lilymoon

Italian / 20y.o. / series’s lover

[scentedspidermartyr]

My Masterlist

Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton:

You’re my muse Pt.1

Pt.2

Pt.3

Anthony Bridgerton:

…

IWTV

Lestat de lioncourt:

Oh, Cabaret!

Armand:

The Architect of the Void

The Fever of the Grave (coming soon)

…

Stranger things

Steve Harrington:

Tears on the tulle

I’ll be watching you

Iron, Blood, and High Stakes (coming soon)

Billy Hargrove:

…

Eddie Munson:

…

Requests are open! Tell me if you want other series’s characters! (I don’t write for anime’s characters)

Xoxo Lilymoon🫶🏻

[scentedspidermartyr]

I’ll be watching you

Steve H. x fem!reader

Side note: let me know if you want a continue of this story or just leaving it a ‘One-shot’!

The humidity of Indiana in August always felt like a physical weight, but inside the hallways of Hawkins High, the air was thick with something else: anticipation.

The parking lot was a symphony of slamming car doors and shouting teenagers, but the roar of a blue Camaro drowned them all out. When the engine cut, the silence that followed was even louder.

Steve Harrington was leaning against his car, adjusting his sunglasses and checking his hair in the side mirror, when he saw her.

She didn't climb out of the driver’s side—that was Billy Hargrove, who emerged like a storm cloud in denim and leather. No, she stepped out of the passenger side, smoothing down her skirt with a practiced, defiant grace.

She was a vision of California contrast. Where Billy was jagged edges and simmering rage, she was soft gold and hidden fire. She had the same piercing eyes, but instead of ice, they held a curious light that seemed to take in the drab brick of the school and find it wanting.

The sun caught the highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect as she moved through the crowd.

Students parted like the Red Sea. Some stared because she was new; others stared because she was a Hargrove.

Steve Harrington forgot how to breathe.

Steve didn't move. He couldn't. His hand, which had been mid-reach to adjust his collar, stayed frozen. Through his shades, his eyes tracked her every movement.

Every breath you take

And every move you make

Every bond you break, every step you take

I'll be watching you...

Steve had spent years being the "King" of this school, but looking at her, he felt like a commoner. She walked past him, her shoulder brushing close enough for him to catch a scent of vanilla and something salty, like the ocean they’d left behind.

She paused for a fraction of a second, her gaze flickering to Steve. She didn't smile—not exactly—but her lips quirked in a way that suggested she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having.

The moment was shattered by Billy. He stepped between Steve and his sister, his shadow falling over Steve like a shroud. Billy didn't say a word; he just tapped his temple and pointed a finger at Steve, a silent 'I see you.' Then, with a rough jerk of his head, he ushered her inside.

Steve stayed by his car long after the song faded into a commercial for a local muffler shop.

"Who was that?" Tommy H. asked, appearing at his side with a smirk.

Steve didn't even look at him. He was still staring at the heavy double doors where she had disappeared.

"That," Steve murmured, finally pushing off his car and pocketing his keys, "is going to be a problem."

He knew Billy Hargrove was dangerous. He knew getting close to a Hargrove was like playing with a blowtorch in a room full of gasoline. But as he followed her into the building, Steve realized he didn’t really care about the fire. He just wanted to know her name.

[luveline]

silent Pinterest ads pausing my music …….

[scentedspidermartyr]

I would like to know what you want me to write next time🥹

Massages are open! (Just know that I won’t write about Anime and k-pop people)

Love you all!🙃

Xoxo

[scentedspidermartyr]

Pt.3 of “Your’re my muse” pt.2

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Masterlist

Exactly one year later, the drawing room was still a minefield—but the terrain had changed.

The sharp scent of turpentine now competed with the milky aroma of a babe, and the stacks of parchment on the floor were pinned down by a set of wooden blocks. In the center of the chaos sat a low, sturdy easel, and beside it, a heavily padded rug where a tiny, dark-haired whirlwind named Thomas was currently busy "painting”.

"Benedict," you called out, not looking up from your own canvas. "The masterpiece is escaping the frame."

Benedict emerged from the shadows of the far corner, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a smudge of charcoal on his forehead that mirrored the one on his son’s cheek. He looked exhausted, but the moment his eyes landed on Thomas, his entire face softened into a glow that no candle could replicate.

"Ah, I see," Benedict mused, kneeling in the grass-stained rug. "A bold choice of medium. Very avant-garde."

A familiar, rhythmic knock echoed through the house. Before you could even move to hide the stained rug, Violet Bridgerton swept in. She didn't stop to comment on the half-finished landscape leaning against the sofa or the rogue stocking draped over the bust of Homer.

She went straight for the "messy masterpiece" on the floor.

"Oh, my darling boy," she cooed, picking up Thomas and ignoring the fact that his blue-stained hands were immediately pressed against her pristine lilac silk. "Look at you. A true Bridgerton. Already making your mark on the world."

"And on your gown, Mother," Benedict warned, though he was smiling. "I'm afraid the 'Grandmother spark' comes with a high dry-cleaning bill in this house."

