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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year

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Touch: Epilogue (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Rated: 18+, fluff and suggestive Word Count: 1.4k GIF by @captainbucky-yt

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Summary: You soothe your husband's aching fingers and reminisce on your life together.

Author's Note: I considered this fic completed for a few weeks, but I guess I was looking at too many photos of his hands, because suddenly this epilogue just spilled out, and it is my favorite chapter overall 😊

You don’t look up from your book when your husband walks in to join you for tea. You know he will be there, taking a break from his studio, as he does every day. You feel his weight settle into the sofa beside you, and you are awash with the comfortable familiarity of it all.

The painful hiss you hear finally makes you look over to him. Grimacing, Benedict is massaging the tendons of one hand, holding his fingers out toward the fire.

“Ben?” You move to his side. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” he shrugs to diminish the moment, but you can read the discomfort in his eyes. “Just my bloody fingers aching again. It’s nothing.”

You wrap a hand around his outstretched wrist. His hands look fine to the eye, paint splattered and gracefully slender as always, not swollen or cut. Though they are a bit bent, the knuckles looking tensely curled.

“Wait here,” You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then scurry to the pantry. You quickly find the small bottle you are searching for, and rejoin Benedict on the sofa. Wordlessly, you gather his hands in your lap, long past caring if he streaks any paint on your dress. The man has bought you five wardrobes’ worth of dresses over the years for all the times he has covered you in staining fingerprints, or otherwise torn your garments with impatience. From the small bottle, you dab a few drops of oil onto the back of each hand, and then begin to massage it into his skin, spreading down each finger and pulling each one with gentle but insistent pressure.

Benedict groans when you pass over each curled knuckle, but the groans transform into sighs as your fingers work over his, pressing, circling, coaxing his muscles to loosen and stretch. You sink your fingers between his, the oil smoothing your movements into a sensual gliding. You could do this for hours, just admiring him, soothing him, touching him, even in this most innocent of ways.

“Where did you get this?” He asks at last, his face brightening with some relief.

“Phillip,” You give him a small smile. “You recall your son spraining his ankle three months ago? He brought this by. Made with all of his own herbs. It soothes the muscles.”

Benedict’s eyebrows raise and he nods with recognition. “I shall have to send him some brandy in thanks.”

“Another way to soothe the muscles.” You quip with a grin.

Benedict smirks back at you. “Too bad that doesn’t seem to work for my damned hands.”

“Well,” You take one of his between both of your own and chafe it gently. “These things are bound to happen. We’re not as young as we used to be, my love.”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Are you calling me old, Mrs. Bridgerton?”

You smile back at him, and can’t help but reach out and run your fingers through the grey streak of hair at his temple. It makes him look so distinguished. You absolutely love it, finding him even more dashing than he was when you first met. Trust Benedict Bridgerton to just keep getting better looking with age. Even as you both approach your fifth decade, the mischievous twinkle in his eye and the quirk of his crooked grin still make your heart skitter like a debutante in her first season.

You lean into him and murmur against his lips. “I’m calling you accomplished.”

His lips eagerly meet yours and you kiss softly. You trail a finger down the angle of his jaw.

“These hands have done so much, my darling.” You say quietly, sitting back and gathering them again, rubbing his knuckles. “All of your paintings. In the National Gallery, Aubrey, Clyvedon, Romney, Kilmartin…” A broad smile begins to spread across his face, his eyes sparkling. You are the only person he reveals his pride to. He is unfailingly self-effacing whenever anyone compliments his artwork - artwork that has earned him international renown - but whenever praise comes from you, he blushes and accepts the compliment. “And of course the portraits of the Prussian royal family.”

He chuckles, remembering your whirlwind trip to the Continent, where you were lavished with honors by your sister-in-law Princess Edwina and her husband Prince Friedrich. They had designated Benedict their official royal portraitist and commissioned massive works of themselves and the King and Queen, to be hung in their primary palace residence. It had all been so magical and overwhelming, you had both felt like you were living in a veritable fairytale.

