her?”
“I think they think themselves enamored by her,” Lady Danbury said. “She is quite a beauty and accomplished too, I hear. Are you acquainted with the young lady?”
He had been, when he was young. As recently as a few months ago, Benedict had counted Y/N as one of his dearest friends but with everything that transpired between them…
“We are familiar with one another.”
Lady Danbury arched a brow, directing her attention back to Y/N. She was animatedly speaking with Anthony and Colin, the only time the entire evening where her smile didn’t seem a little bit forced. “Your brothers seem friendly with her. Why aren’t you?”
Because he was a stupid, bloody, idiot who didn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut, that’s why.
But his pride would never let him say that, especially not in front of Lady Danbury. “We are familiar with each other.” He repeated, voice tight.
Lady Danbury’s eyes flickered. “I seem to recall your mother telling me about how you and the Lady Y/N were thick as thieves not so long ago.”
Bloody hell, the old crone was relentless. He didn’t want to talk about his and Y/N’s falling out, especially not with her.
He suddenly whirled, cocking his head to the side. “Oh, I believe I hear someone calling me.”
No one was calling him but not even his impeccable manners could make him stay.
Lady Danbury harrumphed. “I may be old, boy, but I am not deaf.”
“Definitely hear someone calling me.” Benedict even cupped a hand, placing it on the side of his mouth before he yelled a quick, “I’ll be right there!” He turned back to Lady Danbury, who was looking at him as if she knew his claims were a lie. “Lady Danbury, if you’ll excuse me.”
The dowager countess simply gave Benedict a knowing look yet let him go.
He ducked into the crowd towards… bloody hell he couldn’t find anyone he would rather talk to. His brothers were still off speaking with Y/N and he didn’t feel like speaking with his mother, who would likely hound him about his fight with Y/N. Which left the last person of their party, Eloise. A quick scan of the room revealed his sister in the other side of the room, conspiratorially whispering to her best friend, Penelope Featherington.
He zoomed towards them, turning his back on Y/N and Lady Danbury.
Eloise caught his eye as he approached and her lips pursed in displeasure. “Why do you look as if you’re expecting me to bail you out of a horrible situation.”
“Can’t I see my favorite sister with joy in my face without being suspected of ill intent?”Benedict said with a grin before bowing to Penelope, who returned the gesture with her own curtsy.
Penelope ducked her head to suppress a giggle.
Eloise rolled her eyes at him. “What do you want?”
“To ask you why you’re sulking in a corner instead of dancing despite—“ he pulled at the dance card in her wrist, every single line filled with names that were unfamiliar to him. “Did you put fake names in your dance card?”
Eloise snatched her wrist back. “Yes. I thought that with Y/N grabbing the attention of so many of the gentlemen, I would be spared the embarrassment of having to entertain any gentlemen tonight. Unfortunately, I was wrong.”
Benedict turned to Penelope. “How many approached her?”
“Six,” Penelope smirked, “and those six quickly turned right back around.”
“Well with a full dance card, I’m not at all surprised.”
Eloise rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Spare me the lecture, brother. I’m sure I’ll hear enough from mother tonight.”
“She caught you?”
“After Eloise turned down the sixth one, Lady Violet began to suspect,” Penelope explained.
Benedict grinned. “When have you known me to lecture you?”
She gave him a saccharine smile, the kind that Benedict always knew would end with her barbed words. “Aren’t you meant to be fawning over Y/N? You’d done it most of our life.”
He bristled at her words.
Penelope shot them a curious look. “You never told me you were acquainted with the lady?”
“Hadn’t I?” Eloise frowned. “Lady Y/L/N’s family and ours have been acquainted for ages. Of course, she rarely ever came to London and if it hadn’t been for her father’s recent passing she wouldn’t have had a season at all. Mama had held hope that perhaps one of my dear brothers would begin to take some responsibility and marry her.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper that was so loud, it still reached Benedict’s ears. “Personally, I always thought Benedict would offer. He and Y/N had a special bond growing up. Even Daphne thinks so.”
Benedict had never hit a woman before but perhaps, just this once, excuses could be made for one’s sisters.
“So, well acquainted then,” Penelope said with a slight smile.
“I do recall Benedict pining after Y/N for years,” Eloise mused, uncaring as Benedict’s mood soured. “You never did tell me why it is you suddenly became estranged”
“Not that it’s any of your business.” He grumbled.
Eloise batted eyes innocently. “Irritable today, aren’t you, brother? Could it possibly be because of the cadre of men that hound every one of Y/N’s footsteps?”
“I have changed my mind. Francesca is now my favorite sister.”
“I love you too, Benedict,” she all but grinned.
He turned his attention back to Y/N, who, to his surprise, had taken her leave.
“She’s in the garden, if you wish to speak to her,” Eloise said, noting his wandering eyes and nodding towards the open veranda at the side.
“What gave you the impression that I would like to speak to her?”
Eloise simply rolled her eyes before tugging Penelope’s arm. “With Y/N taking her respite, I imagine there will be a sudden influx of gentlemen who would like to dance. Let us make ourselves scarce.” And she pulled Penelope along, the red head offering Benedict an apologetic look.
He glanced at the crowd once again before letting his feet carry him through the veranda and out towards the garden. There were still many people milling about outside that granted them protection from scandal but it was much more intimate than the loud din of the ballroom.
The night was cool, the spring air serene compared to the humidity of the ballroom.
He spied Y/N, her back turned against the door. Upon hearing his approach, she sighed. “Good sir, if you did not understand me, I wish to be al—“ she turned and her words died at her lips at the sight of him. “Oh. It’s you.”
She looked even lovelier up close. She always did. Whether dressed in a simple frock with her long hair flowing down her back or dressed ornately with jewels adorning her, she always looked lovelier up close.
“What do you want, Benedict,” Y/N said, dropping that societal mask she employed inside.
“To apologize.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to apologize for. You asked for my hand under false pretenses, I rejected you. End of story.“
“Under false pretenses?” He echoed, his own tone turning sharp. “You think my proposal to be insincere? Is that why you rejected me?”
“I did not think it insincere, I knew it to be insincere. I heard you and the Lady Violet discussing me. I heard when you declared your intention to ask for my hand in marriage simply because she had asked you to.”
Oh.
Oh.
He remembered then, the conversation he had with his mother right before he proposed.
“Propose to her,” Violet had urged just as breakfast had been served, with only Benedict and Violet dining.
“I am not even courting her, mama,” he replied exasperatedly. It had been far too early in the morning to entertain his mother’s insistence on seeing him wed to Y/N. She’d pestered him about it in one form or another even before the Y/L/Ns had come to visit the Bridgertons and Benedict knew she would not stop until he and Y/N were formally engaged.
But Y/N had just ended her mourning period for her father. And though societal mandates dictated that it was perfectly reasonable for Benedict to ask for her hand in marriage, he knew how deeply she mourned the man, especially since his death had placed her in such a precarious position. The late patriarch of the Y/L/N family had been fond of his only child, even if she had been born a girl. And Y/N had loved him, even if his death left her and her mother saddled with financial debt despite coming from the longest line of barony in England.
“What does it matter that you are not courting?” Violet demanded. “You have known her since you were both children. You’ve been courting her all your life.”
“Mama, please leave it well enough alone.”
“What is it that you do not like about her?” She insisted. “She is beautiful and accomplished and you have known each other your whole lives. Any young man would be fortunate to be bound to her in marriage.”
“I never said anything that would imply otherwise.”
“Then why do you refuse to ask her for her hand in marriage? Doing so would spare her a season in London and limit their financial troubles.” And then she had gasped in indignation. “Or is their financial troubles the very reason why you refuse? I never raised you to be avaricious!”
Bloody hell. “I am not avaricious, mother. I do not care about her dowry or lack thereof!”
“Then what is it? Do not tell me it is because you do not love her. I have seen the way you look at her.”
Benedict had eyed his fork, had wondered if perhaps, it would be a better to shove it in his ears than listen to his mother’s hullabaloo.
Instead he took a scone, spreading a generous layer of clotted cream and jam so his hands had something to do rather than maim himself.
“And how is it I look at her, mother?” He drawled.
“The same way your father used to look at me.”
At that he had paused, scone half-raised to his mouth. He hadn’t known what to say anymore. Mentions of his own father had always been capable of silencing his mind.
Finally, he had decided on telling her the truth, that his mother may finally stop pestering him.
“Asking Y/N for her hand in marriage had always been the plan, mother,” Benedict relented. “I was simply waiting for the perfect moment.”
Violet smiled at her son kindly. “There are no such thing as perfect moments, dearest. Only moments that can be made perfect. And whether you ask her later or tomorrow or next week, that moment will be perfect by virtue of you asking.”
She was right, of course. Violet Bridgerton was so rarely incorrect especially in matters of the heart and love.
Benedict had given her a smile, and said, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Well, since you so graciously asked me to, I shall propose to the Lady Y/N, if only to make you happy.”
That must have been what Y/N heard. Not the whole story but the end, when Benedict had teased his mother.
Now he was convinced that God existed and that he must be cruel. Only the machinations of a cruel God could have lined up the timing perfectly.
Y/N’s eyes flickered as she regarded him. “I do not wish to bind you in marriage with someone you do not hold any affection for. You have fulfilled your promise to your mother and have asked for my hand. I rejected you. We no longer have any obligations with one another. Good night.” She made a move to pass him, to walk back to the ballroom to her gaggle of men but Benedict’s hand shot up, gripping her arm and keeping her to him.
His hands were gloved and even Y/N’s arms were sheathed in silk. And though he had never felt gloves to be particularly offensive, he wished to burn the ones that covered their hands. If only so he could feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers.
The heady scent of her perfume wafted through his senses. She smelled divine, like walking through a garden of roses under the cover of moonlight as the stars twinkled above his head. Utterly mouthwatering, and capable of driving even the sanest of men into insanity. The scent of distraction.
Always so distracting.
Benedict forced his mouth to speak before his brain could forget the words he needed to say. “Do you think so little of me? Capable of such cruelty especially when it comes to you.”
Y/N’s brows met, a flash of pain in her eyes and then it was gone. “It is the opposite, really. I think the world of you, Benedict. Only a gentleman would offer to marry a girl he has no obligations to simply because of her precarious position in life. You are an honorable man and any woman would be lucky to call you their husband. It is why I cannot accept your proposal, not when you do not love me. Not when there is no one on this world more deserving of love than you.”
Benedict frowned at her. “Why do you continue to insist that I do not love you?”
“Because you do not!” She pulled away from him, wrenching her hand from his grasp. Her eyes were pure anguish as she looked at him and the very sight of her pain had him staggering back. “If you truly held any affection for me, I would know. I have studied you all our lives, Benedict. And in all the time we shared together, you had never shown any affection for me beyond that of a friend. Your proposal hurt, Benedict. I have loved you in every way a man could be loved for so long and for you to ask for my hand in marriage out of pity—“ She choked, eyes widening as if she didn’t mean to say the things she’d said.
“You love me?” He echoed, heart beating quickly in his chest. He wondered, briefly, if his fast beating heart marks the day he really lived. If Y/N’s confession had been the reason he truly felt alive for the first time in his life.
Her face crumpled in pain as she stepped back. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said those things. Please take your leave, Benedict. That I may salvage whatever scraps of my dignity is left.”
But Benedict did no such thing.
Instead he took her hands and lowered himself into a kneel, setting his eyes upon her. The arching light of the manor spilled over the veranda casted her in a soft glow that took his very breath away.
Y/N’s eyes widened in alarm and whatever pain she held there was washed away by her surprise. “Benedict, what are you doing?”
“Begging you for forgiveness.”
“What? Benedict, get up.”
But he held firm, his determination cementing his knees to the ground. “Forgive me, Y/N, for my grave transgressions against you. That you had ever lived your life doubting my affections for you, or wondering if I cared for you as more than a friend are sins I will carry with me to my last breath. It will be my great shame that I had not made it abundantly clear that I love you. Because I do love you. Most ardently.”