Violet simply waved him off, kissing the top of the baby’s head. "It is a small price to pay for such genius. I see he has his father’s eyes and his mother’s complete disregard for a tidy parlor."

As the afternoon light began to turn a rich, syrupy gold, the three of you settled into the rhythm you had spent the last year perfecting.

You sat at your easel, capturing the way the light hit Violet as she rocked the baby.

Thomas, still covered in curiosity, sat between Benedict’s feet, watching with wide, dark eyes as his father’s charcoal moved across the paper.

The house was louder than it had been a year ago—filled with babbling, the clatter of toys, and the occasional midnight cry—but it felt, for the first time, truly finished.

"You were right," you whispered, leaning your head against Benedict’s shoulder as Violet eventually departed, leaving the house to its quiet, creative hum. "A corner wasn't enough."

Benedict wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you and the sleepy babe in his other arm close. He looked around the room—at the beautiful, sprawling, paint-splattered disaster of your life.

"No," he agreed, kissing your temple. "The whole house is the canvas now. And I think," he looked down at Thomas, who had finally fallen asleep with a charcoal pencil still clutched in his tiny fist, "we’ve only just finished the underpainting."

Benedict reached out, his thumb tracing a line of blue on your jawline. "Ready to start the next layer?"

"Always," you smiled.

Domestic life in the Benedict Bridgerton household was less of a quiet residence and more of an ongoing, multi-media performance piece. At one year old, Thomas hadn't just learned to walk; he had learned to lunge for anything that could leave a mark.

The morning usually began not with a bell, but with the soft thud-thud-thud of a toddler’s head against the headboard, followed by a soggy kiss delivered to whichever parent was closest to the edge of the bed.

The Morning "Studio" Session

Breakfast was rarely just a meal. While Benedict tried to read the papers and you attempted to sip tea before it went cold, Thomas was busy with his "sculpture."

Porridge smeared across the high-chair tray to create a textured, opaque surface.

Benedict would lean over, spectacles perched on his nose. "I like the depth, Thomas. The way the lumps create a sense of topographical tension. Very bold."

"Benedict, don't encourage him," you’d laugh, reaching for a damp cloth. "He’s currently 'sculpting' into your waistcoat."

Benedict would look down, see the beige smear on his fine wool, and simply shrug. "It adds character. It’s a collaboration."

By noon, the drawing room—once your sanctuary—was a chaotic blend of high art and low-to-the-ground reality.

Benedict would be perched at his large easel, working on a sprawling oil of the Thames. Directly beneath him, in the shadow of the easel’s legs, was Thomas’s "studio." You had long ago given up on keeping the floor pristine, so you had laid out a vast, heavy canvas drop-cloth that covered the entire center of the room.

"Pass me the burnt sienna, darling?" Benedict would ask.

You’d reach for the tube, but Thomas was usually faster, his chubby fingers closing around a tube of yellow ochre.

"He’s got a good eye for warm tones," you’d remark, sitting on the floor beside the babe, sketching his fleeting movements into a small leather book. "Though I think he’s more interested in the way the tubes rattle than the pigment inside."

The only time the house fell into a true, heavy silence was during the afternoon nap. It was the only hour where the "artistic squalor" felt peaceful rather than frantic.

You and Benedict would often find yourselves collapsed on the sofa, your legs tangled together, watching Thomas sleep in his carved wooden cradle.

"He looks so much like you when he’s quiet," you’d whisper, leaning your head on Benedict’s shoulder.

"Heaven help us when he starts using real ink," Benedict would murmur back, his hand tracing the line of your arm. "I saw him eyeing my fountain pen earlier. He has the look of a man who wants to redraw the hallway wallpaper."

"He already did," you’d reply. "Behind the velvet curtain. A very spirited series of vertical lines."

Benedict would let out a low, rich chuckle, pulling you closer. "That’s my boy."

The day always ended with Thomas finally drifting off and the house smelling of lavender and woodsmoke.

Benedict would look at the smudge of color on your cheek and the charcoal on his own hands, then down at the sleeping masterpiece in his arms.

"Anthony can have his ledgers and his perfect lawns," Benedict would whisper, his eyes shining. "I’ll take the charcoal stains any day."

He walked over to the small table where a single candle flickered, picking up a rogue wooden block—a bright red cube—and placing it atop a stack near your chair.

"You know," he said softly, his voice vibrating with that familiar, artistic whimsy, "I used to think a finished painting was the ultimate goal. The varnish, the frame, the silence of a gallery."

He sat on the edge of your chair, pulling your hand into his. His skin was rough with the ghost of dried oil paint, a sensation that had become your favorite texture in the world.

"But this?" He gestured to the room—the smeared porridge on the floorcloth, the sketches of Thomas’s tiny feet pinned to the walls, the scent of home. "This is a living canvas. It’s never finished. We just keep adding glazes, more light, more depth."

A Quiet Vow

You looked up at him, the man who had traded the solitary life of a brooding artist for the messy, loud, and brilliant chaos of a family.