You continue. “Then all of the dozens just for us.” The paintings dearest to your heart, though not as grand, are of course the ones that line the walls of your cottage. The ones in your childrens’ rooms, the ones scattered across the floor of his studio with never enough space to hang them all, and the ones you both hide away in a private collection, created in moments when Benedict exalted you as his muse and captured your likeness in ways not fit for anyone else’s eyes. Your particular favorites are his self portraits, which he only endeavored to make at your insistence. You had watched him with fascination, his eyes darting back and forth between mirror and canvas as he depicted himself in an array of emotions, some stern and serious, and some with that cheeky glimmer that you knew was his true self. You even managed to get him in a state of undress for some of them, though he never extended the painting below his waist.

“Hundreds, more like it.”

You return his smirk. “You make my point. So much work. So much love that you have shown to your family and friends and country.” You bend and kiss his knuckles. “And these hands have put this home around us, and kept us safe within it.”

He guffaws at that. “Hardly. Thank god for the Crabtrees and their sons. We would have been living underwater every time the roof leaked or a window broke if it weren’t for them.”

You turn his hands over and begin massaging his palms, pushing your thumbs softly along each line. “Yes, but you forget how you built the shelves to hold all of Violet’s books. And that winter when the Crabtrees couldn’t reach us. You proved very adept at chopping firewood, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His eyes roll, but he smiles. “I felt like a bloody fool.”

“Well, I appreciated it.” Even years later, you feel yourself flush when you remember how dominating he had looked when he had stripped off his jacket, rolled his sleeves to his elbows and split log after log in the growing dark, heat steaming off of him in the frigid air. You were left completely unable to speak until you were back in the cottage, and then it was a very good thing the Crabtrees weren’t present because you had proceeded to tear the shirt directly off of his body and commit unspeakable acts upon him until the sun rose.

You raise his hand up to your cheek and nuzzle against it. A lifetime of memory, of love, all flooding back to you. “Your hands have done so much, Ben,” you whisper gently. “They have held your children.” You kiss his fingertips, one for each child he has given you. “They found you a wife.” Another kiss. “They have brought so much beauty into the world.” You curl both of his hands within your own and clasp them tightly to your chest, looking up at him at last. “They are bound to be tired. Go gently on them, and I will be here to soothe them any way I can.”

Benedict is frozen for a moment, staring at you with awe as his grey eyes blaze. His fingers grip yours tighter. Then he leans in and kisses you, deeply, properly, with a warm exhale and a tongue keen to part your lips. You melt into him, dancing your tongue against his as you drink each other in, sighing at the beauty of sharing air, of sharing each other all this time.

He purrs with a low voice, “Can I show you what else these hands can do, lovely wife?”

Then your back is on the sofa and his touch is everywhere, and all you know is joy.

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @mysticwitchcraftco

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #female reader #regency #regency era #regency romance #fluff and smut

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fayes-fics · 2 months

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Reunited

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict returns from a few days away, he has some very specific demands...

Gif credit: @captainbucky-yt (used with permission)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub dynamics, DD/LG play, daddydom!Benedict, blindfolds, hairpulling, dirty talk, smidges of nipple play and spanking, vaginal sex, restraint (wrist binding).

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Another smut roulette sprint that grew legs. I ended up writing it over 5 separate half-hour sprints. The roulette wheel gave me the writing prompt: "Spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you." This is a married couple playing together. Unbetaed filth. Enjoy? <3

“Stay, little one,” he commands, a rich chuckle in his voice as you whine.

At least the crackling fire warms your flank, the thick rug under your knees plush, sitting on your haunches submissively, blindfolded, naked, awaiting instruction.

He is sitting in his wingback chair, not far away. Or at least you think he is based on the sounds you hear: the clink of the stopper on his crystal decanter, the pour of liquor into a heavy tumbler, the strike of a match and the earthy scent of cigar smoke tendrils snaking in the air.

“Daddy, please touch me,” you pout.

He has been away for five days, and you have missed him terribly. When he swept into the house fifteen minutes ago, he dismissed the household staff for the evening, stalked into the drawing room where you were happily reading, kissed you and gave you your codeword with a challenging glint in his eye. Instantly, you were stripping and obeying, only too keen to play your special game. Panting as he tied a blindfold carefully over your face. But now he hasn't touched you since. You squirm, feeling yourself already so aroused.

“Hmm, no, I think I will enjoy the view a while longer….” his counterpoint echoing into his drink as he takes another sip - his voice a velvet tease, knowing you can feel his stare on your skin, watching your body as you flex, breasts tingling, pussy wet.

