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#benedict bridgerton imagine
fayes-fics · 10 months
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Second Son
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: The second son is, for once, the first choice...
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Warnings: none really... mild angst, family dynamics, love at first sight.
Word Count: 2.9k
Authors Note: Request fill for anon here, about Benedict being the second choice for everything.... until his love turns up. Thanks for this request; I hope this is angsty enough for you anon. Im not sure about it tbh. Sorry that it's taken more than three months to get to it on my WIP list. Unbetaed. Enjoy <3
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Benedict Bridgerton was born into privilege and can have few complaints. Except perhaps that he is always second. The spare. The just-in-case option. Being a familial insurance policy lends one more freedom than the burden of being the titled first son, perhaps, but it also feels like your whole existence, in some respects, can seem like a contingency plan.
____
His stomach swoops with excitement as the arrow pierces the target dead on the bullseye. And on his first ever archery lesson, just after his twelfth birthday.
He turns around to see if anyone is there to witness his triumph, but it goes unmarked. All his young siblings gathered around Anthony, patting him on the back for his achievements in doing the same moments before. Being a good shot is an essential skill for the next Viscount indeed. The fact that he has been receiving instruction for months already and this is Benedict’s first lesson hurts a little.
But he doesn't bother to bring attention to his arguably more impressive feat. It seems pointless now. Wordlessly he shrugs and walks towards the target, plucking out his arrow and starting again. Perhaps next time, they will notice.
____
“Is that the new Viscount Bridgerton?” Benedict hears a young girl murmur as he sweeps into the first societal event of the season, the spring following his father's death. 
“Oh no, my dear, sadly not; I believe that is one of the brothers,” her mother replies, acting as if he has no sense of hearing, even trying to ignore it as he is, surveying the crowd.
“Such a shame,” the young girl huffs, “he is so very handsome.”
“Yes, dear, but sadly not titled. We can do better,” her mother chides, moving them along out of earshot.
He will never get over how cutthroat the Ton can be, a part of his tender seventeen-year-old heart sinking. Not that he had a potential interest in that girl, more the principle that he will somehow be rendered as an also-ran, at best a consolation prize, for the rest of his life.
What is most galling, perhaps, is that, when his mother needs their presence the most on a night like tonight, the new VIscount is nowhere to be seen. Has not even bothered to show his face, running off to some spurious gambling den and brothel, spending the night indulging himself rather than facing society. 
So here Benedict is, stepping up to play the dutiful son that his elder brother should be. Being the support their mother so desperately needs at her first event as a widow, her arm looped heavily through his, her whole bodyweight seeming to use him as her literal pillar of support. As he escorts her around the room, he is filled with admiration at her brave face. He can see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes every time the word dowager is invoked, and his heart cracks a little at the loneliness he can feel emanating from his mother’s very soul. 
“Tis a shame the Viscount did not deign the first event of the season worthy of his patronage,” she states pointedly as she sips champagne.
“I am sure he has very good reasons for his absence,” Benedict replies soothingly, covering for his errant brother, attempting to shield their mother from the truth of his philandering ways. Benedict knows it is Anthony’s way of dealing with the responsibility of the title of Viscount being thrust upon him so young. But sometimes, just sometimes, Benedict wishes he could escape his grief in such a manner, Anthony taking his turn attending a stuffy ball and playing guardian to a grieving woman. Their burdens may be different, but the wish to escape them is often not, Benedict realises.
____
She catches his eye at a garden party at Aubrey Hall. She is a pretty young lady, maybe eighteen to his twenty-three, with bright eyes and a sweet, happy face. She makes his palms slightly sweaty. He watches her from a distance, uncertain how to approach or what to say, feeling a little tongue-tied, even. 
Just then, Anthony materialises at his shoulder.
“Who is that pretty young thing?” Anthony asks, tracing Benedict’s line of sight.
“Miss Bradstreet,” he replies, watching as she turns to face the sun, closing her eyes, basking in its warmth. The light captures her cheekbones perfectly, and he itches to have his sketchbook and capture her likeness. He would very much like to get to know her better.
“Let's go provide a warm welcome,” Anthony smirks, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and practically dragging him across the lawn.
Benedict reluctantly follows, a flutter of excitement as her eyes land upon them as they approach. 
“Miss Bradstreet,” Anthony swaggers. “Viscount Bridgerton at your service; I am so very pleased to be your host today,” he bows.
Benedict's stomach plunges as he watches her practically melt into the lawn right there, virtually swooning at Anthony’s feet.
“Oh, and this is my brother, Benedict,” Anthony adds, almost as an afterthought. 
She flicks her head to the side briefly to politely acknowledge Benedict before returning to Anthony. All of her undivided adoring attention on him as he regales the story of his latest hunting triumphs upon her insistence. Benedict heaves a sigh and watches as yet another young lady he likes chooses his brother over him. He is almost used to it now, but it doesn't stop the sting every time.
____
Your world grinds to a halt as you see him. He is descending the stairs with what you assume is the rest of his family. He is very much in the middle of a tight circle, walking behind what appears to be his mother and perhaps older brother. Quite the most beautiful man you have ever seen, your heart pounding in your ears, your throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade in your hand. You assume they must be the hosts, seeing as they are the very last to enter the ballroom here at Bridgerton House, and there is no announcement of their name.
“Who is that?” you whisper, leaning towards your elder sister. She has been out among society for a year and knows the Ton better than you.
“That is the Bridgerton family, of course,” she replies. “Illustrious in the extreme. Our hosts for this evening. The Viscount there is the most eligible bachelor of every season… and every season, he has resisted a match. So I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she sniffs.
“Which is the Viscount?” you check, your eyes unable to leave the beautiful man with a cravat tied in the most unconventional fashion.
“The one with his arm looped with their mother, the dowager Viscountess, naturally,” your sister rolls her eyes as if patently obvious.
“And what of the others?” you inquire keenly, realising the man you admire cannot be the one your sister is referring to. “Do you know their names?”
“I do not,” she admits, “such things are not really important when one is looking for a titled husband,” she points out airily. 
You nod, knowing the responsibility your sister must carry as firstborn to find a suitable match that can provide for your widowed mother and, indeed, perhaps yourself and your younger sister should neither of you be able to find a husband. You don’t envy her position one little bit. 
You are, however, desperate to get closer to the most beautiful man you have ever seen. And so you spend your evening working towards them, in as polite of a fashion as you can, your stomach in knots of excitement to know him.
“Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, it is an honour and a pleasure to meet you,” you curtsy, heart pounding as he now stands a few feet away, unable to look at him so close by.
“Hello, my dear and you are?” she asks politely.
“Miss y/n y/l/n, it is my very first season; I am so honoured to be here,” you explain. “I must provide the apologies of my mother, Mrs y/l/n, who could not attend tonight due to a cold, but she is so very thankful for the invitation.”
“Oh, of course,” the viscountess smiles. “I am so sorry to hear of her illness; please pass on my best regards… Anthony!” she turns to her side to grab the attention of a man. The viscount’s head whips around from where he is in discussion with another. “Come meet Miss y/l/n,” she needles pointedly. “Miss y/l/n, this is the Viscount Anthony Brdgerton, and he is so pleased not only to make your acquaintance but also for your presence here tonight,” she welcomes on his behalf, and you do not miss the subtle nudge in the ribs she gives him.
Then his regard is drawn to you. He is handsome certainly, and you appreciate his polite but absent-minded greeting. His attentions are obviously elsewhere, but then you cannot fault him as yours are the same. Your gaze strays over his shoulder to the man who first captures your attention. And your breath is stolen by how his hazy blue eyes stare intently at you.
____
Benedict is twenty-six years old when he is struck by lightning. Not literally. But that is the sensation that runs through his body when he first lays eyes on you—politely introducing yourself to his mother and thanking her for your invitation to this ball. 
He thought he knew what attraction was until this point. He thought he knew the depths to which one could fall in love in an instant. He was an utter fool. He looks at you, and at once, everything is so quiet and loud all at once. He is desperate to know you in a way he has never felt. To grab your hand, take you somewhere, and ask you a million questions to get to know your soul. He also wants to kiss you so much that his lips tingle. And inside, his lungs want to scream as his mother does the natural thing and introduces the beautiful, polite young lady to her most eligible son… Anthony. 
Then his heart jolts as your eyes stray from Anthony and meets his, your pupils dilating in a way that makes his lungs too small to inhale air. It is the first and only time a young woman has had Anthony’s full attention and has looked away from it. And to him, no less. The tidal flood of chemicals in his system makes it feel like he is vibrating in his very shoes.
____
You try your best to be polite and look at Anthony as he speaks, but your sight is drawn to this other man like a moth to a flame. From appearance, the second son, as you are the second daughter. A flare of understanding and sympathy in your chest as to how that is. You want to grab his hand and run away with him.
“My lord,” you find your voice and snap your eyes back to the Viscount, “would you do me the honour of introducing me to the rest of your wonderful family?” your ask, almost timid.
He looks temporarily taken aback, as if mystified why anyone in the Ton would care about the status of anyone beyond his mother and himself. You smile at him expectantly and do not miss, from the corner of your eye, how the beautiful man’s face is awash with surprise at your request.
“Oh, most certainly,” Anthony seems to snap out of his temporary stupor and turns to introduce his siblings in attendance. A tall, baby-faced young man stands to attention as Anthony moves from left to right. “This is Colin; he has just returned from his travels in Greece,” you nod and smile politely, knowing nothing of the subject. “And this is my sister, Eloise; it is her first season, and she is not in the slightest bit happy about that,” he adds dryly, and you can't help but giggle and feel a kinship with the spirited young lady who returns your wry smile. “My eldest sister, the Duchess of Hastings, who is visiting us,”
You curtsy and bow your head. “It is an honour, your Grace,” you add, and she smiles sweetly at you, her arm looped in her mother's.
“Obviously, you have met my mother,” he continues, and suddenly he is the last in the line. You feel your palms clench, sweaty in anticipation of learning his name “... and this is my brother, Benedict; he hopes to be an artist.”
You are finally brave enough to meet his eyes again. He is so achingly beautiful that the rest of his family, indeed the whole ballroom, melt away from your view—he is all you can see.
“Oh, I adore art,” you stutter, mesmerised, offering your hand to him, the first and only person in the family you do so to. Unseen by you, your gaze only on one man, Anthony’s mouth drops open in surprise.
Nothing can prepare you for when Benedict’s gloved hand gently touches yours, him bowing to kiss the back of your hand. You catch a woody citrus scent that makes your mouth water as he does so. And then you feel the warmth of his lips through your glove, and you are utterly undone.
“Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles quietly, the sound making your insides melt even more; it's deep and resonant and makes every inch of your body tingle.
“Please call me y/n,” you murmur, moving closer, knowing how scandalous that might be, but seemingly unable to stop yourself. He has a hypnotic hold over you that you don't want to fight.
“Only if you shall call me Benedict,” he breathes, and it takes Anthony clearing his throat to make you spring apart, suddenly remembering where you are.
____
His lips touch the silk of your glove, and he is gone. 
Already planning a future, his mind supplying images of you at his cottage out in the country, the lady of the house. Tending to the herb garden, reading happily curled up in front of the fire in the drawing room, fearlessly plucking a bow as you stand in front of joint archery targets gently teasing him for losing to a girl, and finally, the image that truly knocks the wind out of him, you naked under him, desperately moaning his name as you move together, entwined in ecstasy.
He hears your sharp inhale, and his heart skips at the idea you feel it too. That you are the first woman ever that sees him and not Anthony. Really sees him. Not as the second son. Not as a consolation prize. 
And when your body seems to sway towards him, he is already mentally asking his mother for a betrothal ring from her grandmother, which she said she is keeping just for him.
____
“Benedict,” his name feels wonderful in your mouth, like a gift from the heavens. “Please, may we take a turn around the gardens?” you implore, the boldest you have ever been in your whole life. 
“It would be my very greatest pleasure,” he responds.
And you know with absolute certainty you have met your husband, the father of your children, your very future. 
____
“It is not as if this is my show….” he sighs.
“You should not do that, darling,” you say affectionately, ruffling his hair as you move to fix his cravat; it definitely needs to be more jaunty, in your opinion.
“Do what?” he breathes, his wedding ring catching the light as he places his hands gently over yours and stills your motions.
“Think of yourself as second,” you argue, running your hand over his cheek. “This gallery opening may feature others' work too, but you are the star of the exhibit,” you reassure, tilting his forehead down so it rests upon yours.
There it is again. That look that always floors you. Even now, a year later. Like you are the most wondrous creature, and he can scarcely believe you are his.
“Never forget, you will always be first to me,” you utter fiercely, watching his eyes soften with devotion. “And not just me….” you guide his sizeable warm hand onto the swell of your belly, “to us. We love you so much, Benedict,” your tone is ardent, wanting him to believe he deserves this recognition, that he should believe in himself the way that you do.
“I love you, too,” he responds quietly, reverentially. “So very much. Both of you are my whole world,” his voice choked with emotion, and you throw your arms around him and squeeze hard, wanting to telegraph just how much he is the very centre of your universe.
An hour later, you clutch your hands over your chest as you watch him being brought onto the raised stage and introduced to the crowd as they applaud him and his work rapturously, awaiting to hear him talk of his art. As he does so, you stroke your belly unseen under your cloak, beaming with pride for your wonderful husband.
____
He sees your face in the crowd, and as ever, it calms him, especially at this landmark moment. So as he finishes the speech that he has rehearsed for days now, he decides to do something perhaps unconventional but something he seems unable to resist.
“Lastly, before I allow you back to your champagne,” he jests, finally at ease with the attention and recognition. “I want to thank my life’s inspiration, the very reason I stand before you today. My wonderful wife. Thank you, my love, for being the light of my life; for always making this second son your first choice. You will always, always be my first choice. I love you.” 
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iwritefandomimagines · 11 months
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NOT FOR HIM — BENEDICT BRIDGERTON
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masterlist
pairing: benedict bridgerton x reader [plus platonic anthony x reader where he’s being a matchmaker/shitstirrer]
description: you may not have been the season’s diamond, but your debut had caused quite the stir in many a man’s heart — your childhood best friend benedict bridgerton included. however, given that the viscount had decided that he would marry this season, benedict cannot see why you would choose him over his brother.
warnings: kinda tiny bit of angst (if you squint) into tooth-rotting fluff !!! tiny bit of suggestive benedict at the very end but it’s not much !
author’s note: this is basically like a reverse to the anthony one i wrote because i have a big ol’ soft spot for benedict too after my latest rewatch. enjoy !!! [edited, but not thoroughly — will be returning to do so asap]
“You look astonishing, Y/N,” Benedict’s eyes were wide when he saw you, “Absolutely astonishing.”
You blushed crimson under the intensity of his gaze, “You don’t look too bad yourself this evening, Lord Bridgerton.”
You never called him that — you’d known him far too long to consistently comply with formalities — but considering that it was one of your very first balls of your very first season, you had to be the picture of manners.
“It is so strange to hear you call me Lord Bridgerton,” Benedict screwed his face up, “Even if it does give me some small hope that you might consider me too as one of your many suitors.”
You shook your head gently with a laugh, “Oh, Benedict, as if you would wish to court me.”
Before he had a chance to retaliate with stern disagreement at your idea that it was such a preposterous notion, your eyes snapped up to see his brother entering the ballroom.
“Ah,” you grinned, noticing that he had spotted you both immediately and was on his way over to you, “It appears your brother has finally arrived!”
You didn’t look at Benedict for long enough to see the frown on his face at your apparent excitement.
For years, everyone around you had speculated about the closeness of your relationship with Benedict.
Granted, you were close with the whole family, but the tenderness with which Benedict treated you had always teetered on blatant romance even if neither of you had seen it before.
Of course he was aware of it now — he’d realised he was in love with you long ago as silly young teenagers, and now that you were finally out in society (emphasis on finally, as you had delayed doing so as much as possible) he had hoped to make that clear.
But of course your eyes were fixed on his brother, the Viscount, who had finally decided he wished to marry and therefore seemingly snatched all of your attention away from him.
“Good evening, my lord,” you curtsied, and Anthony laughed, “Such formality! How are you enjoying your first ball, Y/N? I trust my brother has not let you leave his side?”
You giggled, and as much as Benedict adored the sound of your laughter he couldn’t help the clenching of his jaw at his brother’s remark and your evident amusement.
“He has taken great care of me, undoubtedly,” you smiled, hands resting on Benedict’s upper arm for a moment as you leaned into him, “How do you feel about your first ball on the hunt for a wife?”
Anthony scoffed, “Consumed with dread, as expected,” he joked, “Brother, would you mind if I stole Y/N away for one dance? Only so that I might enjoy one last moment of vague freedom before I endure the onslaught of mamas I see staring me down?”
Benedict swallowed thickly, because yes he very much did mind you being stolen away to dance with a man who could provide for you so much better than he could.
He had always been second best to his brother, but never with you.
And now he felt rather ridiculous as he nodded meekly and watched you saunter away at the side of his own brother, who would never love you like he did nor treat you as more than a friend and a commodity necessary to the life of an important man.
“Of course.”
You smiled shyly over at Benedict as you followed Anthony away, and made a mental note to confront him about the sad look gracing his features as you did so.