“Benedict, get up. This is madness—“
“You are right. It is madness. The way I feel for you would drive the sanest of people into lunacy. But if loving you is madness then I don’t ever wish to be sane.”
Her eyes gleamed silver with unshed tears that threatened to fall from her pretty eyes. “B-But that morning, the day you proposed—“
“I did not propose to you out of pity for you, I did it out of pity for me. I needed to put myself out of my misery and finally marry the only girl I ever had the privilege of falling in love with rather than continue pining after you in secret.”
She let out a a laugh through her tears, the sound like bells chiming during a storm. Light and beautiful despite the pouring rain that threatened to drown it out. “Ask me again.”
His heart leapt to his throat, pounding so quickly he struggled to get the words out. But they came nonetheless, the words clear and betraying none of his anxiety. “Y/N, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
#bridgerton#bridgerton netflix#king george#violet bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton oneshot#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#anthony bridgerton x you#anthony bridgerton one shot#bridgerton season 2#bridgerton season 1#bridgerton series#lady danbury#regency era fic#colin bridgerton#daphne bridgerton#hyacinth bridgerton#gregory bridgerton
819 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 || 𝐁.𝐁.
summary: you’ve been receiving love letters from a secret admirer and you’re desperate to reveal his identity.
contains: benedict being fucking adorable, fluff n’ angst!
a/n: first part of this multi-chapter fic.
It was a day like any other. You woke to the humming of the maid, the hum-drum of life about the house. You rubbed sleep from your eyes as you reluctantly got out of bed. You selected your gown for the day after scouring through your wardrobe of various shades of pastel. You bid good morning to the servants as you made your way downstairs and joined your family for breakfast. There your mother urgently reminded you (as if you had forgotten from one day to the next) the importance that you find yourself a suitor, someone of good rank.
But you barely had any mind to pay her; for it was elsewhere, with another. You cut your breakfast short, unable to bear any more talk of suitors and marriage and a life without love. You were buttoning your coat when an angel descended the staircase. Well, it wasn’t truly an angel; only your lady’s maid, but the letter she held in her hand couldn’t have been any more sacred to you. She passed it to you and your eyes met hers, the looks you exchanged almost like those of two best friends trading gossip, or in this case, your own little secret.
You slipped the sealed envelope into your coat pocket before finally stepping out the door and down the front steps. Outside, London was alive and full of the colors of spring. Though you could’ve walked the streets for hours on end, you opted to head straight to the park and sat down on the nearest bench. You sifted through your pocket, pulling the envelope out. You couldn’t help noting that it smelled of lavender and cinnamon as you gently broke the seal. There, the words you had been waiting anxiously to read.
Dearest,
I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt of those eyes so deep I was tempted to swim in them. Of that laugh so melodious I was tempted to turn it into a symphony. Of the lips so sweet I was tempted to kiss them. Alas, I know not if I shall ever reveal myself to you. I know you must be dying to figure me out. But you must understand I couldn’t bear to be rejected by you. You drive me mad! When I am awake, you occupy my every thought, and when I sleep you visit me in dreams! I am a tormented man, but oh, how smitten I am with my torment! I clutch it to my chest and carry it with me wherever I go. How could I not? When it was you who gave it to me. Such a state of delirium is the one you have driven me to, simply by existing. Anyway, all this to say that I love you and always will. Write to me, my love. I’ll be waiting.
You pressed the piece of paper to your heart, beating faster than ever. You folded the letter back and let it fall into your pocket once more before starting for the Bridgerton house. It took every fiber in you to go on with this written affair for months on end without uttering a word to your good friend Daphne. But you felt it was something too precious, too fragile to speak of; like a creature as easily spooked as it is beautiful.
This was what you repeated to yourself in your mind when you arrived at the Bridgertons’, and Daphne swore you had a glow about you only people in love wear.
“Come now, who is it?” she teased as she delicately sipped her tea. “You must tell me!”
You shook your head with a playful roll of your eyes. “There truly is nothing to tell, Daph. You must believe me.”
“Nonsense!” she poked on. “I wish to know the lucky gentleman who has you so obviously smitten.” It was then that the others entered the parlor. Anthony, with Kate on his arm, and Colin and Benedict following suit. “Fill us in on today’s gossip, sister.” jested Benedict as he lounged on the nearest chaise with his usual happy-go-lucky air. How handsome he looked today, his jet black hair shiny as ever, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief.
“There’s nothing to share, you busybody.” Daphne scolded him lightly. “Mind your own affairs.” At this, Benedict shot you a cheeky look, one you couldn’t help but return. You wondered if your secret admirer was as handsome as he was, as sweet and boyish.
“Oh!” Daphne exclaimed suddenly. “I forgot to tell you! We are holding a ball this weekend! Isn’t that exciting?” You felt yourself light up at the news. Exciting indeed. Many things can happen at a ball, dances shared and souls intertwined, and perhaps a certain identity revealed.
tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @holdthegirrrl
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton oneshot
578 notes
·
View notes
Text
E̴N̴T̴W̴I̴N̴E̴D̴ - Series - Part 3
Part 1 Part 2
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x f/reader
Warnings: Angst and Benedict being a lil biatch - good stuff by the end and -> Raw +18 warnings will come later in other chapters
Notes: Goddamned gossipy tittle-tattle Whistledown, have you seen the first five minutes of S3?! Benedict looks so fineeeeee. Thank you for reading <3
WC: 5.2K
Such a quickwitted, bold, silly man he is. Number Two.
Benedict sighed harshly against the window glass. The third time in the day he has been spotted, by himself, trying to see someone outside. He could not care if someone made a fool of himself or herself. He just wanted to spot you.
Two days have passed after the mix of Brandy and your lips. Two insufferable days and he could not get enough yet for some reason he has been busy and he has heard from Francesca and Eloise that you... you have been busier.
Lord Coxingworth has made sure you were.
He has known you for more than seven years, nine actually but when you were fourteen both of you started talking and from there, he believes a good friendship arose. Friendship. He snorted. Friends do not kiss like that. He felt somehow dirty in not a good way. Was he taking advantage of you? he shivered at the idea of being perceived like Lord Rutledge with white hair, wondering eyes and dysfunctional manhood just waiting to breed.
No, he is not that to you or himself. You and him are seven years apart and that is not bad at all. He has seen worse.
"But she just debuted" he whispered
And indeed you had. Beautiful he observed that day in front of the Queen. You were not called a diamond. "Nonsense" he muttered. Why not? You were inexplicably bright and pristine yet again not pure at all.
His fingers traced his lips, the feel of your lips on his still burning, a phantom touch of a goddess that he had no right to even look at, let alone taste. But it did not stop him from wanting you, dreaming of you for the past few days.
His thoughts are scattered he realized. He kept thinking and thinking and thinking. He bounced from that night to those poems, to your age and his age, to your lips and your body, to the responsibility and the freedom he needed with you.
"My dear"
He turned around and saw his mother with a soft smile "Mother"
"Is everything alright?" She said
He nodded with a smile "I just need a bit of fresh air"
She came closer and he knew she was not convinced "Is that so? Have you been eating well?"
"Yes"
"You seemed lost these past few days, my son"
He was sure he was "My work has kept my mind occupied"
"Your work is beautiful and soul-touching, Benedict" she nodded "Keep working on it and I'm sure inspiration will come"
"I have inspiration," he said staring at the street trying to catch you walking there "Is just... a bit untouchable at the moment"
That day melted into a pond of questions. He could not let his work stand and at some point, he locked himself and made sure to paint. He painted with dexterity and structure. After all the commission has requested that. But the same room he has called a second home was not good to him anymore. The maroon couch, now empty, made him think of your body lying there. The table and the chairs reminded him of you and the brandy, the smell of the paint. Everything was not good enough for him. He felt sick and tired, like a madman trying to paint in such a condition.
He found himself out of the Bridgerton Residence and kept walking to his own place, five houses down and if he knew it correctly -and he did- three from yours. Like a child, he passed his territory only to step on yours. He stared at the well-maintained rose bushes, red ones by the entrance rail and closer they transformed into yellow ones and pink. So very tranquil.
Are you home? If he knocked and asked to speak to you would that be considered a house call as in... pursuing you? He has always stolen you from his sisters' talks but never requested by himself a talk. Perhaps if he waits and let Eloi-
"Ah, Mr. Bridgerton"
He turned around and saw Lord Coxingworth, his horrible dry hair and potato face smiling as he held a black umbrella above you. You. Your cheeks rosy, your hair pulled up and an unspoiled white dress with blue laces and that face always passive but now, hiding the surprise of seeing him that for a second he knew he was the one making you react in such way.
"Lord Coxingworth," he said and smiled back
"What brings you to these parts?" He looked at you and Benedict was sure his eyes lingered at your cleavage and he wanted to push the man away from you. If someone is going to set eyes on those swollen mounds it would be him alone.
"I was merely taking a refreshing walk"
"I see, in search of inspiration?" Lord Coxingworth kindly smiled
"Oh, I found it," he said quickly staring at you
"You see, Miss Ashbourne my dear friend Mr. Bridgerton is pursuing the arts"
You frown and look at Lord Coxingworth "From what I know he already is a well-formed artist, my Lord"
The compliment was heard and very well understood by Benedict who nodded yet the way you addressed the man as My Lord made in him a fire he could not explain. He wanted to mock your voice and see if you chose to slap his arm in return.
"That is quite kind of you, Miss Ashbourne. I must leave and return to my ordeals"
"Before you go, Bridgerton" Lord Coxingworth stopped him "I know you sent your regrets for one of the boys' gatherings, I must ask if we will see you tonight at Lord Fife's Ball?"
"Of course, I heard that it will be the first one after his nuptials"
"Indeed and as I was telling Miss Ashbourne, it is the first ball held by the newlyweds that matters the most"
Benedict looked at you and how you politely smiled at Lord Coxingworth. The fire he felt when you called him My Lord suddenly went ablaze at the thought of you and Karl Coxingworth being married. He was not an idiot, the man was looking at you and he was not even discreet.
"I do hope so, my lord. I wish Lord and Lady Fife a long marriage"
"As do I" he nodded and bowed at your proper response and looked at Benedict “If I must say so myself Bridgerton, the season has a few uncalled diamonds to offer, it is on my good intentions to tell you that it might be good of you to dig the cave for one of those”
Sick to his stomach, Benedict took the piece of damned advice and nodded politely. He knew that the soft glance he adverted to you was not the last of the day. He will see you much later and oh when he saw you that night…
Your skin has always looked the best in reds and greens and golden jewellery with sparkling diamonds around your neck. That naked form he has of you, still an imagination on his part, wears a necklace of diamonds and a bracelet of the same set and how he would like to see you sparkle in such a way.
“My dear,” his mother said and smiled “would you be a good brother and see that Eloise and Francesca are together?”
“And where is Colin and Anthony?”
Her face twisted in somehow pity “dancing with their dates. Kate and I believe Colin is with Miss-“
“Yes, I got your point Mother. I am the spare one without a lady”
“I didn’t mean it like that my dear and you know that” She patted his cheek and walked away with the grace only she had.
It was true to him now that his mood was ruined not by the thought of being eight and twenty and alone in society but by the view of your red gown and your figure flowing like water as you danced with Lord Coxingworth.
He has heard from ambitious mamas that you and he are a dupla most ready to wed. What do you see in him? Is he really that captivating? Why you don’t abandon him and take him instead?
The thoughts consumed him that he didn’t see that his wish came true. Lord Coxingworth left you and joined his mother and you gracefully moved to the edge of the dance floor. The exquisite decoration of orange and gold all around the place made you look so divine and when he thought things could not go wrong you were stopped by a polite man who requested a dance.
He somehow ignored the look you threw at him, he was already beyond mad at how things were playing out against him. He was not the only one looking at you. He was not blind or deaf to their attempts. His blood was boiling not for jealousy but for the need to have you, claim you as his. Hell, he doesn’t even know anymore. Sure, throw jealousy into the mix, he doesn't care.