“I have been a good little girl,” you are trying to entice him. Goad him into getting up and coming to you. Even if it’s only to drag you by your hair to sit in his lap.

He huffs bemused. “Have you now? What does that entail?”

“I have not touched myself since you left,” you sigh, feeling your pussy clench at the mere mention. It's not true, but you think he’ll appreciate the sentiment.

“That's a complete lie,” he barks a laugh, and the leather chair creaks as he seems to stand. “Do you know how I know?” he adds, the thud of his riding boots seeming so loud on the rug as he approaches.

“No,” you breathe, tilting your head naturally to where you think he towers over you even though you can't see him.

There is a scent of woodsy cologne, cigars and something that is all Benedict as he bends down, breath gusting hot in your ear. “Because you would have made a mess of my rug by now,” he whispers hotly, “just dripping at the sound of my voice, would you not?” A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, and you gasp. “I asked a question…” he adds pointedly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer instantly, attempting to pitch forward and nuzzle against his thigh, but he holds you in place firmly near the base of your scalp. “I am sorry I lied.”

“That is alright,” he mollifies. “I did not instruct you to refrain from touching yourself this time, so you are forgiven, little girl. But you do need to do one thing in recompense.”

“Anything….” you exhale shakily as he releases his grip, pouting as he seems to return to his chair.

“Lay on your back and spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you. All of you,” he orders, hearing him take another drag on the cigar, tapping it upon his ashtray.

Scrambling to obey as best you can without sight, the wool rug tickles your shoulder blades as you recline. Pulling your feet up close to your bottom, shoulder-width apart, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb in your clit, the need to touch it so great.

“Wider!”

You instantly shuffle your ankles further apart, allowing your knees to fall to either side, spread obscenely wide now, feeling the stretch in your inner thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes.

The room feels so quiet again, just the hiss and crackle of the logs in the fireplace, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantle and the occasional sound of him taking a drink or puff. After what feels like an eternity, you plead quietly for him. He doesn't respond. Almost as if he is ignoring you, but you know he is not. Know he is watching you intently, likely a lopsided victorious smirk on his handsome face as he takes another sip, eyes raking your skin, taking in every minute detail of your arousal and revelling in your discomfort.

The waiting is the very worst part. Butterflies behind your ribs and a dull ache in your pelvis that needs him. You know how much he gets off on this - watching you, knowing how aroused you are but unable to do anything but whine and plead and beg. You feel your pussy clench around nothing as your mind floods with images of what you want him to be doing, and you squirm as you feel a drop of moisture leak from yourself and run down your bottom cheek.

“I knew you would make a mess of my rug eventually, little girl,” his clear voice ringing out almost startles you after being quiet for so long. “Such a wanton thing, aren’t you?’

“Only for my Daddy,” you assure.

There is a rash of movement, and you gasp again as he suddenly looms over you, likely on all fours, the ruffles of his shirt teasing your puffed nipples, the tickish wool of his britches rubbing your inner thighs, as his brandy-sweetened breath puffs over your face.

“Am I not just the luckiest man alive to have such a sinful, naughty little girl all to myself?” his ask is rhetorical, the flattery making your heart speed up, hopeful that he will take mercy and finally touch you.

“I am the lucky one, Daddy,” you fawn, lifting your hips off the carpet to rub yourself shamelessly into his crotch, delighted to feel a touch of heated bulge there before a large hand wraps around your hip and pushes you back down forcefully, pinning you flat again.

“Behave!” he warns.

“Or what, Dadddy? Will you spank me?” Unable to resist being insolent with him, knowing how much he loves you acting feisty.

“You would enjoy that far too much, you vixen,” tone affectionate, dryly amused.

The hand moves from your hip, and you pant as it travels upwards. It's a firm stroke that has your belly rippling and breath catching in your lungs. Trailing higher, you cry out as suddenly two strong knuckles wrap on either side of your left nipple and tug hard. You hiss as he squeezes tighter, that ache in your cunt growing stronger; he knows how much an edge of pain makes you even more heated.

“I hear there are decorative nipple clamps in Paris,” he recounts casually as you writhe and moan in his continued hold. “I think my little one would look so pretty dripping in jewels. Don't you?”

Your agreement is a hiss between ragged breaths, a zinging in your clit now from the ache in your breast. Just as the pain becomes a tart metallic taste in your mouth, he lets go, and you stutter and sink back into the carpet, a delicious throb in your pebbled nipple, knowing it is darkened and swollen from his treatment.