“My brother is staring daggers into my skull already,” Anthony chuckled as you took your positions to dance, “I rather wonder why he was not dancing with you if he is so bothered by my doing so.”
You bit your lip, “We have danced together twice already, Anthony. In fact, I’ve danced only with him so far tonight. I feel… safe with Benedict. This is all so terrifying.”
As Anthony beamed down at you knowingly, you realised quite what he had initially said, “Whatever do you mean by him staring daggers? Why would he be doing that?”
“Oh, my dear Y/N, you must see that my poor fool of a brother is overcome with jealousy at our interaction,” he laughed as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Particularly now that I plan to marry. He quite clearly thinks that it is you I wish to do so with.”
You looked down at your feet for a moment, suddenly feeling shy.
When you remembered that you were talking to a man you knew like he was part of your own family, however, your head snapped back up — a smirk gracing your face.
“Oh, am I not to become Viscountess? I so had my hopes up!” you feigned a gasp, “In all seriousness, Anthony, why on earth would Benedict think we might marry and more so why on earth would he care so much?”
Anthony heaved out a deep sigh at that as you danced, almost irritated by your blatant ignorance to what was so clear.
“I don’t believe I should tell you the answer to that if you are somehow quite unaware of it yourself,” he shook his head, briefly meeting the eyes of his brother as he spun you, and smiled almost teasingly at him, “I hope that after stealing you from him for this dance he might finally discuss it with you himself.”
You rolled your eyes, “You jest, Anthony, because if you are trying to imply that he has affections towards me I’m sure you are sorely mistaken.”
Anthony stopped abruptly, quirking his eyebrow at you, “You truly are oblivious?”
You looked at him curiously, doe eyed and inquisitive as you waited for him to continue — or to resume dancing so you didn’t continue to feel all eyes on your frozen frames.
“Right, very well. I am going to walk away now, all smiles,” he informed you, plastering a smile on his face and nodding at the onlookers as he kissed the back of your hand to show no ill-will had halted your dance, “I would suggest that you get some fresh air, perhaps? My brother might… Come to check on you.”
You forced a smile as he silently moved away from you and towards the buffet table at the other side of the hall.
With a sharp breath you took his advice, despite your confusion, and lifted your skirt a little to busy your hands as you traipsed out of the ballroom and onto the balcony.
Like clockwork, Benedict Bridgerton found himself at your side in mere moments.
“Are you waiting here for my brother?”
The tension in the air was palpable, his voice low as he failed to hide the disappointment at his suspicions.
“Not for him, no.”
“Then for another?”
“I suppose so.”
“Apologies, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
You spun on your heel now as he turned to leave, touching his shoulder, “No, Benedict, I was waiting— for you.”
“For me?”
The incredulous smile on his face made your heart swell with hope — perhaps Anthony was right.
Maybe what you had spent all these years perceiving as friendship truly was reciprocated love all this time.
“Anthony claimed he believed you jealous, and that you thought we were attached,” you giggled, and he swore his heart melted at the sound of your gentle laughter, “And I was utterly unsure as to why you would believe that, let alone be jealous of it. But then he told me to get some fresh air and that you might find me here and I became hopeful.”
“Hopeful?”
“Yes. Hopeful that perhaps the feelings that have steadily grown on my part throughout the time I have known you might be returned. That perhaps you were not joking when you said you hoped I might consider you a suitor this season,” you blushed crimson as you served him your honest feelings on a silver platter.
He cocked his head to the side curiously, not quite believing you entirely though you were evidently being sincere, “Do you not wish to marry my brother?”
You scoffed, quickly covering your mouth with your hand at the outburst, but then sighed as you looked deeply into his eyes, “Of course not, Benedict.”
“But he is a Viscount — he could offer you so much more than I, and he seemed taken with you.”
“He was taken with making you jealous enough to confront me, my dear Benedict. He spent our dance essentially telling me to wise up and talk to you,” you bit your lip nervously, “Because he knows that I have long loved you, and believes that you feel the same.”
The curious smile on his face grew now into a beaming grin, his hands flying to take yours within them and bring them to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“I—, Y/N, I cannot— I cannot even begin to express the joy that those words have brought me,” the words tumbled from his lips like he couldn’t think fast enough to convey his feelings, “I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I settled for cherishing mere friendship because I feared I would not be… I would not be the man for you beyond that.”
You shook your head, “Benedict, surely you know how dear you are to me? I— at the very least in my heart, you are the man for me. I’ve been certain of it for so long and that is why I feared entering society so much. I didn’t want to marry for the sake of marriage and have to have the man I truly love as a mere friend. You are more than enough for me, Benedict, I feel safe with you — you are home to me.”
“And you are home to me, Y/N,” he was trying so very hard not to kiss you, his words soft and delicate as his breath fanned over your face due to your newfound close proximity, “If you would allow me to… I would like to court you. In fact, I would propose to you now if I was to allow my selfishness to take control. But I want you to be sure it is me you want, even if it hurts to see you dance and converse with others.”
“You’re all I could ever want, Benedict,” you spoke like it was utterly obvious, “And when you do propose, you can be certain of my acceptance. For now I am happy to share every dance with you and pretend we need to get to know each other to form an engagement. We have all of the time in the world.”
“We do.”
You were both breathing heavily, eyes glossy with the sheer emotion of the confessions you had just shared.
“I wish so badly that I could kiss you right now, but I fear I may not be able to control myself in future once I do,” his voice was barely above a whisper as you licked your lips, swallowing thickly.
“I wish— I wish you might kiss me too,” your reply was hardly even coherent, too love drunk to properly formulate your words, “More than anything.”
He was still holding onto your hands, and so he brought them up to ghost another kiss over them again, settling for this as he fought his urge to press his lips to yours instead.
“As you said, my love, we have all the time in the world,” there was a subtle undertone of what you might describe as lust in his tone now, intertwined with the love struck lilt he had been speaking with.
Your breath hitched in your throat as his lips ghosted up your forearm briefly before he brought them back down to your hands.
“And I cannot wait.”
———
horny benedict at the end to satiate my own need for that despite the intention for this to just be fluffy hahaha. hope you enjoyed !!!
feel free to keep requesting — and in the mean time here is my masterlist.
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disasterofastory · 8 months
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Wifey duties (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
Wifey duties Benedict Bridgerton x Reader Warnings: Reader is drunk
Summer: You go home to your husband after a night out with the ladies.
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Benedict can hear your approach even before you appear at the entrance of your shared bedroom. His eyes are on the door. The thick book he read a few minutes ago is long forgotten on his lap. Amusement spreads across his chest when he hears you walking against a small table in the hallway. His shoulders shake with laughter. "Damn it," you grunt. Something falls off the table. "Shit." "Y/N?" He asks a bit louder so you can hear him. "Are you okay?" You don't answer immediately, but your head soon peeks out from behind the wall. You seem surprised.
And drunk.
There is a hazy glint in your eyes, and your hair is a mess from adjusting it so often through the night. A few curls hang in front of your face. "I'm fine," you reply. It almost sounds like a question. "Are you sure?" He asks, grinning. "Do you need my help?" After looking back at the table one last time, you make your way into the room with a soft scoff. "I'm fine. Thank you." "Okay."
Oh, he is so ready for the show.
He watches you in silence the whole time while you take off your clothes. Your dress pools around your legs, and Benedict is afraid you will break your arms as you untie the corset on your back. He isn't even sure if you should be able to do that. Your movements are too confident in contrast to how clumsy you are. Quiet groans and cussings leave your lips every now and again as you walk back and forth in the room. Soon, your hair is free from pins, and your face is clean from makeup. A relieved sigh escapes your chest as you put down the brush on the table, but when you turn around, your eyes widen at the sight of your husband. "Benedict!" You grin when you move on from your surprise. "Hey!" "Hey, my love," he laughs. "Do you want to come to bed?"
He doesn't have to ask twice. You land on the soft sheets with another grunt, and he has to help you adjust the blanket on you. His book falls to the ground, and none of you move to pick it up. Your husband's hands are too busy tucking you in until you are cocooned into the warmth that smells like him. "So, how was your night?" He asks after a few minutes. His long fingers caress the line of your jaw. He plays with your hair behind your ear. "Good," you reply. "Lady Danbury makes great drinks." "I'm sure," he hums, smiling. "How much did you drink?" "It was my duty as your wife," you state, and he laughs. "Was it?" "Yes," you nod confidently. "And I'm good with cards. I win some money." Your husband's shocked laugh can be heard all around the house. "What?" "Yes, and I boasted about how great my husband is." "In front of my mother?" He doesn't even know if he should laugh or cry. Your eyes widen, and you look around the room as if somebody could hear you. "Not the naughty bits," you whisper loudly. Then and there, Benedict is sure he never saw anyone as sweet as you. "And talking about the naughty bits…" Before your husband knows it, you are already on top of him. Your lips are pulled into a sultry smile. Your hair frames your heated cheeks. "I have other wifey duties, I believe." "Y/N, I don't think-" You frown. "Are you really going to reject your wife, Benedict Bridgerton?" The man frowns too. "What am I? A fool?"
The only thing that can stop your laugh is Benedict's lips on yours.
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maximoff-pan · 3 months
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
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• • • • • •
“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…
1K notes · View notes
leascorner · 2 months
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!
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“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.
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paracosmic-murdock · 3 months
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these colors fade for you only ; benedict bridgerton x reader
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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
❁ mila's paracosm (main masterlist)
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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.
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in-my-feels-probably · 10 months
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Home - Benedict Bridgerton x Reader
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Request: Have you considered Benedict falling for a friend of Daphne's? Like if they're as close as Pen and Eloise but maybe with a little less drama? I think it would be funny for Benedict to ask for advice on how to talk to her and Daph being done. Just "you've known her for as long as I have."
Hi! Thank you again for the request, this is such a cute idea. I hope you don’t mind, but I made the reader a Featherington. I went a little off track too, it was easier for me to write that way. If this isn’t what you were looking for, I’m happy to take another request or alter this one. Sorry for the long wait on getting this out, but I hope you enjoy this :)
(Warnings: insecurity, middle child trauma, nothing else i think? idk, let me know if i missed anything)
Living in Grosvenor Square certainly had its ups and downs.
On one hand, you were mere steps away from your best friends. The Bridgertons lived right across the street, and you could visit them practically whenever you wanted. On the other hand—the not so nice hand—your family is the Featherington’s. Which isn’t an inherently bad thing. You loved your family, and could ignore most of the negatives. It just certainly has its pitfalls, being a Featherington daughter.
The Featherington’s—while rich and somewhat dignified—aren’t considered to be the most respectable of families. There wasn’t any one main reason why members of the ton didn’t much like your family, they just didn’t.
It wasn’t a personal grudge with you they had. In fact, you were quite liked by the ton.
More often than not, however, they didn’t pay much attention to you. It was easy to forget you were there when the rest of your family was the center of attention.
You were born soon after Phillipa but before Penelope, making you a middle child.
Your Mother seemed to connect with her eldest far more than her youngest, and that put a strain on your relationship. Not only that, you were much more akin to Penelope, having a lot more in common with her than your older sisters and your Mother combined. You were a bit of a wallflower, like Penelope, and it was a hard trait for your Mother to get past.
It wasn’t all negatives, though.
One of the biggest perks of being a Featherington was the fact that you lived directly across from the Bridgertons. You had spent most of your life over at their residence since the day you developed the ability to walk.
And, subsequently, the ability to walk across the street.
Violet Bridgerton’s first girl—Daphne—was born right around the same time as you were, and she decided Daphne was going to need a friend. Being the first girl born to a family of three brothers was a challenge, and Violet thought it best that Daphne should be able to socialize with a girl her age.
By the time you were both able to talk, you became inseparable. Just as your sister Penelope had come to develop a deep friendship with Eloise Bridgerton, you had come to develop your own with Daphne.
And by extension, you became good friends with her eldest brothers.
Anthony was the oldest, quite a bit older than you. He was already a handful of trouble by the time you showed up, and he already had plenty of practice teasing girls with his sisters as victims. In your first few years, he’d make it his mission each time you visited the house to fluster you, and annoy Daphne. It was harmless fun, and it never really bothered you, although he tried his hardest nonetheless. But as you got older, he became quite protective over you. It was like you were another sister to him, and you definitely bantered and squabbled like siblings do. As annoying as he could be, you loved him like a brother.
Colin was a similar story, although you saw something more to him. It was easy to, with the way Penelope talked about him endlessly. She could ramble for hours, making you listen to every painstaking detail. You definitely understood her affection for him, though. He’s charming and kind, much like his other brothers, but he’s also fun and witty. Daphne tended to favor him the most. They were closest in age, after all. Between her and Penelope, you spent quite a lot of time with him, and you certainly enjoyed his company.
But—besides Daphne—you enjoyed no other Bridgerton’s company like you did Benedict’s.
Benedict was different. He was more.
He was just as kind and charming as Anthony, and just as witty as Colin—certainly as annoyingly beautiful as Daphne—but he was more than that, too. He was sensitive and sweet, far more so than the rest of the Lords of the ton. He was passionate about art and love and valuing the little things. He didn’t care about marrying the prettiest girl for advantage, or inheriting her dowry. He cared about pursuing his dreams, and inspiring others to do the same.
Just the way he talked about his passions and values was enough to make any girl swoon, and yet he was still genuine with his words. It wasn’t for flattery or manipulation, he meant every word. Everything he did, he did for himself and the people he loves.
If it weren’t for Daphne currently holding the number one spot, you’d consider him your best friend.
He’d consider you the same.
You spend just as much time with him as you do with Daphne, and over the years, he’d come to cherish your company.
You saw him for him, not for his title. You listened to his endearing ramblings about his passions because you genuinely enjoyed hearing about them, not because you felt obligated to listen. You treated him like a person, not a prize to be won. It was all he could ask for in a best friend.
But that’s just it. That’s all you were to him. A best friend.
He was so sure that was all you’d ever be. Perhaps one day you’d be his sister in law, considering how close Penelope and Colin had gotten. You’d be family, and that was alright with him. It was what he expected. And then the unexpected happened.
He started falling.
The first time he noticed his feelings for you had shifted was the evening of a ball the Queen was throwing.
You’d come over early to get dressed with Daphne, wanting to help make sure she was perfect. She had finally revealed to you her ruse she was sharing with the Duke, you being the first person outside of their agreement to know. You were shocked at first, but as you listened to her speak, you gave her a knowing smile.
“You love him.”
Her eyes widened in shock, her cheeks blushing a rosy pink. “What? Why would you say that?”
“You love him,” you said again, smiling gently at her. “I’ve never seen you speak with such passion. With the way you talk about him, there’s no other possibility. One couldn’t possibly think that highly of another without feelings being involved—”
“You speak of my brother like that,” Daphne interrupted, chuckling when you swallowed your words.
You chose to ignore her statement, continuing to advise her on the best course of action for how to get through the remainder of her agreed upon days with the Duke. If the way he looked at her without her knowing was of any consequence, you were sure he felt the same way about her. All she had to do was make him see that.
When it was time to leave for the ball, all the Bridgerton’s piled into carriages. Daphne was hurried out the door, and she left with her Mother and Anthony, leaving you behind. When you tried to head back home to be escorted by your family, Benedict stopped you.
He had opened and closed his mouth a few times before he was able to choke out any words. Normally, he found it pretty easy to talk to you. But for some reason, the sight of you standing by his front door made his knees weak.
“I’m afraid they’ve already left,” he finally said, stopping you at the door. “They must have assumed you’d be accompanied by us.”
You groaned, feeling a pit form in your stomach. “I have no other way to get there. I promised Daphne I’d be there for her. Pen, too. She seemed quite nervous about attending tonight.”
“Not to worry,” he smiled, offering you his arm. “You can ride with me.”
You sighed in relief, thanking him profusely. “Well, aren’t you a lifesaver? Thank you, Benedict.”
“Of course,” he nodded, helping you into the carriage.
As you settled into your seat, a thought occurred to you. “Benedict…why are you still here? Not that I’m not grateful, but I don’t understand. You’ve been talking about going to the palace for days to see the Queen’s gallery. I would have expected you to be the first one out the door. But here you are.”
He was quiet for a moment as he took in your words, his eyes softening on you.
There were many things he could have said to you to easily explain it away. I’ll see the gallery soon anyways, or, I promised my Mother and yours that I’d make sure you got there safely. Numerous excuses he could have come up with to satisfy your curiosity, and yet, all that was coming to mind was, I can see the gallery another time, but I may never get to see you alone and sitting in front of me looking this beautiful with your undivided attention again, and I won’t pass up on the opportunity for anything.
“I don’t know,” he finally said as he shrugged his shoulders, feigning innocence. “But here I am.”
He didn’t truly acknowledge his feelings for you until months later, after attempting to ignore it for so long.
The second time he noticed was when he found out that the only reason he got into art school was because Anthony made a sizable donation to the Academy.
You had found him alone during yet another ton gathering, sulking on the edge of the party. Daphne had already gone home to Simon, and wouldn’t return for some time. Besides Penelope—and occasionally Eloise—Benedict was one of the only people you actually liked enough to be around. And seeing as both Penelope and Eloise were nowhere to be found, Benedict was your only hope.
You just hadn’t expected to find him nearly in tears, anxiously tugging at the cufflinks at the bottom of his sleeve.