Suddenly he remembered that he forgot to take Eloise and Francesca under his wing for the evening. Panic came to him as his eyes searched for other women, his sisters. And he exhaled deeply when he saw Colin and Anthony with Kate keeping them company. Reliable he was not tonight.
“Mr. Bridgerton”
Your voice made him blink and by his left, he saw standing there. You, a goddess in a red gown and he wanted to pull you aside and kiss you. Kiss those red lips, touch those red cheeks, and pull your hair apart.
Instead, he said politely:
"Miss Ashbourne, how do you do? I thought of yourself on the dance floor”
“I was…” you said and gulped “I intended to come here most of the time”
“And you got pulled away and that is fine” he spatted with a tone you haven’t heard before.
You looked around and your face contorted. Your hand touched his elbow and Benedict felt his skin burn under your touch.
"Come with me, Mr. Bridgerton"
The way his name rolled out of your tongue made him tremble, in the most delicious way possible. He felt anger and he knew he was not being fair to you and he will not be fair for at least some minutes.
“Is Lord Coxingworth aware of your whereabouts?”
You frowned at his comment and he was not the only one that was being impolite tonight.
"Why do you care about what he knows and doesn't know, Mr. Bridgerton?"
"Well, he is your intended-“
“He is not” you said and looked around, you were not one to remain stoic, your face always said how you felt “Perhaps if you join me for a walk…”
Benedict was filled with pride but not with stupidity. If alone time he wanted, he will get it even if it means his behaviour is far from gentlemanly.
The garden was decorated as the hall inside. He followed you and the sound of your heels against the cobblestone and his shoes echoed in the air. It was a cold night, one that made him shiver. Could you feel it? Of course not, your skin has always proven to be damned warm, he knows.
You reached a bench, a wooden one with roses around and you sat down. He followed and his hands gripped the sides of the bench as you spoke:
"We are not courting"
He turned and looked at you “Well thank you for being so forw-“
“I mean, are we?” You genuinely asked “Just tell me now and we can… I can… do something” You licked your lips “As far as my mother knows we are friends and Lord Coxingworth has been very forward with his intentions that is why she has pushed me to that path”
He squinted “But you clearly love to make your voice heard. You can easily tell her-“
“That your tongue went into my mouth and I was wearing such a thin sleeping gown?”
“You could have phrased it differently, Y/N”
“Like what? I don’t know what you want from me, Benedict. We haven’t had time to talk about it”
“Then here I am,” he said “Let us talk. What do you want from me?” He asked
“That is not fair” Your eyes popped “I… I want to…”
“Read to me? Kiss me? use me?" he whispered the last one and the way his eyes burned against yours made you shiver.
"I do want those except the latter," you said and he saw the hesitation. The way you bit your lips and looked around “I want to know first your intentions… I know how…” You went quiet
“How what?” He asked and saw the pause in your eyes “Tell me”
“No, I-“
“Speak”
The authority in his voice made your cheeks blush and your knees tremble. You looked at him, how the darkness and the moon illuminated his face, his features, his subtle beard already growing.
"You are the most handsome man in this ton"
The statement made him smirk "You flatter me”
“And I have heard how you had your fun with other women”
Benedict could not lie, not anymore and certainly not to you.
"I had a fair amount"
You swallowed thickly "And what am I? That’s what I ask myself. Because I don’t want to be seen like that by you but if that night was like that to you… then I don’t-“
“You are far from that”
You looked up at him, the sudden silence and the distance between you both made you gulp and your eyes went to his lips “Explain” you commanded
Benedict agreed to humour you "You are far from being that. The women I have been with" he paused carefully using soft words owing to the fact he did not want to hurt your feelings "were women that... shared a similar mindset with me for less than an hour"
"Oh" You nodded
"Yes, it was never meant to be something else than a good night," he said truthfully "and with you, I have no idea what turned inside of me"
you gulped "You want more than a good night with me?"
His insides melted at the innocent trail of your voice and words "Of course, Y/N" he said and he took the chance to caress your cheek. You did not move away. Instead, your eyes remained on him "I want more. So much more than just a good night. Yet I have no clue how to act upon it"
"Why?"
"Because..." he smiled, "a part of me thinks I am just like Lord Rutledge"
Your frown disappeared in an instant and you showed your teeth through a wide loud laugh "That old zany? God no" you chuckled "What makes you think that? It's such a ridiculous notion"
He shrugged "Trust me I... before we... started seeing each other with another shade I saw you as another sister and it is somehow complex to believe I did so in the past when now, well, I am far from seeing you as untouchable"
You blush and he can swear he saw a coy smile on your lips. You took his hand and placed it on your lap "Why is it that I don't see the problem in this?"
"It is quite different" he whispered "You just debuted, you're just a mere button of a rose trying to bloom"
You raise a brow "I have bloomed"
"Not fully"
"There you go, telling me again something about me as you knew me completely"
"Oh I do" he smiled scanning your eyes "I know everything about you"
"Not everything" you mysteriously smile, a thing he finds very hard to resist, blood flies to his groin
"Why you must remember me of that?"
"Because I hold that power and I have learnt to use it with you"
"Not fair, Y/N"
"You have not been fair this day"
"I know, I am sorry" he tried to breathe away the tension in his body "But Lord Coxingworth is... aggravating"
"Is he?"
"He speaks roses with you because he does want to be your intended, fiance, whatever... he might be wealthy, apparently he knows how to dress and he loves his Mama"
"But"
"But he is not good for you"
"And you are?" you asked
Benedict saw the honesty of your question but remained silent.
"I don't want to make you mad again" you admitted "but what you are telling me is that you don't want to make public we have something"
"I did not say that"
"But you said you don't know how to act upon this"
"It is not the same" he sighed "I need time, time to reflect on these feelings"
"Since when you have reflected on your feelings?"
Benedict smiled "Since this is important, quite"
"You are confusing"
"And yet you are still here"
"Of course" you smile "I am not done with you, Mr Bridgerton. Far from it"
The tone of your voice made him swallow and the heat that was in his body before returned with such force that he needed to take a deep breath. You stood up and he was tempted to pull you back.
"I will leave you"
"You should not"
"I must, Lord Coxingworth requested a final dance with me"
"Step on his foot"
"I have never done that before. I am an excellent dancer, remember?"
"Say you felt dizzy. Do it for me"
You sneered just a bit "No"
And he was left there, alone, cold, hard, thoughtful and hurt. Hurt because he knows what he should do. He should right now go inside, take your waist and spin you around that room. He should make everyone aware that he intends you and if Karl Coxingworth has a problem with it he is sure he will intend to prove his point.
And yet, he remained sat down. What if he steals you from a good opportunity? He wants the best for you and he has met your mother to know the pressure you have been raised with. But why does he feel you can't have a good opportunity with him? He never thinks so little of himself... Lies, he does. He always does.
"I am a fool" he muttered
What if you two marry and suddenly that spark is gone and you realize he is such a vanquished nonentity that paints for a living? What if you resent him for corrupting you?
"I must stop this"
He is being too dramatic.
When he went inside and smelled the champagne air around him he looked for you and couldn't find you amongst the dull colours of gowns. He then moved to be next to Eloise and Kate who greeted him kindly. He heard their stories and laughter.
"Brother you should have seen it" Eloise sniggered "Y/N, she stepped quite harshly on Lord Coxingworth's foot"
His eyes snapped and he stared at Eloise "Really?"
"Oh yes" Kate nodded "I wonder if he tried to touch her that she had to do it"
"Knowing her" Elose started "she would have punched the man in front of us"
"Good girl"
Kate and Eloise turned confusedly at Benedict who noticed he had said it out loud "I mean, that is not good girl behaviour"
"Ah" Eloise shrugged "Who cares and why do you care"
He dismissed the comment and tried to find you and he failed incredibly well because he didn't see you for the rest of that night.
***
The next morning he read Lady Whistledown, all those noisy paragraphs were nothing compared to the one talking about you and your "unusual" unbalanced dance of the night when you happened to land on Lord Coxingworth's foot and you apologized because you felt dizzy. He devilishly smiled.
"Did I hear correctly?"
He turned to see Hyacinth with opened eyes and for a brief second he forgot to read the last paragraphs of Whistledown. Did she write about you and him alone on a bench? did she overhear?
"Hear what?" he coughed
"Are you going away from this place?"
He felt at ease and smiled apologetically at his sister "I must"
"No, you must not, this is your home"
"I know," he said and saw the art studio with the easel, empty "But I have a house down the street and I feel like I should be there right now"
"Why the sudden privacy?" she inquired "Mother will not like it"
"Well," he said and smiled "I am a free man and I shall not be questioned about my choices"
"You are not a free man"
"Why?"
"You must answer to me and Francesca and Eloise, we love you brother"
"That I return," he said and took his case "I will hold more meetings with potential clients and it will be garish of me to treat this place as a come-and-go quarter when after all the sisters I love very much reside just one floor above"
Hyacinth smiled, a big grin and he kissed her forehead.
"Now I must go, tell mother I am not leaving the country"
"She will still think that"
"And she will have a letter from me in less than a day and you are more than welcome to visit me"
He felt how she stuck her tongue out for him and for once he enjoyed the defiance of his decision. He was true to the fact of being of poor taste receiving work commissions but also if he ever happens to extend any sort of... invitation towards you, he would prefer that whatever transpires -hell, even drinking tea- transpires in his domain.
When he arrived at his house he dropped his instruments in his studio and pondered the silence he was, very willingly, submitting to. He had his siblings' laughter back at Bruton Street and here the lack of it was loud.
Time. He said last night to you. He needed time. But how much? He knows he should act fast or you will be named Lady Y/N Coxingworth in less than a month.
He had dinner by himself, read a book and worked. One more day is gone... But Benedict rubbed his face in the monotonous routine. He aspired for more and you, the forbidden fruit were three houses down.
Like a magnet, he was attracted and it was a surprise to him when he saw your house in front. He looked up and knew you were awake but how can he get your attention? If your Mama was there with you or one of your ladies...
"Damn it" he muttered and grabbed pebbles from the decorated garden in front of him. He took aim and threw a couple until finally, you came to the window and your eyes were filled with surprise.
"What are you doing?!" you whispered shouted
"Well hello... Come outside"
"It is late"
"Then invite me inside"
"Hardly an option"
"Then what is the choice?" he snorted seeing your hair falling on your shoulders "Jump" You seemed shocked to your core as he extended his arms "I'm a good catcher"
This man was not giving you any option at all. You closed your window and didn't think further. You took your robe and slippers and made your way downstairs, passing the maids and butlers until you reached the garden and saw him. He was grinning, like a maniac.
"Do you know how many rules you have broken, Mr Bridgerton?"
"The same as you, Miss Ashbourne" he offered his arm "Did you bring the poetry book?"
You rolled your eyes "You told me not to bring it anymore"
Benedict smiled "Obedient-ouch!" he muttered as you slapped his arm "What?"
"That is the only thing I'll follow from you"
"We can debate on that" he smiled as walked under many bushes and trees, night becoming darker "You said your good nights?"
"I did"
"Good. What did you do today?"
You softly smiled "I was mostly with Penelope today"
"And Eloise?"
"She joined us later, we had a tea party"
He hummed and saw the light in his home and the light coming from a nearby lantern. He observed the lonely street and ventured with you to the entrance "What were you three talking about?" he curiously asked
"Boys"
He stopped and saw your mischief sparkling eyes "Ah, what about boys?"
"How they can be... insufferably immature for their age" You stared at the entrance door "What about the backdoor? So we don't disturb your help"
"I..." he said "contrary to other immature boys do, know that such a woman should always enter through here"
You blinked away "Touche"
"Let me open the door for you"
The silence was comforting and you did not realize you were holding your breath until you allowed yourself to see the beautiful panelled house he owns. He touched, barely, your back "My art studio?"