"It’s a bit frightening, isn't it?" you whispered. "Knowing we’ll never have a tidy parlor again?"

Benedict leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. The wit in his eyes softened into something profound and permanent.

"A tidy parlor is for people who have nothing to say," he murmured. "I’d rather have a house that screams we were here, that we loved, and that we weren't afraid to get our hands dirty."

He kissed you then—a slow, lingering seal on the day’s work.

"Come to bed, my love," he whispered against your lips. "Tomorrow, the light will be perfect, the boy will be awake, and we have a whole hallway of wallpaper just waiting for a new perspective."

You stood together, blowing out the final candle. As the darkness rushed in, the silhouettes of easels and toy horses stood side-by-side, shadows of a life perfectly composed in its own beautiful, vibrant disorder.

[scentedspidermartyr]

The architecture of the void

Masterlist

Summary: In a 2023 Dubai penthouse, Daniel Molloy interviews Armand and his companion about their 1940s Parisian history. While Armand frames his "preservation" of Reader as a romantic rescue, they recall it as a possessive theft.

(Gif by me)

The penthouse in Dubai was a tomb of glass and gold, and the air was thin with the weight of things left unsaid. Daniel Molloy had been digging all night, his questions like a scalpel peeling back the layers of 1940s Paris.

But he had finally hit a nerve.

"The coven," Daniel said, tapping his pen against the wooden table. "They didn't just follow Armand because he was the oldest. They followed him because he was the law. And you... you were the exception to every rule he ever wrote, wasn't you? The little mortal bird in the vampire’s cage."

You looked across the table at Armand. He sat perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap, his face a mask of Renaissance beauty that betrayed nothing. But you saw the slight flick of his amber eyes—the way he looked at you, waiting to see how much of his shadow you would reveal.

Garden of the Palais-Royal 1945

"He didn't put me in a cage, Daniel," you said, your voice low and melodic. "He put me in a sanctuary. Or at least, that’s what he called it when the war was ending and the streets of Paris were screaming."

You remembered the first time he truly claimed you. It wasn't with a bite or a vow; it was in the overgrown gardens behind the theater, away from the prying, hungry eyes of the coven.

The scent of damp earth and dying lilies. The distant sound of jazz from a nearby cafe, mourning the world that was.

Armand’s hands were always cold, but that night they felt like silk against your neck. He had cornered you near a crumbling stone fountain, his presence a dark sun that pulled everything toward it.

"You are a complication," he had whispered that night, his thumb tracing the line of your pulse. "The others... they want to see what color your blood is on the stage. They want to turn your fear into a farce."

"And what do you want, Armand?" you had asked, breathless.

"I want to see if I can keep something beautiful without breaking it," he replied. "I want to see if the monster can possess the miracle."

2023

"He killed for me," you told Daniel, bringing yourself back to the present. "Not because I asked him to. But because anyone who looked at me for too long was a threat to his order. He wasn't my lover in the way humans understand it. He was my architect. He built a world where only he and I existed, while Louis and Lestat were burning their own world down."

Armand finally spoke, his voice a soft chime that cut through the tension. "I was protecting the work," he said, though his eyes never left yours. "She was the only thing in Paris that wasn't rotting. I simply... preserved her."

"Preserved," Daniel scoffed, scribbling frantically. "Like a butterfly pinned to a board."

You reached out and touched Armand’s hand. It was as cold as you remembered from the garden, but there was a desperate, possessive grip to it now.

"In the theater, I sat in the box seats while they performed their murders," you said. "I wore the dresses he bought me, drank the wine he brought me, and watched the horror unfold below. I was the silent witness to his cruelty, and in return, he gave me eternity. But sometimes, Daniel, I wonder if the 'preservation' was just a slower way to die."

Armand’s fingers tightened around yours. He didn't look at Daniel. He only looked at you, the ancient hunger in his eyes softened by a terrifying, century-old devotion.

1945

"Drink," he had commanded, his voice vibrating through your very bones. "Drink, and stay with me in the dark forever."

The first swallow was fire. It wasn't liquid; it was history, power, and a crushing, possessive love that threatened to drown your soul before it could even wake. You remembered clutching his silk sleeves, your fingernails tearing the fabric as the transition took hold.

2023

"When I woke up," you told Daniel, "the fever was gone. But so was the sun. I looked at Armand, and for the first time, I could see the microscopic tremors in his hands. He had tethered me to him, not out of mercy, but out of a desperate need to not be alone in his tower."

Armand reached across the table now, his cool fingers brushing your wrist. "I gave you the world," he murmured, his voice a low chime.

"No," you replied, looking him dead in the eye. "You gave me your world. And you made sure I could never leave it."

The red light on the recorder finally clicked off. Daniel Molloy sat back, his face drawn and sallow, looking every bit the exhausted mortal he was. With a sharp nod from Rashid, the journalist was ushered out, leaving the heavy silence of the penthouse to settle like dust.

Louis had already vanished into the shadows of the library, his grief a private ritual he wasn't ready to share. That left only you and Armand, suspended in the amber glow of the Dubai night.