It didn’t take much to get him to spill, and you found yourself pulling him inside to keep him away from prying eyes while he was in such a state. He told you all about Anthony’s meddling, and you knew it had crushed his heart to find out that he hadn’t actually achieved anything on his own.
“I know he did it out of the good of his heart…but I wish he hadn’t done it at all.”
He brought his hands up to cover his face, groaning into them. You reached for his wrists and tried to pull them away, but he wouldn’t budge. He finally relented when you said his name softly, letting you take his hands in yours.
“Benedict, it doesn’t matter how you got in. You’re an incredible artist, that’s all that matters,” you said softly, squeezing his hand in yours.
He shook his head, sighing in frustration. “I’m not. My work is child’s play compared to the other artists at the Academy. They all knew why I had even been given a spot in the first place. I’m an imposter, Y/N. A fraud. It was humiliating.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, darling,” you lightly chuckled, your smile fading when his defeated look didn’t waver.
“Alright, that’s it. Fess up. This can’t be all that’s bothering you. I know you, and I know you’re not one to give up that easily. You’ve been flustered all week, so what is it? You can tell me. Not that I have anyone to tell, but I won’t tell. I promise.”
His eyes softened on you as you spoke, and you could feel his grip on your hand get tighter. “I just…I’m tired.”
“Of what?”
“Of being second.”
You frowned, swiping your thumb across the back of his hand. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just something Anthony said,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on your joined hands. “How I may be the second son, but that it doesn’t mean I am any less required to do my duties to the family. It’s rich coming from him. I’ve been second to him literally my entire life, and he’s only recently started taking his role seriously. I’ve played Father’s role since his passing. Isn’t it just my luck that he’s getting the credit for it?”
“You may be second to him in birth, but that is the only way you’re second. You’re every bit as good as him, Benedict,” you said firmly, but you weren’t sure if your words were sinking in.
He was uncharacteristically quiet, though his grip on your hands hadn’t wavered. His eyes were still on the floor, and his shoulders were shaking as he took uneven breaths.
“I know what that feels like, you know,” you finally said, making him glance up at you. “I’m a Featherington. A middle child at that, and it’s no secret my Mother favors my older sisters.”
Benedict let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “She’s wrong to. I don’t mean to be rude, but you and Pen are worlds more interesting and gracious than your sisters. The eldest, at least.”
“You don’t even know them,” you said in shock, but you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, too.
“I don’t need to. You’re the only one I’m interested in knowing. Middle child or not.”
You couldn’t help but smile, although his kind words weren’t enough. The more you thought about just how second to the world you were, the more your smile faded.
“It’s not just being the middle child,” you continued, speaking softly. “I love your sister more than almost anything in this whole world, but I have always been second to her, too. She was the diamond of the season the second she was let out of leading strings, and now she’s my Duchess. I’m so happy for her, but it does put a damper on your confidence. Watching your best friend grow into this person everyone loves, and it’s like she didn’t even try.”
“Y/N—”
“Sometimes I feel awful, thinking this way. I know she tried, I was there for her every time she’d get overwhelmed. But she made it look so easy. I don’t know how she did it,” you rambled, taking a shuddering breath as you stopped yourself from speaking.
Benedict’s eyes softened on you as you spoke, making you want to shrink away from his gaze. He was being kind, and you didn’t know if it was genuine or not. If he was faking it for your sake, that was much worse than his actual pity.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this about me, let’s get back to you—”
“Y/N,” he said again, this time effectively silencing you. “You can’t possibly feel that way.”
It was your turn to look at the floor. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”
“That is the furthest thing from the truth,” he said gently, taking your hand. “You’re every bit as good as my sister. I know she makes things look easy, but she spoke just as highly of you as you do of her.”
You raised a brow. “Really?”
“Really. She used to tell me how kind you were to her, even after Lady Whistledown printed her supposed scandals. You were never judgemental.”
“I have no right to judge anyone, especially not her. She’s never said a bad thing about anyone, it isn’t right that people just took a scandal sheet as truth. And, if anything, she was kind to me. She, Eloise, Colin, and you are pretty much the only members of the ton that treat me like a normal person and not an outcast because of who my family is.”
Benedict smiled, squeezing your hand. “I would never dream of treating you any other way.”
You fought the flush that crept up to your cheeks, feeling the heat settle in them. You cleared your throat, shaking your head.
“Anyway,” you smiled, meeting his eyes. “I don’t mean to keep you away. Should we go back to the party? Someone may be looking for you. You’re quite popular, you know.”
Benedict couldn’t help but smile. And as he watched you look up at him through gentle eyes and an open heart, he couldn’t bring himself to move. It was like his feet were stuck to the floor, and he didn’t want to do anything to pull them up. He shook his head, keeping his hand in yours.
“No,” he finally answered, taking a seat. “Let them look. I’d much rather spend my evening with you. If you’ll allow me to, that is.”
You shook your head, taking a seat next to him. “I’ve got nowhere I’d rather be.”
The third time he noticed was when you, Daphne, and he accompanied Penelope and Colin to promenade throughout the square. She and Simon had come to visit, and she wanted to spend time with you and her family.
This time, he couldn’t ignore his feelings.
You followed behind Colin and Penelope, giving them enough room to speak privately without feeling like their older siblings were on their backs. You smiled as you watched Penelope look up at him, Colin being as gentlemanly as ever.
“It took him long enough,” you said, making Benedict chuckle.
“I thought he’d never figure it out.”
“Me either,” you agreed, grinning as you watched Colin smile down at your sister. “I should bash him over the head. I’ve listened to Pen spend countless hours rambling on about how utterly oblivious Colin can be. He owes me a debt.”
“He isn’t the only oblivious person I know,” Daphne piped in, making your eyes widen.
You had told her countless times about your feelings for Benedict, and how he never seemed to reciprocate them.
What you didn’t know is that he had done the same, on more than one occasion going to his siblings for advice on how to address them. Pushing them down until he couldn’t feel them seemed to be working, at least until now. And as far as he knew, you didn’t reciprocate his feelings either.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said nervously, silently pleading with her to drop the subject.
“Neither do I,” Benedict added, making Daphne chuckle.
She just grinned, ever so slightly raising a brow. “I mean Anthony, of course. It took him quite a while to realize that what he felt for Kate was much more than rivalry. I practically had to beg it out of him.”
“You’re a little matchmaker, aren’t you?” You asked, smiling at her. “Who’s next? Eloise, perhaps?”
“Perhaps…you?”
You immediately stilled, making them stop, too. “Me?”
“Don’t look so surprised, Y/N. You’ve been my best friend for ages, and I know what’s good for you. You’re lonely. And as awful as it is, the ton will start to talk. If the only people you talk to outside of your own family are Benedict and I, they’ll begin to notice.”
You frowned, nodding. She was right. Harsh, but right. The threat of becoming a spinster was looming over your head every season, and it had only gotten worse after Daphne married in her first season. Your second season came and went, and you were now in your third.
Without any prospects.
And it was looking like your baby sister was going to beat you to the punch as well. You were silent, a small frown on your face.
Thankfully, Benedict broke the silence. Just the thought of you marrying someone—especially someone who didn’t deserve you—made his skin crawl. He felt like he could keel over, and by the look on your face, he could tell you were feeling similarly. He couldn’t keep himself from turning you away from Daphne’s advice.
“Why settle?” He asked cautiously, giving you a sympathetic look. “Don’t let the ton pressure you. You’ll know when it’s the right time.”
You had fully made it around the square, now back in front of your house. Penelope was saying goodbye to Colin, at least for the moment. His Mother invited you and Penelope to dinner to welcome Simon and Daphne home, and so they’d see each other again in mere hours.
You gave Benedict a grateful smile, nodding. “You’re right. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time to pull our siblings apart before they actually become attached at the hip. Mother wants us home before we join you later.”
Daphne chuckled, taking your hands in hers. “I think you’re right. I’ll see you soon, dearest.”
You squeezed her hands in yours, before going to gather your sister. You gave Colin a knowing smile, turning and heading inside with your sister in tow. The Bridgerton’s did the same, filing into their house one by one.
The second Benedict shut the door behind him, he collapsed against it, groaning. “What was all that for, Daph?”
“What? I was simply giving you both a little nudge. God knows you needed one. You’re even worse than Colin was, brother.”
“I don’t need a nudge. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Colin laughed, taking off his coat as he headed up the stairs. “I could hear your stuttering. It was laughable.”
“Oh, piss off,” Benedict pouted, waving away Colin as he chuckled the rest of the way up the stairs.
Daphne offered him a small smile, letting out a sigh. She took his arm, leading them to the sitting room. After promptly sitting down, she gave him an expectant look, and he reluctantly sat next to her.
“Out with it,” she urged. “Why did our conversation with Y/N bother you so?”
“I don’t know,” he huffed, shaking his head.
Daphne narrowed her eyes, speaking gently but firmly. “You do know, Benedict. Admit it. You feel something for her.”
“Does it matter? She doesn’t feel the same way.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Daphne exasperatedly asked, nearly bursting at the seams.
She knew of both your affections for each other, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to tell either of you about the other. It didn’t feel right, going behind the other’s back. She had decided the moment she knew of each of your feelings to let the matter run its own course. What she hadn’t anticipated was it taking this long.
It was getting near impossible to keep the secret, and she decided a little meddling was excusable.
“She’s never said anything to me that would allude to her feeling anything for me. What would you have me do? Ask her directly?”
“There’s an idea,” Daphne shrugged.
Benedict sighed, trying to shove down the anxiety he felt at the thought of confronting you. “You saw me out there. I wouldn’t even know where to start. How do I talk to her?”
“You’ve known her as long as I have, brother. She’s your best friend! Just talk to her. She’ll understand, I promise. She won’t hurt your feelings if that’s what you’re worried about. You know she won’t.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m going to be sick at the mere thought of talking to her about it?”
Daphne smiled, her eyes softening. “Because you love her.”
Benedict’s shoulders fell, like Daphne just saying it out loud was the first time he was admitting it to himself. Like his feelings hadn’t fully sunk in, and now they were hitting him all at once like a freight train. It was a realization for him, and it both excited and terrified him at the same time. His emotion was clear on his face as his mouth fell open, making Daphne’s smile widen.
“Don’t worry, brother,” she reassured him. “It will all work out. I truly believe that. Take the afternoon to yourself, and keep your mind off of it till dinner. You’ll know the right thing to say when it’s time.”
That evening, you returned to the Bridgerton’s residence with Penelope.
The family gathered in the sitting room before dinner was ready, but Daphne pulled you away before you could follow. She took you all the way to the backyard, sitting down on the swing. She motioned for you to follow, and you took a seat on the swing next to her.
“I wanted to apologize about earlier,” she said softly. “I saw your face, I know I upset you. That wasn’t my intention, and I hope you can forgive me.”
You shook your head. “Don’t apologize. I needed to hear it. I might not like it, but I needed to hear it.”
“It hurt, Y/N. You don’t have to minimize that to spare my feelings. It’s alright to admit it. Do you…do you want to talk about it? I think there’s something more to it that’s bothering you, love.”
She was right.
Of course she was, she was always right. You sighed, turning to look back through the window into the house. You could see Penelope standing with the rest of the family, laughing at something Colin was telling her. He was smiling down at her like she had hung every star in the sky, just so he could have the chance to watch them sparkle. It was beautiful.
And it was painful.
“I just,” you started, keeping your eyes on Penelope. “I’m happy for her. I’m so happy for her. But I’m feeling a bit left behind.”
Daphne took your hand, leaning closer. “What do you mean?”
“I feel so selfish saying this, but…it’s what I want. She’s getting all that I want. All my life, I’ve wanted what you and your family have. You’re all so loved, and you love each other so deeply. Pen deserves that, I want her to have that. And I have no doubt that by the end of the season, she’ll have it. She’ll marry Colin, and officially be a Bridgerton. Part of the family. But she won’t be mine anymore. And I won’t be hers.”
Daphne frowned, squeezing your hand in hers. She turned you to meet her eyes, giving you a knowing look.
“I have a feeling this has more to do with a certain brother of mine. And I don’t mean Colin.”
You frowned, and she knew she was right.
“This is about Benedict. With Penelope being with Colin, it’s a reminder that you’re not with him. And you want to be with him.”
You couldn’t deny your feelings any longer. “I do. God, I really do. But it’s more than that. I want to be his family. I want to be your family.”
“And you’ve had to silently watch Penelope get what you’ve been waiting for,” Daphne said in realization, her heart breaking when you nodded.
Daphne stood up, pulling you with her. She wrapped you into a tight hug, refusing to relent until you hugged her back. You sighed in frustration, letting her gently rock you back and forth.
“Y/N,” she said softly, pulling away. “You’re already my sister. Regardless of who you end up with, whether it’s my brother or not. Wherever you end up, it doesn’t matter. You will always be my sister. You never have to worry about that. Not ever.”
You smiled softly, squeezing her hands. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, a throat cleared behind you. You quickly turned to see Benedict standing at the door.
“Mother told me to come collect you both. Dinner will be soon. Daph, Simon is asking after you.”
Daphne nodded, turning back to you. “Come along, then.”
“Actually,” Benedict interrupted, his eyes falling on you. “Could I have a moment alone with Y/N, please? If it’s alright with you.”
“Of course,” you said nervously, nodding towards Daphne.
Daphne smiled, nodding back. She patted Benedict on the shoulder as she headed back inside, closing the door behind her.
When she was gone, Benedict gave you a sheepish smile. He motioned for you to sit down, and you took a seat on the swing. He sat on the swing next to you, turning his body so that he was facing you. His knees brushed yours as he settled.
“What is it?” You asked, giving him all your attention.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
Your eyes softened on him, and you laid your hand on his arm. “I’m alright, Ben. Better now, since you’ve arrived.”
“Cheesy,” he smiled, but his heart was fluttering in his chest. “You know how to make a man smile, don’t you?”
“I didn’t think I was doing anything in particular,” you shrugged.
Benedict’s smile widened, and he couldn’t help but ponder his feelings for you. From the moment he found you alone on his doorstep, to when you took care of him at his lowest. From the way you treated his family, to the selflessness you never failed to put before your own wishes. From the way you made him feel, to the way he so desperately hoped you felt. He couldn’t stop himself from confessing, hoping his words wouldn’t come back to haunt him.
“I have to tell you something,” he murmured, taking a shuddering breath after he realized what he said, and what he was about to do.
You nodded. “What is it?”
“I think—and in case this is a huge mistake on my part, please forgive me—but, I think…I think I’m in love with you.”
You stiffened, standing up from the swing. “What?”
“I,” he stuttered, standing up as well. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was—”
You cut him off, taking his hands in yours. “Say it again.”
Benedict’s eyes widened, and you had caught him at a loss for words. He felt like you had punched him in the gut, sending him to his knees. But he nodded, squeezing your hands in his.
“I love you,” he said again, softer this time as he looked at you through gentle eyes. “I’ve loved you from the moment you got into that carriage with me, and I’ve loved you every moment since. I love you.”
Your shoulders fell, and you could feel the tears welling in your eyes. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, clinging tightly to his hands. You felt like your knees could give out, and the only thing holding you up was him.
“You’re not lying? You’re serious?”
Benedict almost laughed, nodding. “Yes, Y/N. I’m serious. Do you really think I would jest about this?”
You couldn’t help but laugh as well, bringing a hand up to cover your mouth. “All that time. All that time, and you couldn’t tell me? You certainly waited long enough.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, darling,” he said, cocking his head in confusion.
You were starting to worry him now, concern written all over his face. It made your heart clench in your chest.
You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were so happy, you couldn’t help but hold him close, smiling wider when you felt his arms wrap around your waist, despite his confusion. You held him tight, standing up on your toes so he could hear you loud and clear.
“I love you too, Benedict.”
He instantly pulled away, holding you back at arms length. “You what?”
“I love you,” you said again, taking his hands. “And I’ve been waiting ages for the day you’d finally tell me you felt the same. I never thought I’d hear you say the words, but I am so happy that you did.”
It was his turn to ask. “You’re serious? This isn’t a joke?”
You shook your head, and he squeezed your hands. You brought one of your joined hands up to press a kiss to the back of his, smiling up at him.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life.”
A/N - Hi! I’m so sorry this took so long, it took me a long time to figure out what I wanted to write. Not sure why this one was so difficult, but I finished it! I hope you enjoyed it :)
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auroracalisto · 10 months
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i was made for lovin' you
fem!plus size!reader, 2.4k words summary: the reader loves benedict bridgerton. when he dances the night away with her dear sister, she wonders if her love is perhaps... unrequited. a/n: my initial note for this fic was: i was the chubby unpopular insecure girl in school. i'm still the chubby girl. and i need fluff today. so that's what's gonna happen. i initially started writing this... last year. it's been over six months ago since i've touched this. the title is totally from the kiss song. tw: bodily description, vague description of anxiety, momentary insecurity, but it's brief!!
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Curves adorned your body in a way that remained otherwise unknown to so many others. Thick thighs hid beneath layers of clothing. Your stomach pressed against the fabric of your top, threatening to squeeze the very essence of life out of you. But you stood there, discomfort climbing its way up your spine, threatening to call you out for being a fraud. You lived in peril, awaiting the blossoming of the flower of insecurity and fear.