You smiled at him and looked up "That triggers my memory"
"I was going to offer my chamber but I do not want to fuel the talk you had with the girls today"
You tensed and quickly relaxed "Is it always going to be your studio?" you questioned moving to the well-lit room you supposed was the destination of the night
"No, if we are going to make this a habit... each night we shall use each room as we please"
Your cheeks burnt with the idea of his tongue venturing inside your mouth even in the kitchens and the garden. You hummed to yourself and had enough of his words. You took your green robe out of you and finally heard the man being in silence. You threw the fabric to the armrest and moved to the other couch, slowly, very slowly.
"You truly are holding that power aren't you?"
"Whatever you are talking about?" you laughed knowing full well "Now, what if you want to tell me"
"Hmm?" he said smacking his lips "Pardon me?"
"You took me out of my house, you brought me here..."
He so nonchalantly walked "Ah right, right" he smiled and plummeted by your right side on the couch "Is nothing really" he adorably shrugged and then stared t you "I just want to kiss you like there is no tomorrow"
The bluntness made you smile "You are so honest"
"I don't want to hide, not with you. I never did"
"And why is that?"
"Because..." he paused, thinking the question carefully "I do not know"
"Well that was a nice try"
"I did not want to disappoint"
"It was quite the contrary"
"Then" he sighed and smiled at the same time "I want you to kiss me, and not as a goodnight but as a..."
"Hello"
"Yes" he smiled and cupped your cheek, leaning into your space and your lips brushed his own, so slow, so painfully slow and so sweetly but you pushed him oh so softly aways "What?"
"There is a problem"
"What is it?"
"You have asked for time"
He cursed at your amazing memory "I said it last night"
"And that already expired?"
Benedict could almost smell the divine soap behind your ears but he licked his lips and leaned the other way "It hasn't"
"Then, I should wait"
"You shouldn't"
"Why is that?"
"Because time is cruel and I know what I want"
"What?"
"You, like this, always"
"Always is a lot, Mr Bridgerton"
"Benedict, I am your Benedict" he proclaimed
"And my intended?" you offered
He looked at your oh-so-delicate innocent eyes "I don't know" he saw your sadness and talked again "What if you see me in a month or a year as someone abominable to be with?"
You laughed hard "Are you serious?"
"Quite and" he stood up "I have known you that long to know you deserve every ounce of love in this world"
"If you have known me that long then wouldn't you know we have that already? Is not as we are strangers, Benedict..." you looked around "Many women have married strangers. What joy would be to marry a best friend?"
He saw the fire behind your eyes, the determination and he was sure the love, he was not ready to say it, not yet. He had his doubts and he hated them. He knew he was making a mess of something that appeared so natural to you.
"Why is this so confusing for you? Why?"
"Because I do not know"
"That is not a good excuse"
He blurted a laugh "I don't know!"
You stood up with a glint of anger in you, so unladylike for you to show such a demeanour "You don't know?" you walked further
"I don't"
You walked closer and he moved away "You really don't know what you want?"
Benedict saw himself now as the prey and he walked backwards, two steps "I-I don't!" he squirmed
"You do!" you accused
"I- I really don't, Y/N. I-"
"Say it" you commended
Benedict opened his eyes "How can I say something I don't know"
Going in circles you said "But you do know"
Benedict saw how you actually cornered him, mentally, physically, everything-ly. He was tired of your nagging, lies. He was not. He was tired of how well you knew him. If he could write a book about you, very well you could write a book about him.
He saw the fierce of his hands as they pushed you and slithered to you. One hand cradled your head, the other pinched your hip as he now cornered you against the wall. So close, so agonizingly close.
"What I want" he whispered to you, your pupils beautifully dilated, your mouth trying not to fall open "What I want is simple" he confessed to himself "I want your lips on mine, I want to be your only and I want to give you everything and take everything you have. I want my days to be immensely chaotic with you, because hell I know how you are behind closed doors"
You remained so silent that you wondered if you were breathing at all. You saw his eyes filled with lust and desire, the same feelings as yours.
"I want to feel how warm your skin is, how sweet your scent is. I want to know if I can touch and caress you like you deserve and make you come undone under me, above me, wherever me" he laughed as his grip on you softened "I want you to have my children, I want to address you as my wife and make everyone jealous. I even want you to read me that damned poetry book, over and over again if that means you will be by my side, Y/N"
It was like nothing you have ever felt. That kiss the other night is not reaching the level of the one happening right now. You felt how he tackled you, his lips devoured yours, and the wetness was spilt all over you. Benedict took a hand and cupped your neck, pulling you closer and deeper into the kiss. Your hands tried to touch him anywhere, you didn't know where. He was like a furnace and you wanted him all.
He moaned and growled, he did not enjoy not being able to push you closer to him. Physically impossible. He wanted more, more, and more. He moved away for a second, catching his breath and feeling the hot air around him. His fingers brushed your lips, swollen, wet, and red.
"Say it" He was hypnotized, you could see his blue eyes darkening with passion, "say you want the same" he ordered, begged, pleaded "say it"
You opened your mouth "I want the same"
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton#bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton fic#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton/reader#smut#fic#bridgerton fic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#benedict bridgerton x you#fanfiction#smut fanfiction#18+ only#18+ content#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton smut
69 notes
·
View notes
Text
To Know You…
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?
Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.
Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)
Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3
I: To Know You….
“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.
You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.
—
Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.
He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…
—
You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.
You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.
And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.
You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.
“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”
You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.
“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.
“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.
“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.
“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.
By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…
“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.
Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.
“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”
You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.
“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.
“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.
—
Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.
Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.
“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”
“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.
Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…
—
You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.
“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.
“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.
“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.
“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.
It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.
—
Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.
“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.
You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.
“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”
Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!
As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.
“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”
Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.
As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.
“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.
Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”
“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.
“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.
“That is what I said…”
“That is what she said…”
You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.
—
Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.
“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”
“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.
“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.
Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.
“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”
His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.
—
You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.
Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.
“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.
“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”
And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.
“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.
You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.
II: …Is To Love You
The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.
“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.
You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.
Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.
“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.
—
Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.
But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.
Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.
He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.
As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.
“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.
“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”
Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.
“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”
—
You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.
Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”
“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.
You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.
Is no one in attendance up to his standard?
“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.
—
His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.
“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.
“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.
She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”
“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”
“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.
“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.
“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.
Benedict has no response to that.
—
The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.
After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.
“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.
“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.
He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.
“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”
You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”
“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”
“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.
He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.
You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.
He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”
A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.
“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”
“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”
“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.
“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”
You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.
—
How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.
“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.
“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.
He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.
He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.
—
Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.
“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.
“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.
“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.
“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”
Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.
“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.
“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.
“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.
“Why?” Violet frowns.
“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”
“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.
“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.
“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.
Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.
“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.
“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”
“Well, no…”
“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.
“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.
You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.
—
The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.
However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.
“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.
“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.
“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”
You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.
“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.
“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.
He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.
—
“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.
“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.
And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.
“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.
Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.
“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.
She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.
You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.
“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.
—
Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.
“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.
“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”
He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.
The piano stops abruptly.
“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.
Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.
“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.
“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.
—
You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.
“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.
“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.
��Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.
“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.
“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.
“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.
“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”
Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.
As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.
“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”
You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.
“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.
“Thank you.”
Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.
III: … And I Do.
A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.
“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.
“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.
“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.
“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.
You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.
Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.
“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”
You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.
“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.
You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.
“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.
“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.
“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”
There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.
You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.
—
As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.
He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.
It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.
How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.
—
Nothing could have prepared you for this.
The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.
Surely, this is what dreams are made of?
You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.
“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.
His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.
“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”
Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.
You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.
—
Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.
He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.
—
You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.
Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.
“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.
“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.
As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.
Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.
“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”
“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.
“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”
There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.
“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.
And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.
To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.
“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”
“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.
He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.
—
That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.
An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.
Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.
You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.
You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.
“What on earth…?”
There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.
“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.
“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”
His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.
“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”
You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.
“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.
“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.
—
That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.
“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.
“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.
He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.
“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”
“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.
“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.
“Thank you,” you answer softly.
You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.
“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.
—
Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.
“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”
He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.
“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.
“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”
That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.
You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.
“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.
Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…
…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.
—
The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.
“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.
“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.
She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”
He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.
“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.
“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.
“Why would she have?”
“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.
“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.
“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.
“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”
Even he can read between those lines.
“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.
—
Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.
He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.
“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.
“Researching,” he gruffs economically.
“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.
“I can find nothing wrong with him!”
Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.
“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”
Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”
“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.
He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”
“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”
Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.
“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”
Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.
It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.
“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.
“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.
“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.
—
The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.
You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.
A resounding yes.
In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.
And yet.
And yet.
There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.
—
Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.
—
You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.
“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.
“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.
“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.
“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.
You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.
“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”
You are stunned. Speechless.
Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.
So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.
—
Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.
“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.
“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.
“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.
“I love you.”
It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
—
You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.
“I-I-I love you too.”
You are bewildered when you say it aloud.
The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.
“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.
He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.
“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.
He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.
“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies
#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton fluff#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#1k notes#1k notes omg you guys!
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
these colors fade for you only ; benedict bridgerton x reader (part i)
pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader
summary: one thing worse than seeing your enemy often was living under the same roof, certainly, and you and benedict suffered from that unfortunate condition. not even the eleven years you've slept separated by a thin wall only helped you overcome that hatred, you would always hate each other. or not really, because it's too definite to say something as such when a few hours could change the meaning of until the end of time.
warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, sexual tension, very inappropriate behavior for the 1810s, colin bridgerton being a little shit, two people who hate each other locked in a room, what could possibly go wrong?, nude paintings, implied smut, song: sunlight (hozier)
word count: 3.2K
❁ part ii
❁ mila's paracosm (main masterlist)
One thing about Benedict Bridgerton is how you could ruin even the best of days for him.
One thing about you is how much you loved to make him mad and see the frustration on his face.
Another thing about Benedict Bridgerton is how pathetically obsessed he was with insulting you in any chance he gets.
Another thing about you is how you were willing to do absolutely anything to bother him or tease him.
You acted like children: always arguing, always making fun of each other, always making everyone at Bridgerton House completely insane with your bickering the entire day.
One thing was having to see your enemy often. One way worse was living under the same roof.
Eleven years ago, your parents had an accident, and you have lived with the Bridgertons ever since, as your mother was Violet Bridgerton's best friend since childhood.
Devastated for years, you accompanied the Bridgertons in their grief for Edmund, which was what ultimately gave you strength to go on with your life. All of you.
But that was the very same thing that ignited your rivalry with the second Bridgerton: your enthusiasm would collide with his mourning and harsh words coming out of his mouth you had no will to tolerate.
It began with his insults to you, though you knew he didn't mean to be rude, and it was all his grief doing the talk. When you couldn't tolerate it anymore, you started insulting him back.
Then, Benedict would play pranks that went too far, and you would burn his sketches in the chimney.
Benedict started sabotaging any chance you could get to find a suitor and you would spread silly rumors about his performance in the bedroom with his friends from the Academy.
Thanks to his efforts, not even being named Diamond of the Season was enough for you to find a husband, which was already making you feel like a failure, not to mention a burden to the Bridgertons. Benedict's fault also.
“Anthony, has he come back?”
He gave you a pitiful look. “I am sorry, Y/N, but I spoke to Lord Raeken to ask him his intentions, and he said he was not interested in marrying you.”
“What?” You gasped. “But everything was going so well! He- he invited us for dinner last week! His mother and Aunt Violet befriended each other even!”
“You will not like what I am going to say.” Anthony anticipated, and you already knew whose fault it was.
“It was Benedict?! Again?!”
Anthony nodded. “I talked to him… It was a threat. He said he would fix it, and I promise you that Lord Raeken will propose to you. If not, he is not worthy of you, and that is all.”