“And guess what else they do, little one?” he goads, the hand sweeping back down over your diaphragm, making a beeline for where you want him most.

“Tell me, Daddy….” you beseech, head following the sound of his voice as he seems to swing over your leg and settle on your left side, pressing his erection into your hip and rutting slightly.

You cry out as that hand grasps your labia and tugs on your clit hard. “They do a clamp for your pretty pearl down here, little girl,” he lectures, his thighs ensnaring around your left leg to hold you down and open to his slightly rough treatment.

“Please….” it’s a request for anything really: the jewelled clamps, his fingers to sink into you and assuage the ache you feel, his kiss… whatever he will allow.

He releases his hold, and you whimper, eyelashes fluttering hard against your blindfold, chest rising and falling rapidly, on tenterhooks for what he will do next.

“I so enjoy watching you like this,” he confesses, nuzzling your hairline. “My lustful little one just dripping nectar for me. You would do anything right now, would you not? Anything I told you,” his tone dripping with pride.

“I am yours, Daddy, to do as you wish,” you avow, a want to submit, please him, thrumming hard in your veins.

“That’s right,” he breathes, his lips hot on your temple. “Now be a good girl and roll over.”

Your stomach clenches as you flip over onto your belly, the rug abrading your hardened nipples as he rounds behind you and harshly pulls your hips up high, shuffling your knees forward so you are at a steep angle.

“Keep your head down, my girl,” he warns, your cheekbone catching on the wool fibres as you pant in anticipation, feeling the back of his hand brush your bottom, him fighting open the buttons on his britches.

You cry out as he spears into your body harshly, your walls stretching around his invading cock, fingers sinking into the deep pile beneath you, seeking purchase, as you revel in his hearty groan and curse.

“Fuck I have missed your ripe, tight, soaked cunt,” he exhales raggedly, his large hands clutching your hips as he withdraws slowly and then plunges forward, your calves raising from the floor with the force.

Then he is setting a punishing pace, his hipbones digging into your bottom with each thrust. Your eyes roll shut, letting your forehead sink into the rug, uncaring of the chafing there, his mounting harsh and unforgiving, precisely what you have been craving. A yen to be marked by this, by his actions.

“Who do you belong to?” he snaps, raising a hand and spanking possessively across your bottom as you moan loudly.

“You, Daddy,” you clamour, uncaring if any staff hear you. They could watch for all you care right now - stand in the doorway, seeing him almost fully clothed with you naked, hips high, face down, blindfolded and taking his cock deep as you drip down your thighs for him. In fact, just that illicit thought has you clenching around him, his cock feeling huge as he growls at the slick contraction, his movements becoming even rougher, another firm spank that makes you howl, his fingers digging into your cheek, prolonging the sting.

Then he stops, holding still buried so deep it almost aches, missing the drag of every contour when he moves, tilting your pelvis in a silent request for more.

“Don't move, my girl,” he warns, grasping your hipbones.

You stay still, moaning lightly, desperate for some friction on your pulsing clit to push you towards ecstasy.

“Please, Daddy…” you appeal mutely, muffled into the rug.

“I love it when you beg for me,” he admits, hands running covetously around the swell of your bottom and then sweeping up your back. He leans forward over your spine, those shirt ruffles tickling your shoulder blades this time.

You hiss as he grabs your hair, twisting it in his grip, a tingle on your scalp as he leverages you upright, teething the shell of your ear.

“I wish I could stay right here forever,” his voice a hot whisper. “Buried to the root inside my little girl as she cries for more. If I could die anywhere, this is where I want to be. You, your surrender, your tight slick cunt gripping me, your wanton breathy pleas. ‘Tis as if heaven is on earth.”

His filthy poetry has you panting as a hand slips from grasping your hair around to your throat. He pulls you both upright, you bowing back into him, wishing he was naked like you so you could feel the heat of his flesh on yours, leaning into that broad chest.

Then he starts to move again, thrusting slowly, the hand around your throat tightening so he can feel the vibration in your windpipe as you moan loudly for him. His other hand questing into your folds, catching your clit.

“Come on, my sweet little girl, give it to me,” he tutors, open-mouthed, teeth grazing your cheekbone.