No gentleman would ever look your way, even with the most expensive of clothing. Liquid gold could be dripping from your fingertips, and not one of the men in the 'ton would give you the time of day.
At least, that is what you told yourself. That is what you had believed since the time you could register the fact that you were the thicker girl.
And it's not that you hated your body. No, that was far from the truth. You had come to love yourself in your own way, trying your best to live with what the world had given you. But you knew men, and you knew the gentlemen of the 'ton. You were treated differently, just because of your size.
You were different.
But he never treated you as if there was something wrong with you. No, Benedict Bridgerton was your dearest friend, but you couldn't help but feel as if he never truly cared for you in the way that you cared for him.
The way that you loved him.
You had yet to properly talk to him, knowing his elder brother hosted the ball of the evening. It wouldn't surprise you if Benedict was busy entertaining other gentlemen—entertaining your sister, perhaps.
The clothing you wore that night was flattering, for the most part. You couldn't deny that. Your mother had chosen well for the ball, keeping your mind at bay. She had impeccable taste, regardless of the crude comments that so often left her rouge lips. But despite the clothing, despite the restricting fabric, you couldn't help but watch and feel less than others around you.
Especially when you knew the man you favored was out there, fawning over your sister (not even liquid gold would work in her favor—she merely needed to raise a finger, and men would fall to her feet, begging for a chance to be hers).
The beautiful women who danced passed you, hand in hand with a suitor or with a dear gentleman. Their dance cards were nearly filled at this point. The stunning men wore beautifully tailored suits, sending smiles and small nods to those they spoke with. Well-rounded pencils would need to be sharpened before too long.
You stuck out like a sore thumb in the corner of the ballroom, drawing imaginary attention right to your very soul.
Your dance card rested in the palm of your hand, not a single gentleman's name residing on it. Like many balls before, suitors avoided you—or perhaps, you avoided them. Staying in your safety corner seemed to be the best bet, but you knew it would catch up to you (eventually).
There wasn’t a possibility for a suitor to come to you, unless he wanted whispers to be spread. You were an outcast.
You made yourself an outcast. But perhaps our worst enemy came from our very own minds, taunting us and keeping those we love far, far away.
Had you been your elegant sister, dancing the night away with the handsome Bridgerton boy amongst many other men, maybe you would have felt more comfortable.
Her card was completely filled, and now, she milled around with her friends, looking for a gentleman to speak with. The season wouldn't last forever.
And you knew it.
The season would be over in a heartbeat, and you would be left without a single name on your dance card.
How incredibly frustrating. You knew you were beautiful. You knew you had a grand personality, fit for that of a gentleman. You were smart and intelligent and you knew how to do so many things.
But standing here, you felt as if your clothing was choking you to the point of no return. It didn't matter that you could read a book in a day, or recite your favorite poetry. It didn't matter that you learned to cook from your favorite maid, or that you could write a piece of prose so beautifully it brought tears to your delicate sister's eyes.
Warmth flooded throughout your body. You hesitantly pulled up the fabric of your skirts and made your way to the crowd, finding the cool night in an instant. The chill of the breeze cooled you down the best it could, but it could only do so much for the roaring fire in your mind.
Your mother would surely have yet another snide comment about the fact that she did all this work just for you to avoid the crowd. Your father would listen silently, but you knew he agreed. He always did.
Your sister would yet again set on a suitor, her beauty and gracefulness the only blessing upon your family. She would be set for life while you die a lowly spinster.
Maybe she would bless you with a quaint cottage of your own. She'd be able to marry the richest man in the 'ton, if she was so pleased to say yes.
You walked closer to the fountain that sat in the middle of the courtyard, eyes closing as you came to a stop. The chatter and music from the manor wafted in the air, and the smell of freshly trimmed grass plagued your nose. Goosebumps appeared on your skin as the air around you only seemed to get cooler. Perhaps outside wasn't your best decision, but anything was better than the scrutiny of roaming eyes.
Solitude found you best, creativity striking you when you were all alone—most of the time. Today, it only brought you a fraction of the comfort you sought.
Despite your indiscretion, you weren't alone for very long.
"Lady L/n?" a voice came from behind you.
Your eyes shot open and you looked over your shoulder.
Benedict Bridgerton.
He had danced with your sister nearly three dances ago—you hadn't seen him since then.
He sent you a soft smile, relaxing when he saw you.
"May I ask what you're doing out here all alone?"
"I could ask you the same thing," you said. "Sir Bridgerton."
His smile only grew.
The two of you had known each other far longer than you would ever admit, and every time you saw him reminded you of why you fell for him to begin with. But he belonged with someone else—he would be good for them, and marrying into a family of money would secure the safety of the woman's future and her family's future.
You would take what you could get, even if it meant waiting until your father made you a match… if even he could manage such a feat. He quite hated the idea of society. It was your mother who pushed him into the world, making him do good by the ‘ton and his family name.
Benedict deserved someone good—someone who would boost his status in society, and always be there to love and care for him.
Many weren't so lucky with their marriages (your mother and father, for example).
"That's no way to talk to a gentleman, now is it? Whatever would your dear mother say if she were to find out how you speak to me?" he asked, feigning offense as he placed a hand over his chest.
"Trust me," you said, turning to face him with a soft smile. "I promise she will find little problem with it when she knows you are on Katherine's card."
"Hm," he tilted his head as he watched you. "And who have you danced with, Lady Y/n? I have yet to see you out on the dance floor tonight, and now I find you all alone. It feels as if autumn is already upon us. Surely you don't want to catch a cold as well?"
"I have danced with no one," you said, looking back at the fountain. "And you surely shouldn't be here with me, alone. Quite a scandal you'd create for your sister to cover up."
"Is that not why she is the Duchess? So I can create whatever scandal I dream of?"
You could practically hear the smug smile on his face, but you didn't turn to face him. Your arms hesitantly wrapped around your torso as you continued to stare at the flowing water.
"Y/n?" he softly spoke, coming to stand beside you. "Are you alright?"
His hand touched your cold arm and you immediately pulled away.
"Should you not be back inside with Katherine?" you asked. "It will be quite a scandal if you were to be out here with me."
He furrowed his eyebrows. "What is with you and scandals? Nothing of the sort will happen. I'd much rather spend the rest of the evening with you."
You frowned. "If you must, perhaps we should return inside. You should sign my dance card to keep my mother from asking questions."
"I would do so, gladly, Y/n, but I did not think you wanted me to do so," he said, eyebrows furrowed as he spoke.
"Why wouldn't I want you to?" you began, averting your gaze. "You know me better than I know myself."
He tilted his head curiously. "I do believe there are things I've yet to acquire," he said, gently taking your hand as he spoke. This time, you didn't pull away. "Whatever is the matter?"
"You are a dear friend, Benedict," you said. "I would never want to do something to put our friendship in jeopardy."
"Perhaps you will if you continue alluding me so. I asked you a question, my Lady."
A beat passes, the music coming from inside becoming light and jovial for the newest dance. Your sister was already dancing with another, enjoying herself and smiling all the while. Not that you could see.
"Y/n, please," he said, voice barely above a whisper—defeated, one could safely say.
"I care for you," you said. "If—if my sister is what you want, if she will make you happy, then by all means, you have my blessing."
He blinked slowly at you, lips parting to speak, but you speak first.
"I understand why you care for her so. She is beautiful, and she will be an excellent wife. She is so unlike me. She... she will make you so unbelievably happy, Benedict."
"Wait."
His fingers laced with your gloved hand as he gently pressed his other to the side of your face, making you look at him.
"Where is this coming from?" he asked, allowing his hand to drop. "Who said... who said I was interested in her?"
"No one. Nothing needed to be said for me to assume. Did I assume correctly, Lord Bridgerton?"
He chuckled softly, tilting his head as he watched you. "Not at all, my dear," he said. "You are so far from the truth that it is quite... comical."
"Comical?" you blurted, looking up at him in disbelief.
"Your sister was... helping me. I had planned to ask you in such a grand manner that I needed some assistance. Perhaps her planning skills would be far superior to mine when it comes to an event such as... well..."
"An event? What—what have you been planning, Benedict?"
His eyes softened. Were you blind? Or had he been so secretive with his feelings for you that you remained oblivious to the fact that he loved you more than life itself?
"Benedict, please," you said. "We do not have all night. They will notice we have left the party, soon enough."
"I wanted to know what would be best to ask you," he said.
"Ask me what?"
"To marry me, Y/n."
Time stood still. Big eyes stared up at him in disbelief, lips parted as you swam in an ocean of words, but nothing broke the surface. Was he serious?
"Benedict—"
"—will you marry me, Y/n?"
"I—"
"—I had planned on asking you soon, with flowers and a ring, and perhaps a grand occasion so the gentlemen knew you were taken, but—"
"—Benedict..."
He looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed. You were going to say no. He could see it in your eyes.
"You want to marry me?" you asked, hand holding onto his. "You... do you... I care for you, deeply, Benedict."
"And I, you, Y/n."
You searched his eyes for a sign—for an answer, perhaps. You had dreamed of this night for so long, and here it was, front and center. He cared for you. He wanted to marry you.
"I will," you said.
He released a breath, suddenly pulling you into his arms. You said you would. Yes. The answer was yes. Benedict would marry his best friend.
Benedict fought the urge to kiss you, despite knowing you would allow him.
“Let us return,” he softly said. “Perhaps you should inform your mother of your latest rendezvous.”
Your eyes widened a bit.
“Of course, I will be with you. Wouldn’t she enjoy seeing that?”
Your lips spread into a soft smile. “Yes. She would.”
Benedict took your hand and led you back to the porch. No one else stood outside.
“I will return first,” he softly said. “I will find your sister, and then, I will come and find you.”
“Oh, you do not want a scandal, dear Benedict?” you asked, a grin forming.
His eyes hardened as he looked back at you. “Would you like a scandal, Lady Y/n?” His voice betrayed the look he gave you, and instantly, his hard look dissolved into a smile. “Allow me to return. We will have enough gossip to go around once the news has broke in the ‘ton.” He took your hand again and pressed a kiss to your gloved knuckles. “Until we meet again.”
“I will see you inside,” you said, smiling all the while.
Benedict left you, and you waited merely a few minutes before you returned. You remained blissfully ignored, and for once, you appreciated the fact. You found your mother in an instant, and only when Benedict found you again did you tell her the news.
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writtenfangirl · 10 months
Text
Dancing
A short one this time! I just wanted to write a really fluffy piece without drama although, yes there is a very small conflict if you squint hard enough. I wanted to write another fic that made me feel good just cause life's been extra hard lately.
Although I have a ton of ideas for this one so a sequel if people really enjoy this. I briefly wondered making Y/N be Lady Whistledown and pairing her up with my favorite Bridgerton brother to see what would happen.
TW: People being mean. Gossiping mamas. Cressida Cowper mention.
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The ball, as most balls tended to be as the night waned, had grown stale and boring. The dancing had ceased despite the wonderful string quartet that played their music and people had broken off to their own parties. As the guests become accustomed to the taste of alcohol, words began to flow with reckless abandon. 
“Did you hear? Viscount Dotsfield has a bastard with a scullery maid!”
“The Earl of Blackfield is said to engage in… relationships with Sir Lockling.”
“There are rumors going around that one of the Colton daughters has a French paramour whose name is Ravilli. An ambassador of sorts…”
Gossip is what fueled the ton, the very lifeblood that had men and women of varying ages coming to these balls in the first place. No one in the ton wanted to be caught unaware and one could never be too careful of the rumors that could be fabricated about you. According to Y/N’s mama, the only people who didn’t come to balls and to the gatherings hosted by members of the ton were those of them whose reputations were in ruins. You were either gossiping or you were the one being gossiped about. 
So she came and endured even if she was bored out of her mind. 
It wasn’t anything she wasn’t use to anyway. She was a woman and women were seen and not heard. Not only that, but she was a wallflower. Wallflowers were hardly seen at all.
“Lady Y/L/N.”
She knew that familiar voice, smooth and deep yet somehow still bright. If sunsets could speak, Y/N imagined they would have his voice.
“Mister Bridgerton,” Y/N said as she spun around, hiding her smile behind her bejeweled fan. “I half expected you to have taken your leave by now.”
“Under usual circumstances, I might have. But I have yet to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room.” Benedict said with a crooked smile. “And my mother has always told me that dancing is one of men’s greatest assets to encourage affection.”
“There’s hardly anyone dancing,” Y/N said bashfully.
“All the better reason to do so.”
Y/N wasn’t naive. She knew Benedict was only speaking to her because his mother asked him too. She’d always rather liked Lady Bridgerton and she had a penchant for forcing her sons to dance with the wallflowers. At every ball Y/N attends, her dance card, though usually empty, always had three names: Anthony Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton. Colin Bridgerton. 
And there was no man who made he heart beat faster than Benedict Bridgerton himself. Because it was Benedict who offered to fill up all of the other spaces in her dance cards even though he didn’t have to.
All the Bridgerton brothers were kind to her but Benedict was more than that. Anthony and Colin were polite but Benedict laughed with her and conversation flowed between them like water from a fountain. And though she knew Benedict was unlikely to return her feelings, she occasionally let her delusions run wild. She often spent her days imagining what their future would look like. Would their children have his eyes or hers? Their hair would probably be different too. And their noses—
“Y/N?”
Blast! What a bloody idiot! She shouldn’t have let her mind wander like that! And now Benedict was looking at her expectantly with those luminous blue eyes and she couldn’t focus her mind to remember what it is he’d asked of her.
“Yes?” She asked, fighting to stop herself from sounding so breathy.
“Excellent,” Benedict grinned with an outstretched hand. 
The dance. She’d forgotten about the dance!
She briefly wondered if she could find a way out of it. Getting on that dance floor would shift everyone’s focus on to them and she already knew what people would say. 
“The Bridgerton charity case.”
“Of all of the young ladies, he chose her?”
“He deserves better.”
She glanced around nervously. Everyone else was too engrossed in their own conversations to pay them any heed but those conversations would instantly stop the moment she and Benedict stepped on the dance floor alone. 
And she knew that if she were to reject Benedict’s advances, her mother would kill her. Though Anthony was but a Viscount, his fortune was considerable large. His father before him had managed their estate well and Anthony was known to make cunning investments that grew their already large fortune, a fortune that would also provide cushy lives for the rest of his brothers. Perhaps not the large estate of a Duke but certainly nothing to scoff at. And Y/N didn’t doubt for one second that the rest of the Bridgerton brothers weren’t as smart as Anthony was when it came to their finances. 
It’s why Y/N had constantly heard her mother’s say, “you will marry a Duke or a Bridgerton. Anything less is unacceptable.”
Luckily for Y/N, her mother wasn’t around to see her reject Benedict. 
Still, with the way Benedict looked at her, it was hard to say no. 
“Just one dance,” Y/N ceded with a sigh, slipping her gloved hand onto his. 
His smile widened considerably. “You mustn’t be nervous.”
“Easy for you to say,” Y/N huffed. “You look perfect everywhere you go.”
“Oh?”
Damn. Damn damn damn. Damn the world. Damn herself. And damn Benedict Bridgerton. 
“You think I look perfect?” He asked, cocking a brow in question. 
“U-uh, I m-mean, that is to say, I don’t—“
“You truly must calm your nerves, my lady,” Benedict said with a chuckle as he pulled her to her feet and led her to the dance floor. “I am only teasing.” 
Y/N could hear the stream of gossip stop as members of the ton watched them. There was a pregnant pause and then the chatter began once again. She couldn’t hear the full conversations but she heard enough. 
“…fat…”
“…ugly…undeserving…”
“…he is too kind…”
It made Y/N want to curl up into a ball so that the earth may open up and swallow her whole. 
“Pay them no heed,” Benedict muttered as he pulled her close, his hand resting on the small of her back as his other hand found hers. “Focus only on us. And tonight, you look beautiful.”
“Only tonight?” Y/N joked in a bid to ease the coil of tension tightening around her core. 
“Every night.” Benedict’s tone was too serious to be called teasing. 
Soon the new music started, washing away the ton’s horrible words. She could still feel their watchful eyes on her skin, felt the way they judged her. 
“Focus on me,” Benedict muttered before he began their dance by swaying them back and fort.
She let the music fill her, weaving through the muscles in her body. Their dance was a complicated one and though she wasn’t an accomplished dancer by any sense of the word, with Benedict leading it was hard to fail. 
In and out, push and pull, with complicated lifts and turns yet somehow always finding their way back to each other. It was as if their bodies were magnetized, attracted only to the other. As the music swelled, she forgot all about the gossiping ton and their prying eyes. Instead she only felt Benedict’s body heat, the hard chords of muscles hidden beneath his jacket, his hands steady around her waist. 
His gaze on her felt soft, like staring at the afterglow of of dusk. She was never much of a drinker but Benedict always had the ability to make her feel drunk, as though each of her inhibitions left her the moment his luminous blue eyes landed on her. 
When the last notes of the song echoed between them and Y/N and Benedict detached from each other to curtsy and bow at one another, the entire ballroom erupted into applause. 
A soft gasp left Y/N’s lips. She’d completely forgotten about the ton watching them with Benedict commanding all of her attention. 
She raised her head, meeting Benedict’s eyes once more. 