“Nobody is worthy of me, then? He… ruined it with the Duke of Sussex, with Lord Leclerc, with the Count-, I… Why does he keep doing this, Anthony?” You whimpered. You didn't even notice when you started crying, but before anything happened, he hugged you tightly. “Has he not tormented me enough already?”
The eldest Bridgerton knew all too well of your inner motives to hate each other, but decided not to meddle in your war anymore unless it was a case as delicate as this.
“Promise me you will not ruin his latest painting, Y/N,” he begged. “I am trying to work on a peace accord between the two of you, so as long as you stop doing things to him, he will stop messing with you.”
You sighed. “If I do not marry this season, I will have no other choice but to find a job as a governess.”
“Why do you even say that?” He frowned.
“Because it has been eleven years of you sponsoring me, and I believe that it is too much time.”
“You think you are a burden for us?” Anthony asked, and your silence answered. “The day you leave us will be one of the saddest for us Bridgertons, Y/N. You are like our sister, and we love you and care about you as such. Perhaps it has not worked before, but do you really believe that a man that loves you will let none other than Benedict intimidate him?”
“Gregory is more threatening than him,” you noted. “And those dimples could melt the coldest of hearts!”
Anthony smiled. “Do not think too much of it. We shall find you a husband before the season ends.”
“Alright.”
“Now go, I believe Colin is expecting you, and I have many things to do.”
“Sure thing.” you replied.
Once you were out of his office, you gathered the baby blue skirt and ran to Benedict's studio. There, you saw the painting Anthony begged you not to ruin.
It was a woman's naked figure, quite a graceful one. And it was beautifully portrayed.
It would be a shame for it to be ruined. Thank God you did not promise Anthony a thing.
It was still wet, so it was not difficult to use other colors and mix them with the paint so it would look different. You also spilled droplets of red and signed your name on the painting where he had his.
Then, you cleaned your hands and ran to the door.
“Colin!” you exclaimed, and he turned around. “We are going to find Benedict right now.”
He frowned, annoyed. “What happened now?”
“Lord Raeken won't marry me for something Benedict did. Now I must speak to him.”
“It is getting late. We will not get to the tailor in time if we go to Benedict first.”
“Please?” You begged Colin. “I can get on my knees if you wish, but please…”
Colin rolled his eyes. “Alright, let's- oh, there he is!”
You looked in the same direction as him and noticed Benedict getting home. He seemed mad, and your face lost all its life when you thought of what could happen when he saw his painting ruined by you.
“Let's get out of here, Colin…” you muttered once Benedict passed you without even saying hello.
“Why? Benedict is here if you wish to talk to him.”
“It might not be a great time right now…”
“Why?”
“Y/N, I swear to God!”
“Because…” You gave Colin a sheepish look at Benedict's scream.
“What did you do?”
“He started it!”
Colin rolled his eyes. “Did you-”
“Come inside right now!” Benedict yelled once he reached the door. “I am dead serious.”
You sighed, walking next to Colin. “He is going to kill me, Colin.”
“You do not know that.”
“I did something bad.”
“So did he.”
You pursed your lips. “Tell Daphne that only Francesca is a good fit to replace me as Auggie's godmother once I die.”
“Do not say that.”
“What on Earth were you thinking?!”
“What on Earth were you thinking?!” You mimicked him, anger coming to surface again as you reached his studio.
“This was an assignment for tomorrow morning!”
“Well, Lord Raeken was my whole future, Benedict!” you yelled back.
“Look at it! It is ruined!”
Colin was annoyed enough of your fights, and seeing the keys was enough for him to know there was only one solution.
So he did it and thought that you would either kill each other or make amends.
The third Bridgerton exited the room quietly and thanked your bickering for being distracting enough so you did not notice when he closed the door and locked it from outside.
“What are you doing?” Anthony asked when he saw Colin lock the door.
“Forcing those two to reconcile.”
The eldest brother chuckled. “Best of luck with that.”
“I know they will get over it,” he said, sitting on the floor next to the door. “I shall stay here even if it takes me the whole night.”
Anthony joined him. “This should be fun.”
“I do not care if it is ruined, Benedict… you can ruin my future but you draw a line at ruined paintings?!”
“Do you not know how important my career is for me?! You can find another suitor anytime!”
You groaned. “This is my third season, and I have not found a husband! I was the Diamond of my first Season, Benedict! And you have been ruining all of them for me!”
“I have not ruined anything. They simply are not a good fit for the family!”
“I am done listening to you.” You walked away from him and tried, in vain, to open the door.
After looking around, you noticed Colin was supposed to be in the room with you but he wasn't.
“Colin Bridgerton, open this door right now!” You banged the door, making him flinch. “Someone, open the door! We are locked in here!”
Benedict believed you simply weren't strong enough to open it, so he joined you trying to open it but couldn't while his brothers hid their laughter. He looked for the keys but couldn't find them either.
“Colin must have taken the keys,” he noted.
You sighed tiredly. “Somebody open the door! Please, we are trapped!”
“Open the door! Colin!”
“They will not let us out.” you told him.
“Perhaps we should just say we made amends and they will open the door.”
“Do you think he is an idiot? Only a fool would believe you and I could reach an agreement overnight, let alone the ten minutes we have been here.”
He groaned, giving up on escaping the room and returning to the conflict. “How are you so blind, Y/N? How can you fail to see that they are not right for the family?”
“I beg your pardon?! You do not even know them!”
“Is that so?” he questioned, getting closer to you. “Lord Leclerc, a widower who had lovers left and right while his late wife was terribly ill, the Duke of Sussex is a dull rat, and the Count had three illegitimate children by the time he set foot on Mayfair. They are not good people for us.”
“If that is what worries you so, I can leave forever after I marry!”
“Do you truly think this family will survive a week without seeing you? Mother is devastated at Daphne's absence… yours would kill her.”
You rolled your eyes. “We are not even a real family, are we? I am not related to you, I am a mere burden, so why do you not take any of them as your chance to get rid of me?”
“I did not mean that. Stop bringing it to the table each time it suits your purpose to manipulate me.”
“I could seriously kill you with my bare hands right now, Benedict…” you spoke, outraged. “What is it that I did for you to hate me so much?!”
“It is not worth talking about that now.”
“Why are you like this with me, Benedict? At this point, I would marry just about any man who could take me away from you.”
His heart skipped a beat. “We can't just let you marry anyone, alright?”
“Why do you even care?!”
“Because I cannot let you go with someone I do not trust…”
“What will it even take for you to trust any of them?”
“I could never trust them, Y/N, because I can't trust in someone who does not love you devotedly and absolutely.”
Your lips formed a line of disdain at his words. “How would you even know they don't if you do not give them the chance to truly get to me?”
“Because no one does.”
“Wow,” you laughed bitterly. “Thanks for reminding me how unlovable I am.”
“You do not understand, Y/N.”
“Explain it to me, then!” You asked, you begged him.
“No one does it like I do, my goodness!” he screamed, and you were sure it echoed through the whole floor.
You choked on your own spit at his confession, and at the other side of the door, Colin and Anthony looked at each other completely flabbergasted.
“We should leave.” Anthony whispered. “Unlock the door.”
Colin nodded. “I agree, we should let them out.”
Anthony nodded and left, but Colin was determined.
He certainly did not unlock the door.
“What?” you asked in almost a whisper.
Benedict seemed surprised at his own words, as if he had spoken from ignorance because… it couldn't be real, could it? He couldn't be in love with you.
“I…”
“Benedict…”
“You are my family,” he ‘corrected’ himself. “Conflict in families is not uncommon. It is fine. I care about you, and I… we do not want you to be the wife of a man that does not deserve you, Y/N. You are sunlight, and they are nothing but a gray sky.”
You breathed out shakily, looking at his blue eyes deeply, feeling like you had never seen such blue in your entire life. “I am sorry about your painting.”
“It is alright, I will try to fix it; maybe if Colin lets us out, I can go back to the Academy before it is too late. Find a model-”
“Is that what you need? A model?”
Benedict cleared his throat, guessing where it was going, though scared of it. “Yes, but it should not be difficult to find one at the Academy.”
“We will not be let out,” you reminded him and gave it all a careful thought.
You were aware it wasn't right. He was a man, and you were a woman who was not married to him. He must not see you naked under any circumstances, but again… he saved you from those men who weren't worth it, and you paid him by ruining his artwork. It was not fair, so you owed him.
You could break the rules a little. After all, you were locked in a room for God only knows how long.
So you nodded and started undressing. “I could model for you if that is what you need.”
“What? Do not, I-”
“What is the difference between that woman and I?”
Benedict's brain told him to stop you. It was definitely not right for a lady like you to be seen naked before marriage. Worse than that, be painted.
“Y/N…”
“Am I not interesting enough to paint, Benedict?” you questioned as your dress reached the floor. “I just wish to make up for what I did.”
You started undoing your corset under his careful eyes.
“If what worries you is my identity, I believe you could use the other model's face,” you added once the corset was discarded and your bosom fully exposed to him. “It is intact in your painting.”
“I am afraid your grace cannot be compared.”
You exhaled nervously when your shaking hands reached the beginning of your underpants. “Then make justice to it.”
Finally, you stood completely naked before him and didn't dare to be modest about it.
“Paint me.”
You walked to the couch and laid in a similar position as the model in his painting.
“I cannot ask that of you.” He tried one last time, gathering all the strength in his body… You were a lady, and he was a gentleman; no matter how rare that would be of him to stop you. It was not right, but what a sight he had before him.
“Then it is good that I offered.” you refuted.
He doubted for longer than he is willing to admit, but ultimately approached you with hesitant steps.
“Allow me,” he whispered as he reached you. You nodded, and he accommodated your head so you would be looking up at the ceiling and your hands to cover what could be seen of your face to his art's convenience delicately. His touch, hot, caused goosebumps on your skin. A gasp left your lips. “You truly are beautiful.”
“Thank you.” you mumbled.
Benedict returned to the canvas, telling himself he could do this.
He shouldn't.
But if your face wouldn't be seen, it would do no harm. Only you and him would know it's you.
A few hours had passed and the night had fallen. It was difficult to paint with the growing darkness hiding your features, so he left his piece for a second to find some candles.
Before he returned to the canvas, you spoke. “Am I doing it well?”
“You certainly are,” he praised you. “A natural indeed.”
You had goosebumps once again.
What is wrong with me?, you asked yourself.
How could Benedict, of all people, make you feel like this? How could he control the speed of your heartbeat with mere words? How could he turn your skin into a burning mess that acted as if it was freezing? How could he make your hands sweat each time he got closer? How could he make you forget how much you despised him after he said he loved you?
How did he love you? He said you were family, but he did not dare to call you a sister like his siblings always do. No, this was a different kind of love: the kind of love you read about in the romance novels you have stolen from his library, because that is the way you were feeling near his presence, under his stare, at his touch.
“Come here,” you commanded long before you thought what you would say. He complied, flying to you like a moth to a flame, but you were sunlight: billions of times more powerful, and you could consume him long before he dared to reach you. He felt like a moth with wigs made of wax, melting with each step that brought him close to you. Gladly. “How do you love me, Benedict?”
“What?”
It was unbelievable that a man of words like him could act so clueless, but there he was. Oblivious to your passion, not to mention his.
“I have always been your Mama's daughter and your brothers and sisters' sister. But I have never been yours,” you mentioned. “Why, if you love me so?”
“Y/N…” His hand caressed your face, and you took the other to put it on your left breast where he could feel your heart beating.
“Kiss me if what my beating heart says about your love is true.” It was an order, and that heart of yours was certainly right.
And right then, he knew he was careless of his own insignificance. He would fly as high as the melting wax allowed him to and fall as deep into the ocean as his own weight imposed.
He could drown and disappear, live and die for this moment. For all the frustration that has haunted him all those years of loathing and yearning. For his sunlight, for you.
He kissed you, and you returned the kiss as if your lips had ever touched others before.
They haven't.
They shouldn't.
But they are now.
It was an angry kiss. Wet, carnal, breathless, hot, feral, everything.