Armand didn't move for a long time. He remained in his chair, a beautiful, terrifying statue of Renaissance grace. Then, slowly, he turned his head. The warmth he practiced for the "performance" of the interview had evaporated, replaced by a cold, searing intensity.

"You spoke of the sacristy," Armand said, his voice a silk thread cutting through the quiet. "You spoke of the 'tower.' You made it sound as though I dragged you into the earth against your will."

He rose, his movements so fluid they bypassed the laws of physics. Before you could breathe, he was standing behind your chair, his cool, slender fingers resting on your shoulders. The weight of them was familiar—an anchor and a burden all at once.

His thumbs traced the line of your collarbone, moving with a clinical, possessive precision. He was checking the "work" he had created decades ago.

The scent of him—ozone and ancient incense—crowded out the sterile air of the room.

"I remember that night differently," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of your ear. "I remember the way you clung to my shroud. I remember the way you drank as if you were starving for the very thing that would end you."

You tilted your head back, meeting his amber gaze in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows. "We both remember what we need to, Armand. You need to believe it was a rescue. I need to remember it was a theft."

Armand’s grip tightened, just a fraction. It wasn't enough to hurt, but it was enough to remind you that he could snap the bone if the narrative shifted too far.

"Is that what you tell yourself to forgive me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, melodic frequency. "That you had no choice? You were dying. The world was finished with you. I was the only thing in the cosmos that said no."

He moved around the chair, kneeling between your legs and looking up at you with those wide, haunting eyes that had seen the collapse of empires. He took your hands in his, pressing them against his cool cheeks.

"You are my masterpiece," he murmured, a terrifying devotion shining in his gaze. "The only thing I have ever kept that didn't turn to ash. Does it truly feel like a cage, or are you just angry that the bars are made of my love?"

You looked down at him—this ancient, predatory boy who had spent a century curating your existence. You felt the pull of the blood, the psychic tether that linked your heartbeat to his stillness.

"It can be both, Armand," you whispered, reaching out to stroke his dark hair. "It usually is with you."

He leaned his forehead against your knees, a rare gesture of submission from a creature who demanded none. In the quiet of the penthouse, the truth remained: he had saved your life, but he had also claimed your soul, and neither of you knew how to exist without the other's shadow.

[scentedspidermartyr]

Part two of you’re my muse

Pairing: Benedict x fem!reader

Warning: not so explicit smut

The carriage ride home was quiet, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves providing a steady beat to the thoughts swirling in both your minds. The "Grandmother spark" in Violet’s eyes was hard to shake, and the warmth of the Bridgerton dining room had followed you into the cool night air.

When the front door of your home swung open, the familiar scent of turpentine, old books, and beeswax greeted you. It was dim, lit only by a few low-burning lamps, and the shadows danced over the stacks of leaning canvases.

Benedict didn't go to the decanter for a nightcap. Instead, he wandered into the center of the drawing room, turning in a slow circle.

"A corner," he said suddenly, his voice echoing slightly. "I told them I’d clear a corner. But looking at this... a corner wouldn't do, would it?"

You followed him, picking your way past a stack of landscape studies. "You’re actually thinking about it? After Eloise’s warning about the 'forest of easels'?"

"I’m thinking," Benedict said, pulling you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head, "that a child of ours wouldn't just live in the house. They would be part of the composition."

He let go of you and began to pace, his hands moving through the air as if he were framing a shot.

"No wallpaper," he decided, pointing to the far wall currently covered in charcoal sketches. "We’ll sand it down and prime it. A giant, floor-to-ceiling chalkboard. Or better yet, just white plaster. They can draw their way from the floor to the ceiling as they grow."

"We’ll need thick rugs. Not the expensive Persian kind Mother likes—something soft, something that doesn't mind a bit of spilled yellow ochre."

"The nursery must be the room with the north-facing windows. The light is most consistent there. They’ll need to see the true colors of their toy blocks, won't they?"

You laughed, leaning against his desk. "You realize we’re talking about a human being, not a new apprentice? Most parents worry about cribs and linens, and you’re worried about the color accuracy of their toys."

Benedict stepped toward you, his expression softening into something intensely tender. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"I don't want a silent house," he whispered. "I don't want a nursery that looks like a museum. I want a child who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty. I want to see you teaching them how to mix the perfect shade of sky-blue while I try to convince them that the cat is not a canvas."

He pulled you flush against him, his heartbeat steady against your chest. "It wouldn't be the 'perfect' Bridgerton life Anthony has. It would be loud, and stained, and utterly chaotic."

"It would be us," you murmured, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair.

"Exactly," he smiled, kissing your forehead. "And perhaps Mother is right. Perhaps the greatest thing we could ever create is someone who sees the world even more vividly than we do."

Benedict reached onto the table behind him, his fingers finding a stray piece of parchment and a graphite lead. With a few quick, deft strokes, he sketched a tiny, messy figure sitting amidst a pile of oversized paintbrushes.

"The first portrait," he said, handing it to you.