“You were marvelous,” Benedict muttered with a grin as he took her hand and placed a chaste kiss against it before leading her out of dance floor. The ton’s eyes had grown less hostile and more appreciative on and, for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt exhilarated. 
“I would like to call on you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N.” Benedict said, letting his voice be carried throughout the ballroom. His words brought on another wave of whispers. “If you would let me?”
Y/N was absolutely sure she would be the center of gossip tomorrow. Perhaps until the end of the season if Benedict’s intentions are what she thought them to be. 
To call on her would mean Benedict would like to get to know her better, to suss out if she would make a good wife or not. And with him a Bridgerton and her a lowly Y/L/N, they would make waves with the ton. She could practically feel Cressida Cowper glaring daggers at her back.
But she didn’t care about that right now. She was still riding the high of their beautiful dance. She was no great beauty, that much was true. But with Benedict, she felt beautiful. And his opinion mattered to her more than the Queen’s and the whole ton’s combined.
“Of course you may call on me, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said graciously, ignoring her fast beating heart. “I’ll have the cook prepare that raspberry marmalade you enjoy so much.”
Benedict grinned. “I am much obliged. I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you have a good evening.” He took her hand again, placing another gentle kiss on her knuckles before he straightened and walked away.
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benedictscanvas · 1 month
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hey love! im sorry your request box hasnt been what you were looking for but maybe this will work! can i request a ball with benedict bridgerton where feelings are only realized when one of them dances with someone else? i dont really mind if its reader or benedict but i just think it would be cute!! hope you’re doing well <3 <3
hello my lovely. you're the sweetest, thank you so much for such a gorgeous request. I've got a pretty similar fic where Benedict realises his feelings, so I was super excited to do the other way around, I hope you enjoy <3 <3 | 1.5k words, fem!reader
There is a woman in Benedict’s arms and it isn’t you and you think you might throw your lemonade at her. Accidentally, of course.
You don’t know her, and if the reasonable side of your brain was in charge, you’d probably think she looks quite lovely. Her hair is adorned in elaborate braids and her smile is demure but still a little goofy - she isn’t shrouded in the fake humility that she finds so many ladies of the ton carry around with them. 
But still you find yourself fantasising about a large lemonade stain painting the front of her dress, the poor girl hurrying away in her shock and distress.
Away from Benedict. Who’s now laughing. At something the girl has said, no less. Why, you’d never seen him laugh at any lady of the ton who wasn’t either his sister or, once, Lady Danbury.
And yourself, of course, but you didn’t count.
At least, you didn’t think you counted. You didn’t think you wanted to count, content to while away the balls and the promenades by Benedict’s side, sometimes Eloise’s, whispering about so-and-so’s hat or whats-his-name’s hair. He’d never asked you to dance, although you’d never wanted him to before. Now that he was dancing with someone for the first time you could recall, however, you could feel that changing very swiftly.
”You know, looking vexed in the corner isn’t likely to win you many adoring suitors, Miss Y/L/N.”
Eloise always knows just when to get on your nerves and she’s grinning at you slyly when you turn to face her, finally breaking the spell that Benedict and his new dance partner had placed on you.
”Since when have you believed that was my endeavour, dear Eloise?”
”Since you’ve spent the entire night glaring at pretty young Miss Pennyforth. It’s making you look rather jealous, to the untrained eye.”
You turn away from her, fixing your eyes on her brother yet again. They’re not talking anymore, just staring at each other as he twirls her again and again. Maybe it was better when they spoke after all, because now your stomach is twisting into something that does indeed feel a lot like jealousy.
”Yes, well, you know better than to think I’m jealous. Though I do seem to be in a foul mood.”
Eloise nods exaggeratedly, a pretend-sympathetic pout on her lips.
”Yes, you poor thing. And it obviously has nothing to do with the brother of mine that you can’t take your eyes off.”
You pointedly look at her again but she just dissolves into giggles at the look on your face.
”If you have a point, Eloise, I suggest you make it.”
”Oh, no point at all. Only that the one ball where Benedict decides not to stand with you and ruin his prospects all night, you seem to be very dour indeed. With no correlation, of course.”
You glower at her as best you can. You have the irritable feeling crawling out of your stomach through your throat that you might be about to cry, and you refuse to do so here, or to allow Eloise to think it’s her fault if you do.
”You run along and find Penelope or I shall tell your mother there’s a gentleman asking after you.”
She gaped at you, quite genuinely.
”You wouldn’t,” she murmured, but then promptly hurried away when you fixed her with a look that told her you most certainly would. It was a lie, because you could never bring yourself to do that to your friend, but it was a ruse that allowed to slip away from the ballroom.
You cast one last glance over your shoulder at Benedict to see him kissing the back of Miss Penny-something’s hand and your eyes began to sting.
- - -
There was a little bench hidden away to the left of the grand entrance, just dark enough to not be spotted by those near the carriages. You managed to shed a few tears in private, silent silly things, and you wiped them away angrily.
It was only Benedict. Quiet, mischievous, generous Benedict. He was creative and caring and could come up with the most brilliant insults you’d ever heard. Obviously, he also had a beautiful face, but you’d never given it much thought. All the Bridgertons were beautiful, it felt like a requirement.
”Did Lord Tennesby try to talk to you again?”
You sighed deeply, closing your eyes with your head bowed. Of course he’d find you. If anyone was likely to be looking for a quiet spot for a moment’s reprieve, it was him.
You wiped at your face in vain before looking up at him with what you hoped was a convincing smile. 
“I’d be halfway back home if that was the case. What are you doing out here?”
Why aren’t you with Pennyfuzzy? was the unspoken second question that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to ask, knowing how spiteful it would come out. You wished you had realised you might want more from Benedict in the comfort of your own home, where you could take a week to process those feelings and prepare for how to deal with them.
Instead, you’d just have to see what happened in this conversation and go from there. Sounded promising.
”I was going to ask you the same thing. Have you…been crying?”
”I think it’s the flowers,” you point over at the hyacinths in the nearby flowerbed, “They often get the best of me this time of year.”
”Daphne’s ball last year was filled with hyacinths and you didn’t so much as sniffle.”
You frowned at him.
“I probably sniffled.”
“You didn’t. I would have noticed. I would have offered you a handkerchief like the dashing young gentleman I am.”
It was enough to pull up your frown at the corners, which in turn propelled him to take a seat beside you on the bench. You busied yourself with a crease in your dress when you talked to him.
“Maybe you’re not as dashing as you think.”
“I’m incredibly dashing,” he argued, pointing his chin upwards in that silly, mighty way you always giggled at, “I swept Miss Pennyforth off her feet just moments ago.”
Like an ice cold bucket of water poured right over you. You almost shivered.
“Ah, Miss Pennyforth. Has someone finally captured your wayward attention, Mister Bridgerton?”
You looked up at him and tried not to sniffle or snuffle or anything else that might give you away. He was just looking puzzled.
“What? No, I meant I quite literally swept her off her feet. I got the steps wrong, according to Eloise, who helped me up once she had a hold of her laughter.”
You blinked at him.
“You fell?”
“Into quite the heap. Miss Pennyforth was a good sport about it all but she did end up with a rather unfortunate lemonade stain all down the front of her dress. I think she was a little embarrassed.”
He had the decency to look a little embarrassed himself. There you had been, ready to hurl the contents of your cup at the girl and Benedict had solved your predicament for you. A twinge of guilt tugged at you.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” you said honestly, face overtaken by a wry smirk since Benedict had not sat down singing her praises. Still you had to be sure, “She was looking a very good dancer before I left, I was afraid she might steal away my conversation partner.”
It ended up sounding far more transparent in your intentions than you’d hoped. But you held his eye contact defiantly when he grinned.
“I knew you missed me,” he said, smug, “I took one look at your face and I could see it plain as day. Really, you should have hidden it better.”
“I don’t enjoy these events and you know it, Benedict.”
Back to his first name and by the light in his eyes, he’d noticed the switch. He stood up and held out his arm for you.
“I know. I’m very grateful for it. Now come along, I’ve done my duty to my mother dancing with that girl and now I would like to do my duty to myself.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, not moving a muscle.
“I would like to make fun of the Featheringtons with my most cherished friend. Would you do me the honour?”
Something skipped inside your chest. Light and airy again, no longer weighed down and chained to something churning your stomach. His most cherished friend. Despite the evening’s revelations, that sounded heavenly.
“Is Eloise inside waiting for you then?” you can’t help but tease and he promptly puts his arm back by his side with a huff.
“You are intolerable. I’m going without you.”
“No - wait!” you laughed, following after him gleefully as he turned away from you and started walking. You managed to catch him on the stairs, threading your hand into the crook of his elbow with ease as you did.
The smile he sent you would take at least the next week to contemplate but you had time. You could be a very brilliant 'most cherished friend' for now.
(and you were far more cherished than you knew, of course, but he wasn't quite ready to tell you yet)
---
if you'd like to request something of your own, please see this post for characters I write for and two super brief guidelines. thank you for reading, sunflower <3
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fayes-fics · 1 month
Text
Ruler & Subject
Paring: Benedict Bridgerton x royal!fem!reader
Summary: blurb where a princess and a certain untitled artist play together…
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Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, power swap, dom/sub dom!Benedict, sub!Princessreader, hair pulling, blow job, deepthroat, breathplay, derogatory names, masturbation, swallowing, smidge of cunnilingus and face-sitting.
Word count: 1.4 k
Authors note: Another smut blurb that came as a result of a roulette prompt (“Swallow. All of it”). Written in an hour. Unbetaed. Utter and complete filth. Enjoy? 🤷‍♀️
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Something about his slightly rough treatment makes you mindless with need—a want to be used by him. And he knows it. Gets that glint in his eye when you give him the signal across a room at a boring soirée.
Once in a quiet corridor, he grabs you by the back of the neck and steers you away from prying eyes. Out across the manicured gardens. Deep into your aunt’s Byzantine maze, a mist clinging to the neat privet hedges in the crisp night air.
He doesn’t even have to tell you to get on your knees anymore; it’s a reflex. As soon as he stops marching, you drop. Eager to please. His crooked smile beguiling as you gaze up at him roughly, pulling open the buttons at his hip.
“Hands behind your back,” he tuts as you go to touch his clothed thigh. 
Instantly, you obey, fingers clasped over the small of your back. The rough pebble path under your knees is already a slight discomfort you know will only heighten your experience. Bruises on both your knees for him.
His cock is already leaking as it bobs against your nose, leaving a patch of wetness there that you will savour later. Without being told, you shuffle a fraction, greedily wrap your lips around the tip, suckling into your mouth. Hot, salty and tart against your tongue as you lathe the underside, and he exhales raggedly. A large hand rounding your scalp and pulling your hair at the root, a slight burn on your scalp.
“What's your signal?” He checks quickly.
You raise your left hand and tap twice on his outer thigh. Then, obediently, place the hand back. You never want to use it. 
“Good,” he nods, scraping blunt fingernails over your crown. “I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns, a prickle of excitement running down your spine at that news.
He thrusts his hips forward and slides his cock deep into your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut at the blunt force attempting to school your gag reflex.
“Eyes open,” he snaps, “you will look at me the whole time.”
You do as bidden. Wide-eyed as he holds for a few beats, watching you suckle hard and accommodate his girth.
This is what you crave. So very opposite to who you both are; the role reversal and personality juxtaposition are intoxicating. A strong-willed princess on your knees for a sweet, affable, untitled artist. But not when you play like this. He is dominating and rough, bossing you around in ways no one dares. And you revel in it, insist upon it. The submission, the abdication of power, control. The pleasure to be used when, in all other aspects of your existence, you are the designated user, purely by the luck of your birth. 
“My filthy princess,” he coos, one hand moving to tap your hollowed cheek, a thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth to break the tight seal you hold around his cock. “Relax your throat; let me in,” the order is velvet and steel, just like his shaft.
Slackening your suction, you exhale around him, letting your throat open. He tips forward, deeper than before, groaning at the restriction your throat provides, a bead of precum sliding over your tastebuds as he rocks back moments later.
Then his hands clamp around your ears, and he is thrusting. Using your pliant mouth, your lips a ring of soft friction as he grunts, a slick gurgling noise every time he plugs your throat. His movements get rougher, plunging in, his grip strong in your hair, the gravel crunching around your knees and toes as he rocks your whole being. 
He stills, your nose buried in his pubic hair as you burble around his invasion, gaze locked on his. Unable to draw breath, You know he is waiting for that slight hint of panic on your face before giving your reprieve.
He withdraws, letting you take a shuddering, coughed breath as ropes of saliva web from your lips to his glistening cock.
“Call me it,” you implore hoarsely, feeling your spit drooping across the priceless large diamonds that drape around your neck.
“Wanton little slut,” he growls, and you flood yourself, a trickle of arousal running down your trembling inner thigh to your right knee.
“Please fuck me,” you beseech as he roughly moves your head around by your hair, chasing your mouth with his cock, a game of cat and mouse he is playing with himself as much as you.
“No. Ride your fingers if you must, but tonight, you stay on your knees.”
You whimper in disappointment before he slides back into your mouth, holding still shallow, awaiting your suckling attentions. Which you enthusiastically do. Humming and lapping at his cock, sucking hard with your tongue swirling over his frenulum. He mewls little noises, praising your talented mouth as you hitch up your skirt and hurriedly drive two fingers deep into your dripping cunt, wishing it was his cock.
He takes over again, thrusting deep as you ride your own hand, spiralling greedily towards completion. His gaze slips down, and he smirks when he sees your hand thrust under the hem of your dress.
“Give me that hand,” he instructs, holding still a weight over the length of your tongue as you offer your hand above your head. 
He pulls your arm straight, a slight burn in your shoulder socket as he wraps his warm, wet mouth around your soaked fingers and laps at your juices lasciviously. 
“You always taste so deliciously sweet,” he groans as he lets your fingers slip from his lips, thoroughly cleaned.
You can’t answer, your mouth too full, but he already knows it, both so feral for each other's taste. An irresistible tang that leaves you constantly coming back for more. 
Just last week, he was buried under your cloak, making you orgasm - silently - over his tongue in the royal box at the opera. You wanted to scream louder than every singer on stage but had to settle for a vice-like grip on your opera goggles and a few ragged, mute whimpers. Knowing he would stop immediately if you so much as made a peep. You are sure other box patrons likely saw him emerging from under your layers, a smug smirk on his dampened face, before being summarily dismissed from your company. And yet word never got back to your mother, the queen of Prussia, or your aunt Queen Charlotte. Women of power need their pretty playthings, likely being the Ton’s shared sentiment.
Urgency takes over for both of you. A need to climax clawing at your beings. You roughly rub your clit as his movements turn sharp, more pronounced, using you without mercy, knowing it is driving you closer, too, the heady sensation of denied breaths. You feel his peak as much as you hear his barked warning, a ripple up his shaft that has you readying yourself for the salty, tart taste, his tip at the back of your tongue. You have to hold your breath as it coats the inside of your mouth, him curled over and around you, cursing, his hand heavily matted into your hair.
“Swallow,” he commands. “All of it.”
You do as you are told, almost unable not to, mouth filled, his hand slipping to your throat to ensure you follow the directive.
“Good,” he groans, rubbing your windpipe soothingly with his palm as he shudders with little aftershocks.
You feel the throb of denial, unable to complete before he did, your clit burning, engorged, needing relief. As he withdraws from your mouth, you cannot stop the little shimmy in your hips, desperate for reprieve.
“Did my little Princess not finish?” he chuckles as he tucks himself back into his britches.
You pout and shake your head, looking up at him imploringly. The smirk that grows on his face makes your heart light up.
“Alright, you can sit on my face,” he offers conciliatoryly, sinking to join you on the ground. “But it will cost you…” he ends with a clipped warning.
“What is the price?” your voice slightly hoarse, eagerly gathering your dress around your hips and shuffling over him.
“I’ll think of something,” he hums affably before disappearing under your gown.
You offer him half of Bavaria when he slides his tongue deep into your slit and has you howling at the moon. Instead, ever your loyal subject, he settles on what you already had planned for him—one of his paintings hung in the National Gallery and you wearing a choker with his initials hidden amongst a cluster of sapphires.
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No taglist cos just a writing sprint blurb.
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captainsophiestark · 5 months
Text
Bad Timing
Benedict Bridgerton x Reader
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Masterlist - Join My Taglist!
Written for Fictober 2023!
Fandom: Bridgerton
Day 25 Prompt: "Do I look like I knew that?"
Summary: When Eloise needs help with a problem, she knows she can count on her brother and his new wife for help.
Word Count: 1,047
Category: Fluff, Humor
Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.
"You know, lazy days like this are by far my favorite," I mused, curling into my husband's side as we laid in bed together. "No galas, no gossip from the Ton. Just the two of us."
"I certainly have to agree," said Benedict, my husband, as he traced patterns on the bare skin of my back. "Although, I do enjoy watching Colin wade through the swarm of Mamas every time we go out, now that he is the only unwed Bridgerton son. At least until Gregory gets a bit older."
"I'd say you were being mean, but he did ditch you and Anthony for quite a while in his travels."
"Yes, he did. So he deserves this."
I laughed, shaking my head a bit at my husband's antics. A moment later, he pulled me tighter to his side, rolling us so I laid completely on top of his chest. I rose up on my elbows to meet his eyes and found him looking at me with a mischevious smile.