His lips did not caress yours or danced with yours, no; they fought and devoured yours, and you gave in.
It was exquisite but depraved in a way you couldn't bring yourself to explain, and you absolutely loved it.
Once the kiss ended, you were the first to talk. “Take it all off.”
He breathed out, nerves he does not recall to have ever felt scared his determination away.
He felt as pathetic as those men he threatened to ruin if they were to set foot in the same room as you ever again, and he took off his clothes with the urgency of a task set by the scary educator of his childhood.
You looked at him, took it all in, and gave him space to lay beside you.
“It's just us, Benedict…” you let out, your breath blending with his. “You can love me now.”
His cue.
#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x reader#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton imagine
910 notes
·
View notes
Text
Enchanting to Meet You (Bridgerton: Benedict Bridgerton)
pairing: female reader (she/her) x Benedict Bridgerton
summary: In your debut social season in London, you can’t help but be absolutely enchanted by a certain gentleman. You wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a true love match after one ball…right?
notes/warnings: no warnings, just all fluff! does this song not scream dancing with benedict for the first time! stolen glances and witty remarks! like hello?
word count: 1.3k
The carriage was moving impossibly slow.
Trees passing by at a snail’s pace as you watched the light of your aunt’s estate grow closer in the distance.
The desire to run to your bedroom and bathe in the excitement of the night intensifying as each moment passed.
“A lovely opening ball, was it not y/n?”
You snapped your head from leaning on the window to where your mother and aunt sat across from you.
“Yes, quite lovely indeed,” you remarked.
You had grown up coming to your aunt’s estate in the summers.
As a child, you remembered begging your mother to take you to London for the social season as your older sisters were being presented to society.
You wondered if your sisters ever had a night as magical as you did tonight.
And it was all because of him.
Benedict Bridgerton.
You liked the name Benedict; you had never met another one before.
The blood rushed to your cheeks, so scarlet, at the memory of dancing the night away with him.
“Oh y/n, you are looking quite ill. You have had such a busy night; it would do you well to get a good night’s sleep and think on the many gentlemen who will call on you tomorrow.”
You could not help but lay awake that night, the moonlight shining through the curtains, as you thought about the entire night. Replaying it in its entirety, from start to finish.
The conversation was effortless, no lulls or awkward pauses you experienced with others.
What would you do if he had not called upon you the next day?
Would you be forced to entertain the other prospects in hope of waiting and biding time for his affection.
Was there someone else in the picture?
Why had you not thought to ask his intentions?
Was the chemistry enough to guide you through this season?
Your endless thoughts were torture.
Finally dozing off, the moonlight soon disappeared as the darkness of the night sky was replaced by the bright and glistening rays of the sun.
A subtle knock came from the other side of the door, your lady maid calling out.
“Miss Y/N, we must start getting you ready.”
With one final powdering of your nose, you made your way towards the parlor room.
As you walked in you spotted Benedict sitting on the settee near the large portrait of your family.
He stood up immediately once he noticed your presence.
As your eyes met the memories of the night before came flooding back.
******
You stood with your mother and aunt at the edge of the dance floor, running your hands down your dress, doing your best to smooth out the ruffles from where you sat.
“Miss y/l/n, what a pleasure to have you join us this season.”
“Thank you, Lady Danbury,” you smiled politely.
“Let us hope that she is as lucky as her sisters in finding a great companion,” your mother said.
You nodded your head as you took in the scene around you.
Girls and their mamas circling like vultures, while still maintaining the perfect amount of poise to be considered elegant and respectful.
It was much more overwhelming than you were anticipating.
The magic of what you imagined as a little girl was slowly fading the more you felt the pressure of finding a husband by the end of the season.
If forcing laughter and faking smiles is what it took to get through the night, then so be it.
You had evaded a few gentlemen by writing down the name of poets on your dance card, smiling shyly as you quickly waved the ‘full’ dance card as a polite dismissal.
It was a pity really, you loved to dance.
The small talk and inquiring about your pianoforte on the other hand was quite detestable.
You had just gotten done pity laughing at Lord Hardy’s ‘humble’ comment about his many properties, when above his shoulder your eyes met a couple of cool blue ones across the room.
Your insincerity dropped, curiosity taking over as you excused yourself from Lord Hardy.
The man had done the same with whatever company had previously occupied him, gently patting the man in front of him as he maneuvered his way towards you.
As he approached you bowed your head slightly.
“Miss--?”
“Y/N”
“Miss Y/N, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I suppose we have not. I have just come to London for the season.”
“Ah, the marriage mart? Believer of love, are we?”
“Are you not?” you challenged back.
“In an artists’ sense, yes. Not in the way that I must bow, and you curtsy while we skate around each for months to appease our families What is it truly to admire a woman? To look at her and feel inspiration? To delight in her beauty, so much so that all your defenses crumble, that you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her.”
You were shocked by his seemingly earnest words. Perhaps the shallow nature of society was not present in everyone.
“Well, we seem to have that in common Mr.—”
“Bridgerton, but you may call me Benedict.”
“Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, the artist or a poet?” you teased.
“This doesn’t really seem like the company you would choose to surround yourself with,” you remarked.
“Quite true Miss Y/N. I fear I am rather trapped among the duties of my family to attend tonight’s ball. You see, my sister Eloise is in her debut season as well.”
You followed his gaze to where a young lady stood next to an older woman. From afar their relationship was quite clear, a mama instructing her daughter on all the dos and don’ts of the night.
“Might you join me in a dance Miss Y/N?”
You looked down to your dance card, the spots filled with fake names.
Benedict grabbed your wrist, bringing the cards towards him for a closer examination.
He laughed as he looked at the names written, scratching out the last two to write his own.
“I do hope Lord Keats and Lord Wordsworth don’t mind me taking their spots.”
“They’ll live, I hear they have greater things to attend to.”
“Greater than you miss? I have high doubts.”
You took Benedict’s hand as the music began to play.
Your hand felt so right in his, as natural as breathing.
You could not help the fluttering in your heart as he whisked you across the dance floor.
This moment, this is the moment you imagined as a young girl.
The playful conversation, perfectly countering his quick remarks. Is this what it was like to meet someone at your level?
Your insincerity and vacancy from earlier replaced by a fulfilling excitement.
“It seems highly improper to have danced continuously with you Benedict.”
“I suppose it is a bit suggestive, do you regret it?” he asked seriously.
You thought for a long second before you looked at him properly.
“No, I do not regret it. Your company is quite refreshing and enjoyable.”
“Coming from someone with your elegance, I take that as the highest compliment.”
You had spent the rest of the evening walking around with your mother and aunt, engaging in superficial conversations, your eyes constantly peeled for a certain Bridgerton.
Your stolen glances and playful smirks across the ballroom went seemingly unnoticed by most.
However, after a brief encounter with Benedict at the drinks table, you felt the wandering eyes of a young lady wearing a lovely yellow dress.
You smiled sweetly at her before returning to your mother’s side.
******
“Miss Y/N, I hope it is not a surprise for me to have called on you so early this morning?”
“On the contrary, I would have been quite disappointed if you had not.”
“Would you care to join me for a promenade?”
“I would be delighted Mr. Bridgerton.”
check out the rest of my work ⤑ here!
#teentvimagines#bridgerton imagines#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton masterlist#bridgerton fic#bridgerton family#bridgerton imagine#colin bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#daphne bridgerton#lady whistledown#penelope featherington#Spotify
432 notes
·
View notes
Text
Once and Forever - Anthony Bridgerton
Word count: 1332
Summary: Not everything is meant to be seen as a duty when one feels different, am i right?
The ballroom of the Bridgerton household was abuzz with activity, as the crème de la crème of society gathered to celebrate the impending union of you and the beloved Anthony Bridgerton.
You were praised as the most enigmatic beauty of the season, your arrival at the ton had been nothing short of legendary.
Rumors swirled of your heritage, your tragic past, and the scandalous circumstances that had brought you to England.
Now, as you took your place at Anthony's side, your every move was scrutinized, your every word analyzed, and every touch felt like a spark igniting a blaze.
Despite your outward appearance of calm, Anthony could feel his heart racing as he looked into your eyes.
He'd never been so torn between his duty and his desires.
On the one hand, he knew that this marriage was the only way to ruin the 'rake' rumors, on the other, he couldn't help but feel an undeniable attraction to you.
He longed to tell you how beautiful you were, how your laughter filled the halls of the house, how your presence lit up the room like the sun on a summer's day.
But he didn't know how.
You, for your part, could feel the tension emanating from Anthony.
You'd thought him arrogant and dismissive at first, but as the night wore on, you found yourself growing more and more confused.
His eyes seemed to bore into your skin as if he were trying to see past your facade and understand the real you.
You wished he would say something, anything, that would put you at ease.
But you knew that your marriage was about more than just your feelings, it was about duty and obligation.
And so, you smiled and laughed and tried your best to fit into the world he'd built for himself.
Yet, you thought that the most thoughtful thing to do was to distance yourself from heartache and a whirlwind of emotions.
And so you did.
You spent your days in solitude, trying to find comfort in the familiarity of your rooms.
The servants, who had once treated you with such admiration and awe, now ignored your presence, as if you were nothing more than another piece of furniture.
You found yourself missing the sound of laughter and music that once filled the halls of the house, but you knew that it was better this way.
Anthony, on the other hand, was a different story.
He seemed to be everywhere you went, always watching you, always studying you.
It was unnerving, to say the least. You wondered if he was trying to find some fault in you, some reason why you shouldn't be together.
Perhaps he was looking for a way out of your arranged marriage.
The thought brought a twinge of sadness to your heart, for you had begun to hope that perhaps, in time, you might find some sort of happiness together.
The servants, too, seemed to be more attentive to him than ever before.
They hovered around him like a cloud of gossipmongers, whispering and giggling whenever he was near.
You couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy. You wanted to be the one who made him smile, the one who made him forget about everything else.
But you knew that it was not to be. Your marriage was about duty and obligation, nothing more.
One day, as you were wandering the gardens alone, lost in your thoughts, you heard footsteps approaching.
You looked up to see Anthony walking towards you.
His expression was solemn, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and longing.
For a moment, you couldn't breathe. You'd never seen him look at you like that before.
"Y/n," he began, his voice gruff with emotion.
"I... I wanted to apologize for my behavior. For treating you the way I have. I know that I haven't made it easy for you to adjust to life here, and for that, I am truly sorry." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.
"I want you to know that I did not choose this arrangement lightly. I did it because I believed it was the best thing for my family, and for my siblings who look up to me. I thought it was my duty to protect them."
You looked up at him, your heart racing. His words were like balm to your wounded soul.
"I understand that, Anthony," you said softly.
"And I appreciate your apology. I want you to know that I didn't come here under false pretenses. I know what our marriage is about, and I accept that."
He studied your face for a moment as if searching for some sign of deception.
"You're not just saying that?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "You truly accept it?"
You nodded, your heart swelling with a mixture of affection and understanding.
"Yes, I do. And I want you to know that I'm not angry with you. I understand why you did what you did, and I respect that."
Anthony took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours.
"I... I wish things could be different. That we could be different." He hesitated as if searching for the right words. "I want to try, y/n. I want to make this work between us."
"At which moment has there ever been an, us, Anthony?"
His features twisted in thought as if he were trying to understand your words.
"I don't know," he admitted softly.
"Perhaps there never was. Perhaps we were always meant to be pawns in a game greater than ourselves. But... I want to try. I want to see if there's something more between us. Something real."
You felt your heart skip a beat at his words.
You wanted to believe him, to trust that he was sincere. But you couldn't help but feel a sense of caution.
"Anthony, I... I appreciate what you're saying. But I don't want to hurt you, or your family."
He took another step closer, his expression solemn.
"Y/n, I understand that. Yet, I want you to know that I will always put your happiness first. Above everything else."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and for a moment, you stood there in silence, the weight of your words hanging between you both.