You looked at the sketch—a small, laughing blur of ink and potential. It was the most beautiful thing in the room.

"We should probably start by cleaning the bread bin," you joked, though you tucked the sketch close to your heart.

"Tomorrow," Benedict promised, pulling you toward the stairs. "Tonight, the mess is exactly where it needs to be."

The bedroom was bathed in the amber glow of dying embers, the scent of linseed oil from the adjacent studio mingling with the salt and heat of skin. Benedict didn’t lead you to the bed; the bed felt too structured, too polite. Instead, he backed you against the heavy oak wardrobe, his hands framing your face with a desperation that made his fingers tremble.

"Three days," he rasped, his lips grazing yours. "Three days of being lost in our own world, and yet all I want is to go deeper."

He fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, his movements frantic until he simply ripped the silk open, the buttons skittering across the floorboards like tiny pearls. When his bare chest pressed against the thin lace of your chemise, the contact sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl into the rug.

He lifted you, your legs instinctively hooking around his waist, and carried you to the large chaise longue near the window—the one usually piled high with discarded fabrics and reference sketches. He didn't bother clearing it. He laid you down amidst the textures of velvet and parchment, his hands sliding up your thighs to bunch the silk of your shift at your waist.

"I want to see you," he whispered, his voice thick and rough. "Every inch of the canvas."

He lowered his head, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone before moving lower. He teased the peak of one breast through the lace, the damp heat of his mouth causing a sharp, delicious ache to bloom between your legs. You let out a broken soft of a moan, your fingers tangling in his dark, unruly hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally discarded his breeches and knelt between your knees, the moonlight caught the sharp, athletic lines of his body. He looked like a statue come to life, primal and focused. He reached down, his fingers finding you already slick and aching for him. He moved with a deliberate slowness at first, his thumb circling and teasing until you were arching off the chaise, your breath coming in shallow hitches.

"Benedict," you pleaded, your voice a ragged shadow of itself.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

As he surged into you, a deep, grounding slide that filled you completely, his eyes never left yours. He was searching for every flicker of pleasure, every shift in your expression. The rhythm was heavy and uncompromising, a visceral pulse that echoed the frantic beating of your heart. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white, anchoring you as he drove deeper, chasing the very center of you.

The friction of skin on skin, the scent of him, and the raw, guttural sounds he made in the back of his throat pushed you over the edge. You felt the tension coil tight, a spring winding up until it snapped, sending waves of heat crashing through your limbs. Benedict followed mere seconds later, his head falling back, a low growl escaping him as he spent himself inside you—not just with passion, but with the silent, fervent hope of a beginning.

He collapsed against you, his skin damp with sweat, his breath hot against your shoulder. For a long time, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the synchronized thud of two hearts slowing down.

He shifted, pulling a stray piece of charcoal-stained parchment from beneath your hip and tossing it aside with a tired, contented chuckle.

"Well," he murmured, kissing the corner of your swollen mouth. "If that doesn't start a family, I don't know what will."

[scentedspidermartyr]

Part two of you’re my muse

Pairing: Benedict x fem!reader

Warning: not so explicit smut

Masterlist

The carriage ride home was quiet, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves providing a steady beat to the thoughts swirling in both your minds. The "Grandmother spark" in Violet’s eyes was hard to shake, and the warmth of the Bridgerton dining room had followed you into the cool night air.

When the front door of your home swung open, the familiar scent of turpentine, old books, and beeswax greeted you. It was dim, lit only by a few low-burning lamps, and the shadows danced over the stacks of leaning canvases.

Benedict didn't go to the decanter for a nightcap. Instead, he wandered into the center of the drawing room, turning in a slow circle.

"A corner," he said suddenly, his voice echoing slightly. "I told them I’d clear a corner. But looking at this... a corner wouldn't do, would it?"

You followed him, picking your way past a stack of landscape studies. "You’re actually thinking about it? After Eloise’s warning about the 'forest of easels'?"

"I’m thinking," Benedict said, pulling you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head, "that a child of ours wouldn't just live in the house. They would be part of the composition."

He let go of you and began to pace, his hands moving through the air as if he were framing a shot.

"No wallpaper," he decided, pointing to the far wall currently covered in charcoal sketches. "We’ll sand it down and prime it. A giant, floor-to-ceiling chalkboard. Or better yet, just white plaster. They can draw their way from the floor to the ceiling as they grow."

"We’ll need thick rugs. Not the expensive Persian kind Mother likes—something soft, something that doesn't mind a bit of spilled yellow ochre."

"The nursery must be the room with the north-facing windows. The light is most consistent there. They’ll need to see the true colors of their toy blocks, won't they?"

You laughed, leaning against his desk. "You realize we’re talking about a human being, not a new apprentice? Most parents worry about cribs and linens, and you’re worried about the color accuracy of their toys."

Benedict stepped toward you, his expression softening into something intensely tender. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"I don't want a silent house," he whispered. "I don't want a nursery that looks like a museum. I want a child who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty. I want to see you teaching them how to mix the perfect shade of sky-blue while I try to convince them that the cat is not a canvas."