"You know, it's just occurred to me," he started. "There are quite a few ways I can think of that our time would be better spent than talking about my brother."
"Oh really?" I asked, grinning and leaning down closer to Benedict. "And what might those ideas be?"
"Well for starters..."
With that, he brought his hand up to the back of my neck and pulled me into a searing kiss. I rested all my weight on him, kissing right back, until a knock at the door jarred us both out of the moment.
Reluctantly, I pulled away, and Benedict let me. We shared a look.
"Maybe whoever it is will go away if we ignore them," he whispered in suggestion. As if he'd willed it into happening, a voice from the other side of the door called out.
"Y/N! If you're in there, please, I need to talk to you."
Eloise. Benedict's little sister, who I'd become close with throughout the course of Benedict courting me. I gave Benedict an apologetic look.
"No," he whined as I rolled off of him, quickly wrapping a robe around myself and heading for the door.
"I have to," I replied. "I can't ignore her. Make yourself decent."
With that, I turned from my husband and went to open the door just wide enough to see Eloise on the other side, and for her to see me.
"Oh, thank goodness!" she cried, moving to push past me and into the room. I let her, just hoping that Benedict had done as I'd said. Eloise and I had done this a few times as we'd gotten closer, and whenever it happened, I knew she really, truly needed me.
I turned around to follow Eloise back into the room after shutting the door behind me, only to find her frozen just a few steps from where she'd come in. Benedict stood next to the bed, looking tired but resigned to our new morning activity as he laced up his shirt.
"Good morning, Eloise," he said, a little edge of teasing in his tone. "You know, I was trying to enjoy the morning with my wife-"
"Do I look like I knew that?" she cried. I fought back a laugh as I walked forward to wrap my arm around her shoulder.
"It's alright, Eloise," I said. "Benedict and I were about to get up for the morning, anyway."
Benedict shot me a look with his eyebrows almost into his hairline, and I glared right back, imploring him to go along with me. He cleared his throat.
"Right. That we were. What did you need help with, sister?"
She hesitated, so I walked around to face her, putting both of my hands on her shoulders and blocking her eyeline to Benedict. I gave her a small smile, so she'd know everything was alright, then spoke in a low voice that I knew Benedict wouldn't be able to hear.
"If this is a ladies' problem, or one you don't want your brother to know about, El, I'll throw him out of here right now and we can talk, alright? But if you're embarrassed about knocking when you did, then you truly don't need to be. We love you, and we'd both drop far more important things to help you whenever you need it."
Eloise sighed, nodding a little as she did. The bright red blush that had risen to her cheeks started to fade, and she at last met my eyes again.
"Thank you. I... suppose it wouldn't hurt to have Benedict's input as well," she said. I nodded, giving her a bright smile before turning around to face my husband.
"Put your problem-solving hat on, Benedict," I said. I started drifting for the couches by Benedict's turret window, one of my favorite features of his room. "We've got a family matter to deal with."
They both beamed at me as they started following me over to the couch. I'd considered a few of Benedict's siblings as good as family for a long time now, but it felt amazing to be able to say that and have it be completely true.
Benedict and Eloise settled into the couch on either side of me, Benedict resting his arm across my shoulders. Those kinds of casual touches would've been scandalous before we were married, but now we could do them whenever we wanted to, which also made my heart sing.
Eloise gave us both one last look with a raised eyebrow, then launched into her explanation of the problem that had brought her to our doorstep, which had something to do with a boy of virtually no social status who'd caught her attention. Benedict and I spent the rest of the morning, helping her as best we could, in the way only we could.
Although I hated that Eloise had to deal with the problems she dealt with, a small part of me sang the entire morning as Benedict and I worked together, the perfect team, to help his little sister. This was going to be the rest of our lives, with Eloise and maybe someday with children of our own, and I couldn't be happier thinking about that future with Benedict. We made the perfect team.
****************
Everything Taglist: @rosecentury
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bakerstreethound · 7 months
Text
Etched in Stone
Relationship: Benedict Bridgerton x afab!reader
Warnings: 18+ spicy times (MINORS DNI), flirting, fingering, mutual pining, childhood friends to best friends to lovers, exposed ankles, fluff, softness, gentle/possessive Benedict, brief mention of alcohol and slightly tipsy momma Violet Bridgerton makes an appearance
Summary: Bored at yet another party hosted at Bridgerton House, Benedict seeks solace (and a strong drink) in the quiet of Anthony's office only to find you there, one of his oldest friends and buried feeling resurface.
All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound​ (Do NOT copy, repost, claim, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username) 
Word Count: 4.1k+
A/N: I wrote this fic for my lovely friend @frostandflamesfanfic a while back but wanted to take my time posting it because this was such a joy to work on and wanted to savor every moment. El was there for the beginning of this story so it's only fair I dedicate it to them as well. Thank you for trusting me to write one of your beloved fictionals. I drew a lot of inspiration from both book and show Benedict. Any era inaccuracies are fault of my own as well as where Benedict's room is located in the house. Graphic by @firefly-graphics . Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!!
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His piercing gaze hadn’t left you all evening, making your shoulders rise on the verge of danger, but the way his gaze bore into yours, and you couldn’t deny the shallow thrill or the pulsing in your heart. 
You hadn't wanted to come to the ball and despite your family’s protests and prodding you found yourself at the Bridgetron ball, dressed in the prior season’s attire, not caring about the gossip. It wasn’t like you had anything to prove to the ton or Lady Whistledown. A soft smile graced your lips at the thought and you round a corner, sipping on your lemonade, weary and the night was still young. You longed to be reading one of the adventures in your novels, whisking you away to another place and time, holding hands with your beloved. 
******
Benedict sighed for the third consecutive time in a row, making Eloise roll her eyes. “Brother, surely you can find some enjoyment from this party.” 
“When I tell you, I’ll let you know,” he grumbled, watching the couples swirl along the dance floor, his eldest brother Anthony pulling Kate close in his arms, a bright smile lighting her face. Benedict tried to hide the disdain, the ache resounding in his chest. He’d rather be locked away in his room, working on his art, perfecting the curve of a hand, the slope of a shoulder, silk between thighs. He shook his head, groaning before tossing back a glass of lemonade he’d picked up during yet another turn around the room. 
It did little to cool his blood. 
When he made his way to the study, he half expected to see Colin there sneaking a glass of Anthony’s secret stash, however, he didn’t expect you draped across a chair, nose buried in a book, legs curled over the arms of the chair, exposing your ankles. The smirk crawled along his lips for a fraction, enraptured by your stone-cold expression and you flipped another page, not uttering a sound.  He poured himself a drink, trying not to chuckle, and watched you intently. 
“Do you intend to stare at me all evening, Mister Bridgerton? Or are you going to ask me to pull myself together to dance in front of the entirety of the ton?” 
The drink almost lodges itself in his throat as he choked it down, the bewildered expression on his face the cause of your pursed lips. For the love, you were laughing at him! 
“Cat got your tongue, Benedict?” 
Oh, it was more than the cat that got his tongue, he wanted to swallow yours, combat your wit, fill himself with your words and beauty tenfold. 
Good gracious, what had become him? 
Here you were and he’d been watching you like a hawk all evening barely making a move and your ankles were there, tempting him, tricking him, enticing him. How ready he was to fall, the hold you had on him was indescribable. He’d been this way since he first laid eyes on you all those months ago. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on you. But how he wanted to fall with you, drag you along the dance floor show you off for the world to see. No, he would do no such thing. 
He would enshrine you in a painting, etch you into stone, a carving upon his heart. 
Warmth flooded your body as you continued watching Benedict pace around the room and you doubted he realized he had done so. A bedraggled state was becoming of him, accentuated by his ruffled hair as he muttered under his breath, stopping to refill his glass with something stronger than lemonade. 
You smirk, perusing the pages of your novel, which sparked an idea. 
“Benedict?” 
Your voice, oh your voice was a guiding light, his anchor, steadying him through the whirlwind of a storm conjuring in his head. 
“Yes?” His gaze met yours, and he stopped pacing standing before you and giving you a good look at his chest, the rise and fall of his breaths, reminding you to steady yours. 
You crane your neck up, looking him in the eye. “Read to me.” It’s a simple request, but you hide the quivering of your lip. He leaned in closer, engulfing you in his scent, causing you to bite your cheek to keep from groaning. It was heady and intoxicating and it was all him. 
“What?” 
Focus, you ninny! You cursed softly to yourself gathering your thoughts as you clung to your novel. 
“I asked if you would read to me. Literature is the art of words is it not?” You shifted in your seat, your feet now resting flat on the floor as any respectable proper person would have done from the start. You let out a soft groan when the balls of your feet touch the floor, and he leaned down further, his index finger barely stroking along your jawline. Your ankles were definitely covered now, but you suspected his reaction didn’t stem from that. 
He cocked his head. “You would prefer me to read romance to you rather than show you firsthand?” 
“Why ever would I need to experience such things firsthand? I have everything I need here.” Your stomach fluttered, almost dropping when he kneeled before you, his fingers brushing along your sides before grasping your thighs and squeezing gently. 
“You do have one thing right for this evening. We have everything we need right here.” Another squeeze of your thigh sent your mind reeling. 
“Does one intend to enact upon such desires, Mister Bridgerton? Or does one who reads such novels suppress them?” 
His hands traveled further up your thighs a silent challenge, one you were not backing down from despite the pounding of your heart. You were here with Benedict Bridgerton alone in Anthony’s study, someone you had known for years, a constant fixture throughout your youth, the source of countless daydreams and now, rather passion-induced dreams. 
“Do you know how long I’ve imagined this?” He growled low in his chest and you forget to breathe. None of the books you read prepared you for reality, not that you would confess. Benedict didn’t need his ego poked any longer, the more he knew he could unravel you slowly. 
You squirmed against him, tugging his vest. “I’ve wanted you for years but denied myself. I didn’t - couldn’t- imagine you felt the same,” your voice came out as a whisper, a plea for him to see you and he did. Benedict saw you and gazed at you with hope and adoration. 
He growled low in your ear, sliding his hands around your waist, rising to his feet pulling you against him, the racing of his beating heart restarting yours. He was your desire, your soul ached for him, knowing he was the only one you could ever hope to give yourself to. 
No one else in the world was meant for you or could compare to him. 
His heart beating in tandem with yours, clinging to each other, a lifeline. It felt like a lifetime before clarity finally made its way into the world, making its intentions known between you. It was more than the slow-burning passion and affection blossoming between each other.
His lips brushing along yours sent your heart soaring, connecting your souls and you welcomed him, and you were home, he pulled you flush up against him, groaning softly, digging his hands into your waist. He couldn’t breathe, utterly weightless, intoxicated by your scent, everything. He was high on you, your touch, oh how lovely it felt your fingers digging into his back, melting against him, needing him as much as he did you. 
This was love. It was Benedict in a new form, one you awoke, taking him back home, a home he’d always known for you were there through it all. He wanted to give you everything you desired, everything you deserved. And you would receive the best in return. But not in his brother’s study on his favorite reading chair. 
“Anthony will kill us if we do anything here,” He pulled away in a moment of clarity, holding you close, your legs trembled, overcome with your passions. You ached for him dearly, more than you knew possible. 
“I’ve done worse, I assure you,” you snicked, gathering your bearings, brushing off your outfit, ruffling out the wrinkles as if that cleared off any evidence of Benedict having his hands over you wasn’t obvious. “I’ve defiled my mind with notions of unrealistic nonsense.”
He raised a brow, looking unamused, a flicker of amusement flashing before boisterous laughter, likely caused by Lady Featherington passing by the door and you inhaled sharply, the anticipation ticking by each moment. As soon as it came it went, hopefully, spurred on in good spirits. Lady Featherington surely didn’t have half the mind to break into Anthony’s study.
Benedict cracked open the door beckoning you over, taking your arm by the elbow, “Up the stairs, second door on the left. I’ll knock three times so you know it’s me.” 
You nodded, taking in his appearance, his disheveled hair, mused vest, and undershirt beneath. You would be lying to yourself if you denied the excitement of what lies beneath but the other side of you was equally terrified. 
******
Dashing up the stairs was easier said than done, the events of the evening causing your head to spin in a mixture of wonder, anxiety, and borderline delirium. You were sure you were dreaming but the stairs beneath your feet are solid, beckoning you up to the elegant quarters where the Bridgertons slept. You glided your hand along the banister admiring the railing, willing yourself not to fall, raucous laughter closing in, dangerously close by from the sound fluttering through the halls.
Perhaps Lady Featherington sought to uncover your dalliance after all. That would be the talk of the ton, however, you knew the Bridgertons could afford some slander from Lady Whistledown, but fortunately, all she commented on was the growing size of the family, the lovely grandchildren Vicountess Bridgerton had the pleasure of seeing when Daphne and Simon returned to town. 
You silently cursed your attire and its restricted movement when you made it to the landing, stopping for the briefest moment to catch your breath. You didn't bother asking if his younger siblings were asleep, but he didn’t seem to care at that moment, the way his eyes glanced along your body, and the smile along his lips was far too distracting anyway. 
Your minds were busy with other thoughts, the taste of his lips still freshly imprinted into your memory. You did everything as he instructed, the door to his room groaning on its hinges making your heart race, but you peeked out the door to be certain.
No maids padded down the corridor, the only sign of life was the music and laughter intermingling for what you could imagine would be all hours of the night. The Bridgertons could throw a grand party, no doubt about it. 
Benedict's quarters greeted you with the scent of him, masculine and comforting. It felt like home, the furniture dark and handsome, the shelves lined with countless books, figurines along his desk not to mention his infamous sketchbook lying on his desk in the corner by the fireplace. Charred pieces of crumbled paper jutted out from the embers. 
Curiously, you reached out for it turning to a page. It didn't take you long to figure out the odd figures as you pieced each frame together, a culmination of finished pieces, sketches, and half-started attempts, frustrated pen strokes deft in their quest to uncover the beauty ready to bloom. 
Hands. Intertwined, graceful elegant, smooth lines, hardened ridges, callouses palms, delicately resting ones. Upon further inspection, you noticed the tried and failed attempts at an all too familiar pair of hands. It was odd to look at how he depicted yours, strong, yet graceful, adept at anything you put your mind to between needlework, horseback riding, the leather a fine feel in your hands.
You had to admit some were quite good while some lacked depth and luster. Practice made it worth it in the end, some of the figures he drew resembled a striking resemblance to his family, almost as if he were imitating the artist of the figurines, which when you looked longer were small likenesses of his mother, father, and siblings. The sight warmed your heart. 
"Benedict! You're missing the partyyy!" A shrill giggle outside the hall pulled you from your exploration, your heart racing in tandem. You hoped and prayed it wasn’t Gregory and Hyacinth. From your previous encounters, you knew they were sharp, keen-eyed, and inquisitive about a multitude of subjects on top of their general mischievousness. Plus, you weren’t in the mood to ask any questions, but where the hell was Benedict?
Despite yourself you began pacing, desperately trying to avoid glancing at the bed draped in fine sheets, a fine rich deep velvety blue coverlet gracing it giving the piece a regal appearance. You wanted nothing more than to lose yourself between the downy softness of it all and fall into blissful dreams, and yet, there are other pressing matters to attend to. 
The giggling resumed and you sighed, thinking better of yourself, not wanting this to be a joke.
You found yourself opening the door, greeted with the voice of none other than Violet Bridgerton whispering, on the verge of a quiet yell to her second song, grasping onto his elbow at the lower landing of the stairs. “Benedict! Good heavens, you’re to retire so earlyyyy???” 
He rolled his eyes half in amusement and exasperation. “Mother, I have matters to attend to, plus the other mothers merely want to hunt me for sport and pair them with their retched daughters.” 
His eyes flashed, glancing up, his gaze boring into yours, flooding your body with warmth. He quirked a brow, challenging you while his mother rambled drunkenly along, still grasping his elbow while he shifted his weight on his feet. 
Shut the door, he mouthed to you, causing your lips to quirk in the barest hint of a smile. 
“Quite right, you have a fair point. But there was that one lovely person you danced with twice back in the orangery perhaps…” 
At that exact moment, you opened the door further to grant yourself a better view of Benedict’s struggle and also partly in retaliation to his protests, only for the grand door to let out a massive agonizing wail. The giggle left you of your own volition at Benedict’s bewildered expression rendering you completely helpless as Violet looked up at you, the same Bridgerton eyes, older, wiser and so kind smiled at you, albeit borderline tipsy. 
“I see now I see. That’s the pressing matter you have to attend to. Don’t mess it up dear boy,” she slewed, chuckling to herself, before whispering in his ear, his face flushing in response. Violet released his arm, winking up at you before traipsing down the stairs, leaving a flustered Benedict behind to collect his thoughts before he came back to his senses, scurrying up the stairs while you slipped back into his room, posting yourself right in front of the door, keeping it cracked just so. When he arrived you only catch a glimpse of his eyes flashing before the door sealed you completely from his sight. 
Silence greeted you and you feared you might have ignited his wrath, alas you merely wanted to tease him.
The seconds tick by then three knocks follow. 
Were you going to answer him? Oh, he was going to make you pay for this with many kisses. He huffed before composing himself. 