And that was the very exact moment that you decided to do something very unexpected.
You stepped forward, closing the distance between you both, and tentatively placed your hand against his chest.
He looked down at you, his eyes wide with surprise, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening.
You smiled up at him, feeling a warmth spread through your body that you hadn't experienced in a very long time.
"Anthony," you breathed, "I... is this a smart thing to do?"
He smiled down at you, his eyes softening.
"I don't know, y/n. But I do know that I've never felt this way about anyone before. And I think... I think I want to find out where this leads us."
As if emboldened by his words, you leaned in closer, your lips meeting his in a gentle kiss.
His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he deepened the kiss.
It was a tentative, exploratory kiss, a first step into uncharted territory.
You could feel the heat from his body, the strength in his embrace, and for a moment, you forgot about everything else.
You pulled away from the kiss, breathing heavily, your face flushed.
He looked into your eyes, searching for some sign of what you were feeling.
You reached up and traced your fingers along his jawline. "I know," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. "I want to find out as well."
He smiled down at you, a genuine, heartfelt smile that lit up his entire face.
"Me too," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Me too."
#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton netflix#colin bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#colin bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton#anthony bridgerton x you#anthony bridgerton x reader#anthony x reader#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton fanfic#benedict x y/n#benedict bridgerton x you
346 notes
·
View notes
Note
I feel like Benedict would be so frazzled when his love is in labor. He would insist on being in the room with his wife
the author took immense liberties with this idea. she hopes you enjoy it nevertheless and offers her thanks for sharing it with them~
the author would also like to name that, whilst a she/her femme, the sort of reader who the author wrote with in mind would likely not resonate with being called 'wife.' she would likely prefer 'partner' or a more gender inclusive term. <3
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
i hate accidents: a drabble
femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington
summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son
sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball
y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents
content warnings: pregnancy (no birthing/labor)
word count: 891
tagged: @mikariell95 @omgsuperstarg @flyestvenustrap @nowheredreamer @jimblejamblewritings
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“you are thinking of something.”
you smile; your husband knows you too well. you continue to rub at your protruding stomach.
“our child can kill a scottish king,” you respond.
benedict laughs through his nose, his ocean eyes crinkling in the adorable way that they always do whenever he is truly delighted.
“if you hadn’t said 'scottish,' i might have needed to turn you in for treason. why do you say that, love?”
you struggle out of your lounge, swatting at your kindly husband’s offer to assist you, and waddle over to your shelves of books. you drag your forefinger across the spines until you emit an ‘aha!’ and pull the book. flipping towards the end, you find the pressed wisteria you used to mark the verse and read,
“‘for none of woman born shall harm macbeth,’” you look up from the words to benedict as you beam with pride. “see? the premiere attribute for assassinating a fictitious monarch, and here our child has it because of me.”
your husband returns your beam as he approaches you and leans in to plant a soft kiss on your temple. shifting himself to be behind you, he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his hands on the low of your stomach. you lean into the comfort of his embrace.
“and how shall we support our child with their nefarious intentions?” benedict inquires.
you hum.
“both their parents are quite proficient in fencing. perhaps it is a trait that they shall inherit?”
“that seems certain. their parents are also quite good at sneaking about; that ought to be of use to them for their plot.”
you snort.
“i think you are too generous, love. there is a certain eldest brother who has vehemently disproved time and time again that we are, in fact, quite terrible at sneaking about.”
benedict nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, causing you to giggle. you can feel his smile against your quickened pulse. it is silly; how he is your husband— how he is the father of your child to-be! and yet, he still makes you feel this way. he still makes these damned butterflies flutter within you.
“more incentive to keep practicing, no?” you feel benedict’s smile broaden into a grin. “for our child, of course.”
stupid benedict.
you shake your head with all the affection in your heart.
“for our child.”
a small silence falls amongst you. you should allow yourself this comfort. you should allow yourself this peace. but—
“do you think i can do it?”
you had meant to say it as plainly as you could, but the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes choked your words into a whisper. benedict releases himself from the embrace, one hand still on your stomach, as he shifts to face you.
“do what, my love?”
the crack in the softness of his voice and the gentle circles you feel on your stomach from his touch make you close your eyes.
“birth our child. raise them. what if it is too much? what if i hurt them? what if i—” you flutter your eyes open to the tear-blurry sight of disquiet in ocean eyes, “what if i am not the parent they deserve?”
he says your name, and that is enough to allow your tears to fall. you start to look down, feeling the weight of your shame settle within you, but benedict does not let you. he gently cups your face, lifts it, and kisses wherever tears roll down your cheeks. benedict murmurs ‘i love you’ with each kiss until he whispers,
“i am fearful too.”
you pull your face away from his and see how his throat bobs, as it always does right before he wishes to say something more firmly.
“i am fearful that i will fail them. i am fearful that i will not be even an inkling of a father to our child as my father was to me,” benedict heaves a sigh, and you see how he wills himself not to let his tears fall. “but,” his throat bobs again, “then i remind myself that our child has you, y/n.”
you place a hand on his cheek and softly rub your thumb against his skin.
“you can cry too, benedict,” you manage.
he huffs out a laugh as he allows a tear to fall. you gently press your lips against his cheek to capture it.
“yes, but i am not the one carrying our child.”
you look down at your stomach and then up at your husband. you offer a small smile.
“i suppose it is your fault that i am in such a state.”
that makes benedict laugh fully.
stupid butterflies.
he tries to look down and away, suddenly shy by the very silly observation you have made, but you do not let him. you shift your head and capture him with a kiss between his chin and his cheek, gently pushing his face up and murmuring ‘i love you’ into his skin.
perhaps your and benedict’s fear shall never go away. perhaps you two shall never be the perfect parents you wish to be for your child. but your child was created out of real, true love. a love that protects, that laughs, that nurtures, that comforts, that heals. and perhaps, that is enough.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ ✕ ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton angst#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#penelope featherington#kate sharma#anthony bridgerton#colin bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#gregory bridgerton#hyacinth bridgerton#violet bridgerton
197 notes
·
View notes
Text
Infatuation
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
MDI!! 18+
Part 2 <3
Warnings: Heavy drinking, mentions of opium use, mentions of prostitution, rough sex, fingering, oral sex, semi-public sex, squirting, marking, thigh riding, vaginal sex, dom benedict and sub reader, brief spanking, possessive benedict, LOTS of dirty talk
A.N: hi again, i'm back on my bullshit <3 first of all, thank you so very much for the love on my first Benny fic AND my first fic ever. liiiiike seriously, that was so sweet <3 T-T. anyway, this fic is another Benny fic- a smutty one at that. it is vaguely based off of the infamous party where Ben has his threesome, however, i changed it up quite a bit so take it at face value hehe. i am planning on making an Anthony one next, probably some more filth so I can practice getting my wording to a place i am proud of. also, i think i will maybe make this into a series??? so do let me know if you like it so i can get an idea >.< enjoy, ily, and THANK YOU AGAIN <3 ^-^
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You were never one to go to parties, especially the ones your dear friend Genevieve Delacroix invited you to. She had a knack for finding the most raunchy, wanton, artists who would throw parties full of courtesans, sex, opium, alcohol... the whole of it.
Being a maid for such a wealthy and well-known family, the Featherington's to be exact, meant you knew the secret lives that many lords and ladies lead outside of the stuffy confines of the ballrooms.
You were lucky to be the lady's maid of the sweetest Featherington, Penelope, and therefore you were even luckier to hear about the Bridgerton family. From what she told you, they were all kind and polite, just like anyone else. She had also hinted, quite shyly, to the men of the family being gorgeous. The third born being her favorite.
You had seen glimpses of pearly white teeth, dark blue tailcoats, and their chestnut brown hair but were never lucky enough to see a full image of any of them but Eloise and her sister, Daphne.
When Genevieve insisted on you tagging along with her and a friend from a higher-up place, you begrudgingly accepted. It was lucky that the young debutante you worked for insisted on having something important to do, so you snuck out and walked through the streets of London to the modiest's shop.
Genevieve dressed you in a tight but, incredibly beautiful, dark blue corset and a pair of black pants, to which you raised an eyebrow. "I look as if I am soliciting, not as if I am curious about this party you have been nagging me to go to." You comment, looking in the mirror.
"What if you solicit, hm? Where is the harm in spending a night with a lord or even another servant?" She returns, tightening up the laces on the corset before stepping back and looking over her work. "Besides, look at yourself. You have a body that would make any one of those silly debutantes jealous, why not show it?" She grins.
You sigh and turn to her, a small cheeky smile on your face as a result of her teasing. "You owe me for this, Viv." You tease and she laughs, putting on her cloak as she hands you your own. "There she is. The Y/N I know. We will have fun, I swear it." She says. Once your cloak is tugged over your shoulders, the both of you make your way out of the shop and towards the house where the party is being held.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Benedict never snuck out, not before he got invited to Lord Granville's house. The man was nice enough about him completely insulting his art to his face, nice enough to recognize an artistic eye and even the hint of talent that Benedict possessed through merely speaking about art. He thought the gathering was going to be one where he would meet artists and practice his craft. He was wrong.
Of course, he was experienced in the world of sex, drugs, and drinking. He attended the gentleman's club with his brothers after almost every ball he attended, much like every other lord in the ton. He has shared his number of passion-filled nights with nameless women, some of which he cannot remember. The only remenice being the ache of a hangover, and the taste of expensive whiskey still lingering on his tongue.
He would have never thought that the artist had such a scene hiding behind such an unassuming townhouse.
He followed the artist in and was met with quite the scene. The room was hazy with the smoke of expensive cigars, the candlelight casting a low gold hue on the entire house. He followed the artist deeper and was met with courtesans soliciting men at every turn, to which he grinned.
Even further and he was led into a room where women were posed naked, in quite compromising positions, for eager artists who were trying to master the anatomy of a naked woman. Or so that is what Granville claimed.
He grins crookedly at the sight. "Quite the room, is it not?" Lord Granville piques up from behind him. He turns to face the man and nods. "Quite. Might I stay here? I have found myself needing practice of anatomy as of late and this is the perfect place to do so." He says, a playful glint in his eye.
Granville, of course, picks up on it and nods. "Of course, Lord Bridgerton. Do enjoy yourself." He returns with a knowing smile and a wink before exiting the room. Benedict sits at one of the free easles, one of the other men lighting a cigar and offering it to him. He accepts, and puffs on it as he begins to work.
He could get used to this.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Genevieve leads you through the party, grabbing two glasses of what looks like scotch off of a passing servant's tray. She settles for meeting her friend, who you quickly learn is the wife of said artist who is throwing the party, on the stairs.
After a while of chatting you learn that the young woman's name is Lucy and her husband is Henry Granville, an artist whose work you always found interesting. You also are clued into the fact that their marriage is one of convenience, rather than love, as Lord Granville has no romantic nor sexual interest towards the opposite sex. You find no issue in what the young couple has, after all, you have seen much worse when it comes to marriages in the ton.
"Viv, might I go explore, or am I to only solicit?" You tease as you push off the wall. She laughs and shakes her head. "I am not your keeper, Y/N. Go and do as you wish, just be careful." She says, a hint of genuine protectiveness seeping through her tone of voice. "I promise. I will find my way back to your shop if anything goes awry." You assure before walking down the steps with a quick wave to both of the women.
You duck into a small room with a door that leads to a balcony after grabbing another glass of scotch from a passing servant. However fun it is coming to these things with Viv, you find them quite overwhelming. You are more attuned to the quietness of your servant's quarters, spending countless hours curled up with a good book that your young mistress so generously gifts you from time to time.
You walk out on the balcony, leaning heavily on the metal railing as you look up at the stars. The scotch, and the fact that you get much drunker much quicker than most, is making a delightfully warm feeling bloom in your chest. You take a deep breath of the fresh air to calm your senses before ducking back into the party.