He pulled you flush against him, his heartbeat steady against your chest. "It wouldn't be the 'perfect' Bridgerton life Anthony has. It would be loud, and stained, and utterly chaotic."

"It would be us," you murmured, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair.

"Exactly," he smiled, kissing your forehead. "And perhaps Mother is right. Perhaps the greatest thing we could ever create is someone who sees the world even more vividly than we do."

Benedict reached onto the table behind him, his fingers finding a stray piece of parchment and a graphite lead. With a few quick, deft strokes, he sketched a tiny, messy figure sitting amidst a pile of oversized paintbrushes.

"The first portrait," he said, handing it to you.

You looked at the sketch—a small, laughing blur of ink and potential. It was the most beautiful thing in the room.

"We should probably start by cleaning the bread bin," you joked, though you tucked the sketch close to your heart.

"Tomorrow," Benedict promised, pulling you toward the stairs. "Tonight, the mess is exactly where it needs to be."

The bedroom was bathed in the amber glow of dying embers, the scent of linseed oil from the adjacent studio mingling with the salt and heat of skin. Benedict didn’t lead you to the bed; the bed felt too structured, too polite. Instead, he backed you against the heavy oak wardrobe, his hands framing your face with a desperation that made his fingers tremble.

"Three days," he rasped, his lips grazing yours. "Three days of being lost in our own world, and yet all I want is to go deeper."

He fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, his movements frantic until he simply ripped the silk open, the buttons skittering across the floorboards like tiny pearls. When his bare chest pressed against the thin lace of your chemise, the contact sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl into the rug.

He lifted you, your legs instinctively hooking around his waist, and carried you to the large chaise longue near the window—the one usually piled high with discarded fabrics and reference sketches. He didn't bother clearing it. He laid you down amidst the textures of velvet and parchment, his hands sliding up your thighs to bunch the silk of your shift at your waist.

"I want to see you," he whispered, his voice thick and rough. "Every inch of the canvas."

He lowered his head, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone before moving lower. He teased the peak of one breast through the lace, the damp heat of his mouth causing a sharp, delicious ache to bloom between your legs. You let out a broken soft of a moan, your fingers tangling in his dark, unruly hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally discarded his breeches and knelt between your knees, the moonlight caught the sharp, athletic lines of his body. He looked like a statue come to life, primal and focused. He reached down, his fingers finding you already slick and aching for him. He moved with a deliberate slowness at first, his thumb circling and teasing until you were arching off the chaise, your breath coming in shallow hitches.

"Benedict," you pleaded, your voice a ragged shadow of itself.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

As he surged into you, a deep, grounding slide that filled you completely, his eyes never left yours. He was searching for every flicker of pleasure, every shift in your expression. The rhythm was heavy and uncompromising, a visceral pulse that echoed the frantic beating of your heart. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white, anchoring you as he drove deeper, chasing the very center of you.

The friction of skin on skin, the scent of him, and the raw, guttural sounds he made in the back of his throat pushed you over the edge. You felt the tension coil tight, a spring winding up until it snapped, sending waves of heat crashing through your limbs. Benedict followed mere seconds later, his head falling back, a low growl escaping him as he spent himself inside you—not just with passion, but with the silent, fervent hope of a beginning.

He collapsed against you, his skin damp with sweat, his breath hot against your shoulder. For a long time, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the synchronized thud of two hearts slowing down.

He shifted, pulling a stray piece of charcoal-stained parchment from beneath your hip and tossing it aside with a tired, contented chuckle.

"Well," he murmured, kissing the corner of your swollen mouth. "If that doesn't start a family, I don't know what will."

[1111angelgirl1111]

post winter break depression

[scentedspidermartyr]

You’re my muse

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x wife!reader

The morning light in Number Five was never a singular thing; it was a symphony. Because of the glass dome stretching across the center of the drawing room, the sun didn't just enter the house—it claimed it.

You woke from your triclinic bed, to the smell of turpentine, crushed linseed oil, and the earthy fragrance of damp ferns. Benedict had long ago abandoned the idea of a formal "studio." Instead, the entire house had become his canvas, and you were the heartbeat within it.

You found him exactly where you expected: standing in the center of the sun-drenched living room, surrounded by an encroaching forest of potted palms and climbing ivy. He was barefoot, his white linen shirt splattered with a constellation of Prussian Blue and Ochre.

"Don't move," he murmured, his voice scratchy with sleep and focus. He didn't look away from the charcoal in his hand. "The way the light is catching the silk of your robe... it’s like liquid silver. Just a moment, darling."

Your home was a beautiful sort of chaos.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, refracting through the glass dome above to create dancing rainbows on the floorboards.

Moss grew in terrariums on side tables; jasmine vines wound around the banisters.

Sketches were pinned to every available surface—charcoal studies of your hands, watercolor washes of your profile, and oil drafts of your eyes.

Benedict finally dropped the charcoal and crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't offer a traditional "good morning." Instead, he took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw as if memorizing the anatomy of his favorite subject.