You still didn’t answer. 
“Don’t play with me, dear unless you wish for them all to hear us when we should be dancing.” When he knocked for the second time, you decided to open the door, the scowl imprinted on his face illuminating a side of him you desperately wanted to see. You did this to him. Without hesitation, he locked the door behind him and immediately pressed you against the wall, a scowl forming along his lips. 
“You wouldn’t dare flash me before the eligible men of the ton tonight if you had to.” You whispered, brushing a stray hair off his forehead. “I belong to you, Benedict. Even if I am an old maid.” Your heart thundered in your chest. You were home, you belonged to no one else, nowhere else but here in Benedict's loving arms. 
“I am yours, oh love I’m yours.” His voice cracked, overcome with realization and the emotion of it all, his scowl replaced by pursed lips, wandering hands, lavishing your body in the simplest yet heat-induced touches and you wanted - craved - more. More of him. Benedict. Your Benedict. 
“Benedict, Benedict…Benedict,” Your was all you can muster with the meeting of his lips upon yours, feeling the depths of him, pulling to you crashing over you like a tidal wave. You were a sailor lost at sea who made it to the safety of the harbor and oh, it was blissful beyond anything beyond your wildest dreams. 
“Say it again,” he pleaded, each kiss awakening desires long suppressed, ones you hadn't acknowledged since they only came about throughout the course of your friendship with Benedict. Only he could put you under his unique spell, craving his lips, the brush of his hand against yours and here you are getting more than you dreamed. 
“Benedict,” You sighed blissfully as he kissed you once more, kisses languidly savoring the feel of you as he guided you up onto the bed, the coverlet as luxurious as you surmised. You’ve not come close to feeling something so heavenly as this and Benedict, oh, he was more than you ever dreamed. The novels you’d read didn’t hold a flame to each sensation buzzing through your body, the magnetizing gaze of his upon yours, already undressing you with his eyes. You wanted to take your time, alas it was getting harder to resist. Benedict was one thing if not impossible, but he was yours, irrevocably so.
A fire in the fireplace crackled to life, startling you for a moment, while Benedict caressed your jaw, memorizing every inch, and you selfishly wonder if he'll draw your portrait one day, trying to capture the first moment he had you to himself in his chambers. He moves his exploration from your jaw to your shoulder, then your hands, leaving kisses where he can, murmuring sweet nothings, soft praises that have your knees weak and you wanting him all the more.
“Your hands are lovely, nothing can compare to me holding them,” he whispered, caressing them softly, continuing to place kisses of adoration along them while you gazed at his soft loving eyes. “I cannot capture their beauty, their essence onto the page. I’ve tried and failed for months.” 
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve done a fine job, Benedict. Your art is beautiful, never lose that passion inside you, it’s ethereal strong, spellbinding, and magnetic.” 
“As are you. You’re everywhere in my waking hour, in my dreams and sleepless nights. You’re my muse. You inspire me.” His voice wavered, a tear sliding down his cheek. Every bit of him belonged to you, there was no question, no doubt about it. 
Without another word, you tug on his vest, a beautiful shade of the signature Bridgerton blue, his shirt embellished with small bees. Everything looked wonderful when it was on him, but you wanted more, to lose yourself to him countless times throughout the night. 
“You’re pretty much the only reason I get out of bed most mornings,” You swallowed as he turned to face you, his hands cupping your face. 
“My love, oh my love,” he kisses you softly, in equal parts awe and reverence intertwined, making you forget where you are, the time and place. It’s you and him safe in each other’s embrace. His kisses trailed from your hands up to your neck, nipping softly, eliciting soft groans from you and you returned them in kind, his fingers stroking along your back, pulling you closer in his embrace. 
You brushed away another tear from his cheek, one falling from your eye as well and he wiped it away, kissing you gently before wrapping around behind you, desperation, adoration, awe, and passion guiding him. His lips connected with your neck, and you sighed in satisfaction, his hands wandering down your torso, lighting you up on the inside and you groan leaning back into him, leaving your mind to wander while you savored his touches. 
“Good, you’re not thinking, that’s right. Much better see?” His hand wandered lower, down stroking you just so, warmth blooming through your body. He relished your moans, biting into your neck as he watched the effect he has on you, wishing he could have done this to you earlier all the wasted time you have to make up for now. 
You urged him on through desperate kisses as you pull clothes from your bodies, every inch of him visible to you, eagerness and passion alike driving you both. 
“Keep going, please.” The last of your clothing fell to the floor and he pulled you back onto the bed while assuring him you have all the time in the world. “I want you, Benedict, always have, always will.”
He needed nothing more but your constant assurance, his fingers dipping into you, gliding along your body making you fall into his ministrations, your breathing ragged as you fell into bliss, his fingers replaced with his tongue sending you soaring into another place another time and it felt so irrevocably right, your fingers digging into his mass of curls encouraging him along, more than eager to assist your release. And when you were spent, his lips met yours hunger and desire battling, intertwined as you tasted yourself on his lips. You wanted more, you wanted all of him, however, in the midst of it all you found yourself asking a question as you kissed him once more, this time slower, unrushed. 
"What did your mother say to have you flustered as you are?" You batted your eyes, casting an impish smile, a look you know he couldn't resist. He hummed, his free hand stroking your side, his voice low in your ear. "My dearest mother told me to treat you well and that we best enjoy ourselves a little bit before our union. Told us to enjoy ourselves."
“Her intuition is uncanny, I never want to be on her bad side.” You huffed as Benedict groaned, pulling you in for yet another kiss, trailing down your body, making you squirm, not listening in the slightest, for he was far too distracted, focused on you before him. He would never tire of the sight, thanking his lucky stars. 
Finally, after years of yearning and pining when you’re joined, it’s a bliss, unlike anything you’ve known. You stifled a moan at the feeling, Benedict brushing a stray hair from your eyes, trapping you against him. “Love, I want to hear you, alright? Can you do that for me?” Your eyes widened at the request but when he moves against you, pleasure filling every fiber of your body you cry his name to the heavens.
Oh, how he loved it the soft whimpers, you begging for more and your name sounding just as sweet and sinful falling from his parted lips, swollen from your nipping and kissing. You want the moment to last for oblivion yet when you both lose yourself to your bliss, delirium hits and you pulled him closer in your arms, his face resting in the crook of your neck, the bed and sheets in disarray. You smirked to yourself more than pleased with the outcome. 
He continued to kiss your neck, nuzzling more, your hands stroking his curls. “I love you, Benedict.” 
“I love you more, my love.”
“I’ll love you forever.” 
“How about eternity?” He intertwines your hand with his own, kissing your ring finger. “Will you marry me?” 
 Your heart thrummed erratically but warmed at his loving gaze full of joy, hope, and wonder. It was a face you wanted to wake up with a kiss and love for all your days. 
“Yes, Benedict, a thousand times yes.” 
The smile that shot across his face kickstarted your heart and he kissed you for the thousandth time of the evening, not that you were complaining. For you have an eternity to kiss, love, and be loved by him. You settled against his chest, his embrace warm and reassuring, his hands settling on your belly soft and warm, while you drift off to sleep of bliss thinking only of Benedict and what the future holds.
******
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d-targaryenshoe · 10 days
Text
Eternal Hope - Anthony Bridgerton
Word Count: 2053
Summary: When one's best friend tells you a rather complex secret about your husband, doubts start to take over your mind, am I right?
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You and Anthony Bridgerton were the perfection of an ideal couple, your marriage a testament to the power of love and commitment. 
You were a vision of innocence and purity, your heart as untainted as the snow that covered the ground on your wedding day.
 He was the embodiment of devotion, his every action a reflection of his deep affection for you. To the outside world, you were the picture-perfect duo, your lives a fairytale come true.
 But your best friend, Philipa Featherington, knew better. Her family had seen Anthony Bridgerton in his younger days before he had met you and settled down.
 Back then, he had been known as quite the rake, a man who was more interested in the pleasures of the flesh than in finding true love. 
Despite his charming exterior, there was something dark and dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
It was this knowledge that made Philipa feel a mixture of awe, envy, and a tiny thread of worry for you, her friend.
One afternoon, as the two of you sat in the parlor, sipping tea and enjoying the warmth of the sun, Philipa decided to share the past with you. 
"You know, y/n," she began, her voice low and conspiratorial, "I sometimes wonder how you ever managed to tame that wild beast of a man." 
Philipa nodded towards the golden ring on your finger. "Before you came along, Anthony was quite the scoundrel."
Your eyes widened in surprise. "Philipa, I cannot believe that you would say such a thing about my husband!" you exclaimed. "Anthony is the most loving, attentive man I could ever hope for!"
Philipa smiled sympathetically, knowing that you meant every word you said. But she also knew that there was more to the story than you realized. 
"Yes, yes," she said, waving her hand dismissively.
 "Of course, he is different now. But you must remember that everyone here has known him for years, and some saw firsthand the things he used to do. He could be quite ruthless, y/n. He never cared about anyone's feelings but his own."
Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you sure you're not overstating?" you asked hesitantly. "Anthony has always been so kind to me."
Philipa looked you in the eye. "I wish I were," she said simply. 
"But the truth is, Anthony Bridgerton was once a very different man. And while I'm glad that he's changed, and that you're so happy together, I can't help but wonder if you know who he is."
Your heart sank at your friend's words. You wanted to believe that Philipa was wrong, that Anthony could never have been anything but the devoted husband you knew now. 
But a tiny seed of doubt began to take root in your mind. Perhaps there was more to Anthony's past than you had realized.
"I-I don't know what to say," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. "I love Anthony with all my heart, and he loves me just as much. He's been nothing but faithful and kind since the day we met."
Philipa reached over and took your hand in hers. "I'm not saying that he isn't faithful to you now," she said gently.
 "But you must understand that the man you married is not the same man who was running through the streets of London, chasing after any skirt that crossed his path."
You bit your lip, trying to process everything your friend was saying.
You wanted to believe that Anthony was as innocent and pure as you were, but the memories of Philipa's stories kept creeping into your thoughts.
 Could it be possible that there was more to Anthony than you knew?
As you sat alone in the carriage, making your way home from your visit to Philipa, your heart felt heavy with doubt. 
The wind howled outside, and the horses' hooves clattered against the cobblestone streets, but you could barely hear any of it over the voice in your head.
 What if Philipa was right? What if Anthony had been dissatisfied with you in some way? 
You tried to convince yourself that it was ridiculous, that Anthony was the most loving husband a woman could ask for.
 But the thought lingered, refusing to be shaken off.
Your mind drifted back to the beginning of your courtship, when Anthony had been so attentive, always showering you with compliments and affection. 
He had made you feel beautiful and desirable in a way that no one else ever had. But then, as time went on, you began to wonder if perhaps he was growing bored with you. 
He had started spending more time at his club, and when he was home, he seemed distracted.
You tried to talk to him about it, but he always brushed your concerns aside, insisting that everything was fine.
You closed your eyes, the tears beginning to well up in their corners. It hurt you to think that Anthony might not find you beautiful anymore, that he might be seeking pleasure elsewhere. 
The thought made you feel so insecure, so unworthy of his love. As the carriage pulled up in front of your home, you forced a smile onto your face, trying to convince yourself that everything was going to be all right.
 But deep down, you couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right between you.
You climbed out of the carriage and hurried up the steps to your front door, your heart racing with anticipation and fear.
 Anthony was supposed to have returned home hours ago, but he hadn't come back yet.
You knocked on the door, your knuckles white from gripping the handle.
 When the butler answered, you forced a bright smile, trying to hide the turmoil within her.
 "Hello, Thomas," you said, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. "Is Lord Bridgerton inside?"
Thomas, ever the attentive servant, noticed something amiss in your expression. "I believe Lord Bridgerton is still at the club, Lady Bridgerton," he said gently. "Shall I send up a tray for him?"
You hesitated for a moment, your brow furrowing in confusion. 
"Yes," you managed to say, "that would be lovely. Thank you, Thomas." You turned and made your way upstairs to your bed chamber, your steps heavy with unease. 
You couldn't help but wonder what Anthony was doing at the club for so long, and why he hadn't come home yet. 
The thought of him with another woman, enjoying himself in ways he never seemed to enjoy with you, made your stomach churn.
You busied yourself with straightening the bedclothes and rearranging the pillows, trying to distract yourself from the growing ache in your heart.
 But as the minutes ticked by and Anthony still hadn't returned, your anxiety only grew worse. 
You couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, that perhaps Philipa had been right all along. 
Maybe Anthony's past truly was catching up with you, and your marriage wasn't as strong as you had once believed it to be.
Finally, you heard the familiar sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs.
 Your heart leaped into your throat as you hurried over to the window, peeking out through the curtains.
 There he was, striding up the walkway, his shoulders squared and his head held high. He looked every bit the gentleman you had fallen in love with all those years ago.
 But as he ascended the stairs and disappeared from your view.
Your stomach was knotted with fear. You waited until you heard the butler announce his arrival before you made your way down the hallway, trying to compose yourself.
 When you finally stepped into the entryway, Anthony turned toward you, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "There you are, dearest," he said, his voice warm and affectionate. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd gotten off to."
Your heart sank even further. You forced a smile and walked toward him, trying to ignore the voice in your head that kept saying that this wasn't real, that he wasn't truly happy to see you.
 As you moved toward each other, you let yourself be enveloped in his embrace, breathing in his familiar cologne, feeling the strength of his arms around you.
 For a moment, you let yourself believe that everything was going to be all right.
"I was just waiting in the parlor, my lady," Thomas interjected, clearing his throat. "Shall I bring up the tray for Lord Bridgerton now?"
"Yes, please," Anthony said, stepping away from you. "That would be lovely, Thomas. Thank you." 
He turned back to you, reaching out to take your hand. "Come, my dear. Let's go eat in the privacy of our chamber. I have something I'd like to discuss with you."
Your heart skipped a beat. What could he possibly need to discuss? You forced another smile and allowed him to lead you up the stairs and into your bed chamber, following him like a nervous child as he took a seat at the table.
 He poured you each a glass of wine before sitting back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you.
 "Y/n," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "I need to talk to you about something."
Your stomach twisted into knots. "Okay," you managed to say, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart. "What is it?"
Anthony took a deep breath before continuing. "I love you, y/n. More than anything in this world. You are my wife, my partner, my best friend. But I've been feeling...disconnected from you lately. Like something is missing between us."
 He paused, searching your eyes for some sign of understanding. "I want us to be closer. More intimate. I want to feel the way I used to feel when I looked at you, the way I felt when we first met."
Your heart ached as you listened to his words. 
A part of you wanted to believe him, to believe that you could find your way back to the love you once shared. 
But another part of you couldn't help but wonder if it was all just an act if he was only trying to save face. 
You took a sip of your wine, trying to steady your nerves. "I...I want that too," you said, your voice trembling. "I want us to be closer, to feel connected again. But...I don't know how."
Anthony studied your face, his expression softening. 
"I think we need to be honest with each other," he said. "To share our fears and our desires. To...explore each other." He took a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed. 
"I want to make love to you, y/n. Not just tonight, but every night. I want to show you how much you mean to me, how much I desire you."
Your cheeks flushed at his words, your heart racing. A part of you wanted to believe that he meant it, that he wanted you the way he used to. 
But another part of you couldn't help but wonder if it was all just a ploy to ease his conscience, to make himself feel better about whatever it was he had been doing. 
You looked up at him, searching his eyes for some sign of truth.
"I'm...I'm not sure," you said finally, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I want to try, Anthony. I want us to try. But I need you to promise me that...that you'll always be honest with me. That you'll never keep anything from me."
He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "I promise you, my love," he said solemnly. 
"I will always be honest with you. And I swear I will never keep anything from you. Not again." His grip on your hand tightened, and you could feel the warmth of his palm through your gloves. "I want this to work between us, y/n. More than anything."
You closed your eyes, trying to decide what to believe. Part of you wanted to believe him, to trust that he could change, that you could find your way back to the love you once shared. 
But another part of you was still so insecure, still so hurt by the betrayal. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever might come.
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barbiedragon · 1 month
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Adoration
Bridgerton: Benedict Bridgerton x wife!reader 
Sweet and Spicy Bingo Collection
Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)
WC: 1.6k 
Prompt: Tie Me Up for @sweetspicybingo
Warnings: bondage, oral (f receiving), fingering
You seek to turn Benedict’s attention back to you
*comments/reblogs are appreciated
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Your lips pursed as Benedict entered the room in a state of dishevel. You let out a soft huff as it was most unbecoming of a married man of his status. The stench of tobacco and bourbon permeated the air, making you wrinkle your nose. You understood men indulged in particular whims and pleasures afforded to them. However, Benedict’s constant desire to populate the gentleman’s club almost every night was wearing your patience thin. Your husband dressed down before crawling into bed with you. While your fingers itched to stroke the smooth, warm skin of his back, you resisted the urge.
You scooted away, ensuring your back was toward him as you gathered the cover tighter around you. You wished to show no kindness or affection this evening. It seemed he’d rather spend his evening frivolously drinking rather than warming your bed, a behavior you expected of his older brother, Anthony, and not him. Though it seemed, Anthony outgrew the behavior after his marriage to Kate. You felt highly vexed as his snores cut through the air as he found quick, peaceful slumber while you found no relaxation. This would not do; you must discover a way to bring your husband back into your fold. You knew he loved you, the same deep, all-consuming love you held for him; you simply needed to show him that an evening spent with you could prove more exciting than one surrounded by drink and frivolous men trying to outdo one another.