Already wound so tight with arousal - since he walked in, really - it doesn’t take much to have you babbling mindlessly, spiralling that abyss, taking each thrust with a loud moan as his fingers rub in a brisk motion.

“That’s it,” his buttery voice a contract to the almost punishing grip on your throat as you start to fracture around him, rippling on his thrusting cock, a wave of ecstasy crashing inside, fanning out to every cell. Dimly, you hear him heaping praise upon you, groaning loudly, but it's quiet behind the rush of blood in your ears, going limp and pliant in his strong hold, your muscles tensing and releasing.

“Did I do well, Daddy?” You drawl, drowsy and sated.

“Yes, little girl,” he coos, kissing your ear. “That felt amazing, But I’m not done with you yet….”

It’s then you realise he has not come, still rock hard inside you as aftershocks quake your being. Without withdrawing, he bears you down onto the rug, arranging so you lay face down, placing his clothed knees on either side of your thighs and squeezing your legs together. A thump of clothing hits the carpet as he discards his jacket and waistcoat. You breathe heavily as he rocks gently into you, your mind resetting, realising this is just a reprieve.

“Hands behind your back, little girl,” a clipped decree.

Without thought, you heed the order, feeling a soft, silky material wrap around your wrists, knowing instinctually it's the cravat from his neck. It is one of his favourite ways to restrain you, you being bound in his clothing, his scent, something primal. He places your bound hands in the small of your back, and then his shirt sails to the floor. He is left in his woollen britches and boots as he leans over you again; you sigh contentedly as his bare skin brushes your spine, a radiating warmth you want to burrow into.

In this position, your thighs squeezed together, hips tilted, laying facedown on the rug, hands bound, you are entirely at his mercy. And you know he is not going to be slow or gentle. He is going to be rough and carnal, chasing his pleasure as you have had yours. Bated breath as you await his next move, reigniting the molten fire, clit throbbing.

Warm hands wrap around your shoulders for leverage as he settles over you, and then you stutter as he withdraws and drives in hard, your whole body rolling, this position allowing him the deepest penetration.

“Oh my god, Daddy…” you splutter, feeling a pressure behind your ribs from his weight pinioning you.

“Take it, little one…” he counsels, his breath hot in your hair.

Pleasure grows with the harsh snap of his hips, your hands pinned into the small of your back, his abdominals pressing into your thumbs with each stroke. He moves faster, pounding now, your skin blooming darker where the rug chafes your body, but it is secondary to the onslaught, feeling yourself notching higher as he steadfastly pursues his pleasure.

“Touch me please, Daddy,” you mewl, knowing you can come again with a modicum of stimulation.

“Is my greedy little girl ready again?” he gusts, panting hard.

“Yes, please,” you appeal, trying to twist your head to meet his eye pleadingly.

With a gruff noise, a hand roughly worms its way under your left hip and ploughs into your slit again. It's like a lightning bolt through you; instantly, you are screaming. His other hand suddenly clamps over your mouth, his hips never wavering in their rhythm.

“Shhh, little one”, he chastises, even as you can hear the pride behind his words that he can do this to you. “You do not wish to alarm the neighbours, surely?”

You shake your head as you whimper, muffled into his palm, unable to keep silent as you spiral so high so fast, almost dizzying. Take heaving breaths through your nose as his nose is pressed into your scalp, huffing hard, taking you so hard now he grunts with every thrust.

Then you are freefalling again, crying out and drooling against his fingers as this time you pull him with you, the constriction on his cock milking him of every drop as he cries your name and stills, that trademark warmth blooming deep inside. Spasms cause him to rut into you a few more times before he collapses to one side, considerate not to crush you.

The room echoes with your panted breaths as you both recover. Benedict pulls you into his arms, arranging you in an enveloping hug, his hands swirling delicate, intricate patterns on your dewy skin as the fire roars beside you.

“Welcome home, husband,” you sigh contentedly after a restful beat, nuzzling into his neck, tasting the salty tang of his exertions.

“Thank you, darling wife, I have missed you so very, very much. Thank you for this,” his tone is heartfelt, holding your face and planting a chaste kiss on your lips, his kind eyes dancing in the flamelight.

“Anytime, my love, anytime.” Your offer is sincere, revelling in the fulfilment and peace your playtime brings. "We should always be reunited thus.”

He chuckles and shoots you a look of pure devotion. “Indeed we should…”

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