"I spent three hours trying to capture the exact shade of your eyes in the dawn light," he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "I failed. Paint is too static for you. You’re always shifting, always more beautiful than the last stroke I laid down."

"Perhaps you just need more practice," you teased, reaching up to wipe a smudge of graphite from his cheek.

"I plan to spend the next fifty years practicing," he countered, his grin lopsided and soulful.

He led you to a small table nestled between a giant monstera plant and a stack of half-finished canvases. Breakfast was a secondary thought—a plate of fruit and cold tea—because the real feast was the atmosphere.

You sat for him while you drank your tea, not in a rigid, formal pose, but in the messy reality of your marriage. You read the morning papers while he sketched the curve of your neck. You laughed at a bit of gossip, and he captured the specific way your nose crinkled.

"To the rest of the Ton, art is a hobby," Benedict once told you. "But with you, it's a conversation. I don't just see you; I translate you."

As the sun climbed higher, Benedict pulled you toward the large easel in the center of the room. It wasn't a finished portrait, but a collage of "you"—moments of your life together woven into a dreamlike landscape.

"I'm adding the garden we visited in Kent," he explained, pulling you into his arms from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder as you both looked at the canvas. "But the light source in the painting isn't the sun. It's you, standing at the edge of the frame."

You leaned back into his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. In this house of glass and greenery, you weren't just his wife; you were his inspiration, his critic, and his greatest work of art.

"It's a bit chaotic, Ben," you whispered, looking at the splashes of color and the vines creeping across the floor.

"It's perfect," he corrected, kissing your temple. "It's us."

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the floating dust motes and the glorious, colorful wreckage of a night spent in the throes of creation.

You were tucked firmly under Benedict’s arm on the triclinic bed he’d dragged into the center of the drawing room weeks ago. It was supposed to be a temporary fixture, but it had become your favorite nest. Benedict’s thumb traced idle patterns on your shoulder.

The house was, to put it lightly, a disaster. Half-finished canvases leaned against the mahogany tables; open jars of pigment stained the rugs; and a rogue paintbrush had somehow found its way into a fruit bowl. It was your private sanctuary of chaos.

Then, the front door didn't just open—it rebounded off the wall.

"Benedict Bridgerton! If you think for one moment that being a married man excuses you from the basic tenets of familial duty, you are sorely mistaken!"

The voice of Violet Bridgerton preceded her like a physical gale. Benedict jolted upright, nearly dumping you onto the paint-splattered floor.

"Mother?" he croaked, squinting against the sudden intrusion.

Violet marched into the drawing room, her bonnet slightly askew from her haste. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes darted from:

The Floor covered in sketches and discarded charcoal.

The Furniture draped in damp cloths to keep the oil paint from drying too fast.

The Couple both of you still in your nightclothes, hair bird-nested, blinking like owls caught in the sun.

"It is noon," Violet said, her voice dropping an octave into that dangerous territory only mothers can reach. "Eloise returned from the countryside three days ago. We have sent three invitations. Three!"

"Was it three?" Benedict murmured, rubbing his eyes and reaching out to pull your silk robe closer around your shoulders. "I lost count after the first one."

"Benedict!" you hissed, nudging him, though you were far too comfortable to actually move. "The invitations, love. We forgot."

Violet’s gaze swept over the room again. She stepped over a particularly vibrant blue smudge on the floorboards, her indignation momentarily flickering into bewilderment.

"There is paint on the clock," she noted, pointing a gloved finger. "There is a palette on the tea tray. And you two... you are sitting here, in the middle of the day, in your linens, while your sister is pacing the drawing room at home demanding to know if you've been kidnapped by brigands!"

"Not brigands, Mother," Benedict said, a slow, mischievous smirk spreading across his face as he pulled you back down against his chest. "Just inspiration. We were up until four in the morning finishing the series for the gallery. You know how it is when the light is right."

Violet looked at the two of you—disheveled, covered in faint streaks of Prussian Blue and Rose Madder, looking entirely too happy for people who had ignored the Matriarch of the Ton. Her expression softened, though she tried to maintain her stern posture.

"You are both impossible," she sighed, though she didn't leave. She began to clear a space on a nearby chair, moving a stack of sketches with surprisingly gentle hands. "The house looks like a battlefield of color. Do you even have a maid anymore, or have you painted over her as well?"

"She's been given the week off," you offered with a sheepish grin. "We didn't want anyone moving the 'installations'."

Violet shook her head, a small, defeated smile tugging at her lips. "I shall tell Eloise you are alive. But if you are not at the Bridgerton House for dinner—dressed, scrubbed, and without turpentine behind your ears—I shall send Anthony. And he will not be nearly as polite about the state of your rugs."

"We'll be there, Mother," Benedict promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Benedict flopped back onto the pillows, pulling the duvet over both your heads. "We have six hours until dinner," he whispered. "Do you think we can finish that sketch of the garden?"

"Benedict," you laughed, "your mother will actually kill us."