~~
“Are you planning to go out again this evening?” you pressed him over breakfast, pausing to take a sip of piping hot tea.
“I was. Is that an issue?” Benedict asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I was hoping we could dine together this evening. I must admit I do not see much of you these days.”
A pout crossed your face, and you watched his expression soften.
“Apologies, dear wife, I was not aware I had been neglecting you as of late. I would be happy to dine with you this evening.” His tone was soft, laced with care, and your heart fluttered inside your chest.
“Wonderful, I shall arrange a delightful meal for us this evening,” you grinned.
When he departed for his day, he left you with a searing kiss to your lips, and it served as a reminder that his passion for you was still there. Your stomach bubbled with excitement as adrenaline pulsed through your body. You make a silent wish that this evening is filled with passion and that a child may form in fruition. You spend the day attending to your duties as the lady of the house, spending afternoon tea in the library lost in a book. When the time arrived, you ensured the kitchen was aware of the menu you’d like served for dinner, and you provided the housekeeper, Melinda, with a few extra pounds should an item need to be fetched from the market.
You changed into a more formal dress for dinner, one made of rose-pink silk that flattered your figure and a color that Benedict absolutely adored on you—his lush, pink rose. Anna, your lady’s maid, took great care in brushing out your hair before arranging it into an elegant updo with a few tendrils around your face. You applied a few dabs of rose-scented perfume and donned your diamonds, delighting in how they sparkle in the candlelight. You wanted this evening to be exceptional.
A pristine white linen was laid across the table as an assortment of food occupied the space: chestnut soup, fresh mackerel with fennel and mint, roasted goose, asparagus dripping in rich butter sauce, along with baked custard and homemade lemon ice for dessert. Decadent but well worth it. You were certain Benedict would savor the meal. You were only slightly perturbed when Benedict arrived home lately, but those feelings were quickly chased away when his lips were on yours.
“Apologies, dear wife. You have outdone yourself with this dinner,” he praised, sending a pleasant feeling curling up your spine.
“Thank you, dear husband. Please, sit and enjoy with me,” you smiled.
Conversation flowed like wine, laughing and delighting in each other’s company while savoring each bite of delicious food. Benedict’s eyes were fixed on you while you gently licked your spoon clean of the refreshingly tart lemon ice.
“My dear wife, I do believe you are too far from me. Come closer,” he beckoned, crooking two fingers.
After demurely dabbing at your mouth with the crisp linen napkin, you rose from your seat. A moment later, you were nestled in his lap while his fingers traced the curve of your neck, then gingerly over the diamonds decorating your throat. He dismissed the staff, instructing them to retire for the evening. A moment of confusion lingered in the air before they cleared the room.
“I’ve been neglecting you, dearest heart. Allow me to remedy that,” he whispered in your ear.
A gasp flew from your mouth as he lifted you onto the table after clearing the way, sending silverware and delicate china clattering to the floor. His mouth was warm against your décolletage as his hands eagerly furled your dress and chemise up your legs. He caressed your stockinged legs before rolling the fabric down to remove them.
“Hands behind your back,” he instructed, and you gave him a quizzical look but did as told.
He used your stockings to secure your wrists together behind your back before spreading your thighs wide, baring your most intimate parts to him. You shuddered, feeling woefully exposed and enjoying every tantalizing moment. It felt quite obscene to be spread wide on the dining table, offered up like an elegant dessert, dripping enticingly. Though it was quite titillating, pressure building deep within your belly.
The sight of Benedict kneeling between your splayed thighs elicited a deep moan from you. Your lashes fluttered as you watched his pink tongue delve between your silken folds. Your fingers itched to tangle in his hair, but your bindings kept you firmly in place, so all you could do was whimper as you fell apart against your husband’s skilled tongue. The tip of his tongue circled the delicate bundle of nerves that made your thighs tremble against the side of his head.
“Oh…Ben,” you gasped, belly clenching in pleasure.
He applied a bit more pressure as one finger sunk deep inside, causing your eyes to roll back. Oh, he was a wretched beast to make you fall apart in such a way. His curved finger hit a rather sensitive spot inside you that sent you toppling over the edge as your delighted scream filled the air. When he lifted his head from your quivering cunt, you noticed his lips and chin were shiny with your release. There is a whimsical and wicked sparkle in his eyes.
“I believe I’d like to finish my dessert in our bedroom if you find that suitable, my love,” he grinned.
“Indeed, I do.”
Behind clothed doors and with your hands freed, you took your time in undressing him, kissing every inch of skin bared under your ministrations. In your mind, he was a perfect, sculpted statue made of chiseled marble, and you stood in awe of his beauty as your palm took hold of his cock. You stroked him slowly until he stood proud and hard, pearlescent beads leaking from his ruddy tip. He pushed your hand away, spinning you around to free you from your dress, chemise, and stays before pulling you back against him. His hardness teasingly rubbed against the soft swell of your backside. You shifted around to face him, rolling onto your toes to cup his face.
He maneuvered you toward the bed while nibbling on your lower lip before guiding you onto the downy sheets. His mouth moved with fervor over the swells of your breast, taking time to suckle on each peaked nipple while his large hands squeezed your waist. His cock dragged teasingly over your delicate folds, making you shudder and yearn for more. Your bent knees settled against his sides as he slowly sunk inside you, making your eyes flutter shut and your back arch.
Your nails raked down his naked back as he found a steady pace with his thrusts, making sure you felt every single one. The feeling served to remind you that you were his and he was yours. Forever intertwined, nothing would ever keep his attention away from you again. You would never doubt his devotion toward you again. You felt oversensitive from the spirited tête-à-tête in the dining room earlier, and it did not take long for you to reach a blessed peak, spilling over your husband’s cock.
“My sweet, beautiful wife, you are perfection,” Benedict whispered, stroking your face as he gave a final two thrusts, rutting against you before collapsing in your arms. Your fingers dragged through his damp curls as his head rested on your bare chest.
The rest of the evening was spent curled around him, drawing in his warmth and reveling in the love you held for each other.
~~
You were most excited when Benedict returned home from a venture with his brothers, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him.
“I adore being greeted this way, dear heart! You must have missed me,” he chuckled, giving you a little spin around before placing your feet back on the ground.
“I did, and I have the most exciting news,” you squealed.
“And what news would that be, my darling wife?”
You guided his hand to your stomach. “I’m with child.”
His eyes shone with delight as he lifted you to spin you around excitedly again. “That is the most wonderful news, my darling.” 
Adoration and pride sparkled in his eyes.
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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year
Text
Touch: The Following Autumn (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
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Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Rated/warning: 18+, whump, depiction of difficult childbirth Word Count: 2.4k
Masterpost Previous part Next part
Summary: Benedict holds you through the birth of your first child.
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Benedict’s grasp is the only thing keeping you hanging on. The only thing you are trying to focus on as the rest of your body feels like it is being ripped apart. You have never known so much pain, such bone-deep, gnawing pain, and that it has gone on for eighteen hours is incomprehensible. But you are still conscious, and you are still fighting, because he needs you to. Because they both need you to.
He sits at your bedside, your hands clasped together so tightly for so long, they have both gone white and you can’t feel your fingers anymore. That is the least of your concerns as another contraction surges through you and you groan, worn too tired to scream anymore. You lean into your husband, your free hand clinging to him wherever you can grasp - his hair, his neck, the sleeve of his shirt. You claw at him as you fight for a shuddering inhale, the wave of pain feeling as if it can drown you.
He presses his lips to your forehead, his face desperately tired and pale too. “My darling,” he whispers. “Oh my love.” He has run out of the energy or creativity to say anything more. Not that he needs to. You just need to feel him close by.
“Mrs. Bridgerton,” the surgeon looks up from the sheet spread across your knees. “You must continue to push.” His voice is stern, but there is an undercurrent of sympathy. No one in this room thinks you are weak. They have all been with you, watching you suffer for nearly an entire day. 
You nod limply, trying to find your breath as Benedict smooths your hair back from your sweaty face with his free hand. On the opposite side of the bed, Violet leans in with a cool cloth and presses it to your neck. They are the only family members with you. Your parents were waylaid by bad weather on their return from the Continent, and will miss the birth of their first grandchild.
You just want to fall apart. You want to sink back into the pillows and grant yourself some rest. You felt your strength give out hours ago, but somehow you are still here, trembling, pushing with whatever mild response your muscles will give you, to help your child into the world. The fear is growing that they may be stillborn. Your water broke so long ago and they have been stuck in your body. But you refuse to give into despair, and you swear you can still feel them, straining within you, doing their part to break free. 
Now the surgeon is telling you to push. You don’t know what energy you are supposed to push with. There is none left in your body, none at all. The only place you can feel it is in Benedict’s hands, numb though your fingers are. There is strength in him, strength in your love, strength in your desire to meet your child. You will have to draw on that. It is all you have. 
Gritting your teeth and leaning into Benedict’s shoulder, you grate out a scream and try to channel everything you feel from him, down to your baby. It’s piercing, the ache you feel along your legs, down your spine, and all through your hips. You feel as if your bones are made of blades. You push with your body and your soul, anything you can offer, and collapse back against the pillows, breathing hard.
“Another,” The dreadful command from the foot of the bed makes you whimper. 
Dear god, you can’t. Your shoulders start to shake with tiny sobs that produce no tears. Benedict leans over you, never releasing your hand, caressing your forehead.
“I can’t,” you gasp, “Ben…I’m sorry…I can’t.” 
The fear in his eyes is palpable. His face is haggard, shadowed with stubble. He swallows hard, searching your face, desperately questing for what to say. 
Violet squeezes your arm beside you and you turn to look at her, now more grateful than ever that she is here. She is the only one who can truly understand what you are feeling. Her eyes are glistening with tears but burning with resolve simultaneously. 
“Y/n, dearest, you must let your mind go.” You stare back at her, confused. She presses on, her voice tight. “The pain exists only in your mind. Your body is always strong enough to do what it must. It is only your mind that is struggling.” Her words sink in, somehow making sense. She nods at you in encouragement. “Wait for the next contraction, and let your body push, but your mind must go.”
You give her the barest nod, your breath growing shallow, then turn back to look at Benedict above you. If there is anywhere that you can lose yourself, it’s into his silvery eyes, even though they are now filled with panic. 
He heard his mother. Intuitively, he knows what you are trying to do. He holds the side of your face, slender fingers framing your ear, and lowers to rest his forehead against yours. 
“Y/n,” he breathes. “Do you remember the snowstorm two years ago?” 
You lock into his eyes, trying to transport yourself back into memories, to leave your body behind you to work without your mind’s interference. You nod slightly against him, breathing hard and shallow through your nose.
“You were the reason I didn’t finish that damn landscape.” A small grin tugs at his lips. “I was going outside to paint but then I saw you with my family, having as much fun as the children. You were so beautiful, so carefree and strong. I had to get to know you. So I abandoned the painting and joined in.”
Your mind is beginning to float back. Entranced with the kaleidoscope of his irises, you remembered that cold day, the sting of the snow against your exposed wrists, the squeals of laughter from everyone involved.
“It turned out to be the right decision because the next day you walked straight into my arms in front of my easel.” 
You would grin at his cheekiness, but even your face has grown sore at this point.
“And from then on, you made me fall deeper and deeper. The whole season in London, I could barely breathe around you.” 
Light dances in his eyes, the same way it had when he would laugh with you on a promenade, or slip you a flute of champagne with a wink. 
“All I wanted was to be close to you. To hold you in my arms. I wanted it badly enough that I forced myself to dance with you. It was the only way I could feel you without causing a scandal.”
You remember the night of the Cowper ball, the heat and insistence of his grasp. You never allowed yourself to hope that it was desire, or that it was love. But it had been. He had loved you as long as you had loved him. A warm buoyancy starts to grow in your exhausted chest. You are always moved by the depth of your husband’s affection, but to hear him narrate your love story as he experienced it, is overwhelmingly beautiful.
He continues, his words whispering across your face. “Then once I had held you, I knew I needed to hold you for the rest of my life. I knew I had to marry you.”
You feel the familiar, horrible clench of pain start to notch up your spine; another contraction heaving its way through your body. A strangled noise rises from the back of your throat and Benedict releases your hand at last, bringing both of his to grip your shoulders. You cling back to him, scrabbling to clutch his arms, breathing faster.
Violet is beside you both, offering soothing words of encouragement, but they are lost to your ears. You try to do as she said, to separate your mind from your body, and stay lost in Benedict’s eyes. He keeps his face above yours, never pulling away, as you feel your body start to bear down and arc against the pillows.
“Y/n,” He raises his voice, commanding your attention. “I will always be here to hold you. Darling, you are not alone in this.”
You can feel the pain, gripping and searing, but fight to concentrate on Benedict and nothing else. The warm light in your chest continues to grow, becoming a gauzy barrier between your thoughts and the agony of your muscles. Staring into his eyes, their grey fractals envelop you, and you feel yourself start to push.
You must do this. You want to do this. Whatever it takes to bring your child into the world, to make Benedict a father and see his face light with a smile once more. Everything in your body rushes downward and you dig your fingers into his arms but he never wavers. You can’t help from shouting behind your gnashing teeth, keening against him. Then there is a shift, and pressure. Immense, weighted pressure builds at your center, knocking you breathless.
“The head is out!” The surgeon calls excitedly from below. 
Benedict breaks your gaze to look back at him, then turns to you with eyes full of hope. Now the end is in sight.
“One more, Mrs. Bridgerton.” The surgeon instructs. “Last one.”
You’re not sure if your lungs work anymore. Your body feels completely beyond your control. The pressure is so intense, dark spots threaten the edges of your vision and you blink to keep from swooning. Benedict must sense this, because he takes your face in both of his hands and calls to you, gently but insistently.
“My love, she is nearly here. Our baby. Just one more and we will finally hold her.” There is an urgency in his voice, a blend of concern and excitement. “You must push, my love. Not because I am asking you to, but because she is ready to join the world.”
You look up at him, your eyes glazed as you pant desperately. His own eyes are brimming with tears. He is longing for a daughter, convinced that your baby would be a girl from the very day you told him you were with child. You had insisted it would be a boy, more to toy with him than anything else, and in a moment, one of you will be proven victorious. But only if you can muster yourself for one last attempt.
The energy in the room has changed. There is a buzz of joy threatening to erupt from under the agony of your extended labor. The warmth in your chest surges. Benedict says not to push for his sake, but you are going to. It is your love for him that is the source of all your strength. You wrap your arms around his neck and lock your eyes on his once more. There, you see your past, your future, your very soul reflected back at you. You remember every glance, every kiss, every display of passion that has filled your life with such bliss over the past two years. His large hands, steady on either side of your face, burn into your skin with memories of every touch, every time your fingers brushed, or clasped, or entwined, every time you held or were held.
The warmth in your chest has grown as intense as the pressure in your hips, and you go rigid, straining your whole body to will it downward, eyes clenching shut and mouth open in a silent scream as you pour every last ounce of yourself into the effort. All you can hear is the blood in your ears, and all you can feel is the press of your husband’s hands as the rest of your body becomes nothing but pressure. You worry you may burst, or slip into the darkness at the edge of your mind.
But then there is release. The pressure gives way and everything moves and the air comes rushing back into your lungs. Everyone is talking, exclaiming, but your mind is too fuzzy to make out what they are saying. Then you hear it - a cry. Strong and loud, your baby’s cry calls you back to your senses and you open your eyes.
Above you, Benedict is weeping and he falls into you, clutching you against him as he laughs into your neck, then peppers your face with kisses. A wave of euphoria casts over you, despite the weariness of your body, and you smile, raking your fingers through his hair. Everything is moving quickly. You hear Violet praising you nearby. The baby’s cry continues somewhere in the room. 
Then a nursemaid approaches and lays a small bundle into your arms with a smile. “It is a girl.”
Benedict nearly cackles with joy. Suddenly, you are alert and aware, arms filled with all the strength they need to hold your child and never let go. Benedict nestles in beside you on the bed, lifting you to sit up in his arms. The fussy cries sound from the little blanket as you both peer in and see a round-cheeked, red little face under a shock of matted dark hair, squirming with clenched fists and scrunched eyes. Benedict reaches out and runs a slender finger through the wispy hair, and she falls quiet. Then her grey eyes open, focusing on you both and assessing you curiously. 
She is her father’s daughter, a Bridgerton through and through. Violet perches beside the bed, blinking away happy tears. You smile at her, appreciating how she was able to do this so many times, including bringing Benedict into the world. You want to repay her for such a gift, and you know that you will take Benedict’s suggestion and name your daughter after her.
You turn back to your baby, watching Benedict caress her tiny pink fingers with two of his own. You can already see that he is desperately in love, and you know that you are in for the best kind of trouble. You have never felt such happiness, such contentment, as you do in this moment. You lean into him, beaming smiles on both of your faces.
You are encapsulated in warmth, marveling at how his arms encircle and bind you all together; you, your husband, and the life you have created out of pure love. Your family, your entire world, kept safe within his hold.
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Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @mysticwitchcraftco
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