You make it all of two steps before colliding into a broad chest, which sends your alcohol down the front of your torso.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He was in that hazy, alcohol-filled room, long enough to get just drunk enough to where he was clumsy. He catches the woman he so foolishly clambered into on his way out of the room he was painting in by the waist, which sends her drink out of her hand and down her front.
"My God, I am so incredibly sorry my lady." He rushes, gazing down at the mess he made. His eyes widen at the sight that lies in front of him.
She's a young woman, young enough that she can not be past the age of two and twenty, in a very revealing corset top and black pants. Her hair is tucked up elegantly, yet a few unruly waves have fallen as a result of the night's activities. Her cheeks are pink, probably from the embarrassment or perhaps even the anger, of getting drenched in scotch.
The liquid drips down her neck, and he follows a drop from her neck to where it travels right between her breasts. The tops are peaking out from being hugged so tight. They are full, so very full. He wonders what it would feel like to run his tongue over the smooth skin, what it would feel like to roll her nipple between his teeth and suck.
He shakes himself out of it and meets her eyes once more before he gets any more aroused than he already is.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You recognize him immediately as a Bridgerton, though you have no idea which one. He has a silly crooked smile on his face that you cannot seem to draw your eyes from, he also sports the undoubtedly Bridgerton chestnut brown hair.
He has longer hair than the one Penelope speaks of, but only just. Your eyes roam from his face to his chest, where he is wearing only a loose undershirt, his waistcoat long forgotten in drunken activities you're sure. His suspenders hang loose on his shoulders, just barely hanging onto his black trousers.
"You're a Bridgerton." It slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the effects of three glasses of scotch. He grins wider, chuckling a bit. The noise makes your entire body heat up. "I am. Benedict Bridgerton in fact." He says, his eyes never straying from yours.
"And you are?" He ponders after a moment of silence from you. You jump at the question, having been too distracted by the look of his lips to even notice he was speaking. You clear your throat and adjust your posture. "Y/N L/N." You answer shyly.
"Well, Y/N L/N, can I take you to a room and clean up the mess I made of your top, or is that entirely too forward for a gentleman to ask within mere moments of meeting?" He grins, the alcohol he consumed only ebbing on his already large confidence when it comes to women. You only nod shyly, afraid that if you speak you will make a stuttering fool of yourself.
He offers an arm, which you take happily, and begins to lead you through the party.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He pulls you into a room and, almost immediately, his hands encompass your waist. "You... are the most stunning woman I have ever had the pleasure of looking at." He murmurs, sending your heart soaring. You rest your hand on his chest, newly emboldened by the liquid courage you have been sipping on the entire night, returning his cheeky smile. "Is it too forward for a lady to say the same within mere moments of meeting?" You return.
He lets out a chuckle when you parrot his past words and he leans down. "A witty woman as well as a beautiful one, what else do you have up your sleeve Miss L/N?" He purrs, running a flattened hand up your back until it meets your hair. He tugs it down from its pins, sending it tumbling over your shoulders.
"Perhaps, if you are lucky Mister Bridgerton, I shall show you." You whisper, leaning in so your lips are but a hair's width away from his. Something dangerous and incredibly intoxicating passes over his features as he lets out a noise, a growl, that causes your core to dampen.
"You are a very forward woman, Y/N. I find it quite... infatuating to say the very least." He whispers before capturing your lips. You close your eyes and tangle one of your hands in his thick hair, the other finding his collar and giving it a slight tug.
He groans into your mouth, his hands enveloping your bum cheeks and pulling you even closer. He wants to feel the rise and fall of your breasts as he makes you pant. And by god does he.
You moan into his mouth as his hands squeeze the soft skin of your ass through your trousers, which gives him the perfect chance to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes smoky, like cigars and whiskey. It makes your clit throb painfully.
As if reading your mind, and body, he spreads your legs with his knee and slides his leg between them. His thigh presses against your closed cunt and you gasp, breaking the kiss to throw your head back. He smirks and holds you right where you are by moving his hands to your hips.
"So sensitive." He whispers and groans as you begin to move your hips back and forth against his thigh, chasing the feeling it gives you. "Fuck, you are just full of surprises aren't you darling? I did not even have to tell you what to do, you just did it," He praises, his eyes locked on the place where your clothed core meets his leg.
"Riding my thigh like a bitch in heat. I might have to keep you." He gusts over your shoulder as he begins to kiss the exposed skin there. Oh God, how you would love that. To be able to fuck him whenever you saw fit, yes please Mister Bridgerton. "Please." Is all you manage to strangle out as you begin to grind down on him harder.
He bites down on your shoulder, leaving a bright red mark there, which he smirks at before he slowly guides you to the dark red chaise that lies in the corner of the room. He lays you back, slowly unlacing your corset with his slender fingers. He throws it across the room when it is off, his mouth immediately taking in one of your hardened nipples.
You cry out when he sucks, watching him look up at you with a shit-eating grin that makes your cunt even more soaked than it already is. He sucks and bites your bud before turning his attention to the other, giving it just as much attention. "The least I can do is clean up the mess I made." He whispers over your nipple, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure straight down to your core. Cocky bastard, you think to yourself as you grip his hair.
You are a whimpering, moaning mess by the time his face returns over yours. He presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to your lips before sitting up and stripping himself of his suspenders and his shirt before returning his attention to you. He takes off your shoes and then unbuttons your trousers, slowly sliding them down your legs.
He groans lewdly at the sight. Genevieve had insisted quite heavily when she was dressing you up that you forgo panties. She said it made trousers more comfortable, less tight, so of course you agreed. You decide tonight, that if wearing no underwear will illicit that pretty noise from his lips, you will never wear them again.
"God you are soaked. Drenched from riding my thigh and a quick suck to your nipples." He whispers as he kisses the insides of your thighs. You whine and buck your hips up toward his face, which results in him quickly grabbing your hips with one of his hands and pressing you down into the cushion so you are unable to buck and writhe. "Perhaps I was right in my assessment of you, Miss Y/N. You really are just a bitch in heat. So desperate to be full of my cock, painted with my seed." He murmurs before licking a stripe up your slit.
You cry out and grip his hair with both hands, needing something to ground yourself as his tongue swirls around your clit. He lets out a growl at the taste of your dripping cunt, so sweet and yet so tart. Utter perfection. The noise you make in return has him wishing he could drink from your body for the rest of his days, die with you sat atop his face. Riding his mouth to oblivion.
He moves his hand down to his trousers, fumbling with the buttons to free his aching cock. He slides two fingers into your body without warning and you keen, your eyes rolling back as he collects your juices. He pulls his fingers out just as quick as they went in, and spreads your wetness on his length, stroking himself hard as he drinks from you.
"Ben... oh fuck.... so close." You babble as his tongue presses inside your hole, drawing the most heavenly noises from your body. He pulls away just as you start to see stars and you grasp at his hands, tears forming in your eyes from your denied release. "Please... Please..." You sob, desperate for the feeling to come back.
He chuckles deeply, hooking your knees over his shoulders. "I've got you, love." He assures, kissing away your tears before pulling back with a cocky grin that sends your heart fluttering. "You look like a masterpiece, crying for my cock. All flushed and swollen." He murmurs. You do not know if he is talking about you or your pussy, but you never wish for him to stop.
"Please, my lord. Please, please... I need you. I need..." You babble, completely free of any thought other than his pretty dick plunging inside of you. He curses and bends down, claiming your lips with his before thrusting into you without warning. He bottoms out, and both of you moan, the kiss becoming a mess of tongue and tooth alike.
He begins at a brutal pace, slamming into you so hard that the chaise creeks against the hardwood floor. You scream at the heavenly feeling of pain and pleasure, the sound muffled over his lips. Sweat splashes from his collarbone to yours as the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, the sickly sweet smell of sex enveloping your senses.
He grunts and breaks the kiss, holding one of your legs by the calf, his other hand cupping your jaw. Your mouth falls open as soon as his lips are gone, a loud moan coming from somewhere deep within slipping out before you can try and stop it. He grunts and sticks his thumb past your lips, afraid that someone will hear from outside the thin walls.
You happily oblige and close your lips around his digit, swirling your tongue around him to the rhythm of his thrusts. He moans at the sight of you sucking on his thumb like it's a cock, as his cock slams into your pretty pussy. "Fuck. I am keeping you. You are mine," He accentuates the word with a slap to your ass cheek, causing you to cry out over his finger and clench down on his cock. "Forever. No one else will ever-fuck.-be able to fill this sweet hole of yours. It is all mine. You are all mine." He grunts as his thrusts become sloppy.
He yanks his thumb from your mouth and attacks your swollen, throbbing, clit. He rubs it hard and fast, to match the rhythm of his thrusts and you cry out. He quickly intuits that you are as close to climax as he is and bends down, covering your lips with his own so that you can scream freely.
You do as he expected, letting out a long scream into his mouth as stars rush over your vision and your body burns hot. Your juices soak both his pant-covered leg and the velvety fabric of the chaise below. The feeling of your fluttering cunt tightening even further sends him over and he releases deep inside you before he goes limp over your body.
He pushes himself up after a moment, relishing in the sight below him. Your cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and bruised. You have a bite mark on your shoulder, your hair surrounding your head like a messy halo. Perfection. A ruined, beautiful, masterpiece made solely by him.
He brushes the hair out of your face and presses a sweet kiss to your brow. "Might I be privy to those many secrets you were so keen on hiding, Miss L/N?" He teases softly, grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to clean the mess of mixed juices on your thighs.
You giggle. "The next time we meet, I promise to tell at least one." You return, your heart fluttering at the way he so delicately slides your trousers back over your legs after cleaning you up. He grins as he buttons them up, his hands encompassing your waist to pull you up to a sitting position.
You use the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, and it is his turn to laugh. "Next time, then. I will wait with held breath until then, I assure you." He whispers, helping you into your corset. "But for now, I owe you a lovely night, hm?" He murmurs as he pulls the laces of your corset tight. You sigh and nod. "I would like that very much." You whisper back, resting your head on his shoulder.
He smiles cheekily, "Is it entirely too forward for a gentleman to say he would like to do this every night from now on, mere hours after meeting?" He whispers in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
No, Mister Bridgerton, it is not.
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton#bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton fic#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton/reader#oneshot#smut#fic#bridgerton fic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#benedict bridgerton x you#fanfiction#smut fanfiction#18+ only#18+ content#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton smut#bridgerton oneshot
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS
benedict bridgerton x princess (poc) reader
prologue.
After a series of agonising years of begging her mother to be let out into society — as a commoner would, equally putting her as the diamond of the season, the queen has finally, yet hesitantly agreed. Though with a single condition;
Sponsor the upcoming season. SUCCESSFULLY.
It was proven to be a challenge when her faith was put into the hands of the eldest bridgerton, whom was stubborn beyond belief. And it was only with the help of the second eldest that the princess might accomplish her goal.
However, getting Anthony to be married seemed to be less of a struggle in comparison to the hardship soon to occur with Benedict. Whose eyes never seem to leave her own.
OVERALL WARNING. smut!! (and lots of implied sex & talk), age gap (almost 8 years), toxic family, mentions of mental health issues, classism, abuse of power, mean ish lady danbury (i had to okay), alcohol consumption, misogyny, miscommunication, slowwww burn.
GENRE. fluff, angst, smut. a slight Rapunzel retelling, set in season 2–3 with mentions of season 1.
AUTHORS NOTE. ahhh!! i’m so excited for this, i’ve had this idea since i rewatched season 2 of bridgerton and read a one shot on here about princess reader, and it has not left my mind since. it takes place in season 2 and will have snippets of season 3. please feel free to leave suggestions of what you’d like to see xx
also!! i’ll finish your requests in my inbox soon i promise, this’ll probs make me go back to wp lol
#bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton imagine#bridgerton smut#bridgerton fluff#bridgerton angst#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton angst#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x you#bridgerton fanfiction#queen charlotte#king george iii#anthony bridgerton#kate sharma#cheezbot
337 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