"A worthy risk," he grinned, reaching for a charcoal pencil on the floor.

Two hours later, you and Benedict stood outside the doors of Bridgerton House. You were scrubbed raw, your hair pinned back with not so precision, and Benedict was trapped in a starched collar that he kept tugging at.

"Do I have paint behind my ear?" he whispered urgently.

"No," you lied, spotting a tiny speck of yellow ochre. "You look perfectly respectable. Do I look like I’ve spent the week sleeping on a rug?"

"You look like a Duchess," he grinned, squeezing your hand. "A very messy, beautiful Duchess."

The doors swung open, and the chaos of the Bridgerton dining room hit you like a wave.

Eloise didn't even wait for you to sit. "Oh, look! The recluses have emerged from their cave of charcoal and despair!"

Anthony narrowed his eyes at Benedict’s cuffs. "Is that oil paint or gravy from Monday?"

Daphne offered a sympathetic smile. "Ignore them. We’re just glad you aren't dead. Though Mother did have a brief moment where she thought you’d joined a traveling circus."

As the soup was served, the questions came thick and fast. Being the "artistic couple" meant the family treated your absence like a mysterious disappearance.

"We were working," Benedict defended, reaching under the table to lace his fingers with yours. "The creative process doesn't follow a clock, Anthony."

"It clearly doesn't follow a calendar either," Hyacinth chimed in, earning a muffled laugh from Gregory.

"We missed the news about the botanical gardens," you said, trying to steer the ship into calmer waters. "And Eloise, your letters from the country were—"

"Unread, apparently!" Eloise laughed, though she leaned in closer. "Truly, what were you painting that was so important? Or were you just hiding from the Ton?"

Benedict looked at you, a private, tired, but utterly content smile playing on his lips. "A bit of both," he admitted. "But mostly, we were just... being."

Violet watched you both from the head of the table. Despite her lecture earlier, her expression softened. She saw the way you and Benedict leaned into each other—two people who had found a kindred spirit in the beautiful, chaotic mess of life.

"Well," Violet sighed, raising her glass. "As long as you are both here now, and neither of you has developed a cough from living in a room full of turpentine fumes, I suppose I can forgive the silence."

"To the artists," Colin toasted, winking at you. "May they eventually find their floorboards again."

The shift in conversation happened just as the decanter of port began its second circuit around the table. The air was warm, the mood was mellow, and that was precisely when the Bridgerton family’s favorite topic—legacy—reared its head.

"Now that you’ve emerged from your... artistic seclusion," Anthony began, his tone deceptively casual, "one wonders if you’ve given any thought to the future. Specifically, the sort of future that requires a nursery."

Benedict, who had been mid-sip, let out a soft, choked noise that was half-laugh, half-strangle. He set his glass down with a precise clink. "The nursery, Anthony? We can barely find the dining table under the canvases. A child would be lost within the hour."

Violet leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with that dangerous "Grandmother" spark. "Oh, Benedict, don't be dramatic. A house is never too messy for a child. In fact, a child adds a certain... wonderful chaos."

"We already have wonderful chaos," you countered gently, smoothing a stray lock of hair that had escaped your pins. "Yesterday, I found a palette knife in the bread bin. I'm not sure a toddler would improve that situation."

The family, however, was not to be deterred.

Colin: "Just imagine, Ben. A miniature version of you, but with even less respect for the furniture. They could paint the baseboards while you do the ceilings."

Eloise: "I think it’s a terrifying prospect. Can you imagine the poor thing trying to crawl through a forest of easels? It would come out looking like a Jackson Pollock painting before the man is even born."

Hyacinth: "I want a niece. Someone I can teach to spy on people. Artists are very observant; she’d be perfect at it."

Benedict reached over, his hand finding yours on the table. He didn't look flustered—not anymore. He looked at you with a gaze that was far too intimate for a public dinner, his thumb tracing the knuckles of your hand.

"We have discussed it," Benedict said, his voice dropping an octave, turning the conversation from a family joke into something grounded and real. "But the thing about art, and about life, is that you cannot rush the sketch. You have to wait for the right light."

He looked back at his mother. "Currently, our house is full of us. Our ideas, our messes, our growth. We are still learning how to be two people in one space. Adding a third... well, we want to make sure we have enough ink in the well for that."

You nodded, backing him up. "Lady Bridgerton, we spent three days forgetting what day of the week it was because we were so lost in a project. I fear we’d forget the baby in a cupboard if we were mid-inspiration."

The table erupted in laughter, but Violet stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way you and Benedict sat—shoulders pressed together, hands entwined, a tiny, self-contained universe of two.

"You speak as if children are an interruption to your art," Violet said softly, reaching out to pat Benedict’s other hand. "But you forget, my darling boy... you are my greatest work. And you were quite a messy masterpiece yourself."

The room softened at that. Even Anthony stopped looking like he was checking a ledger.

"When the time comes," Benedict said, raising your hand to his lips and kissing your soot-stained knuckles, "that child will have the most colorful life in London. But for now, I think we’re quite content just being the two most disreputable painters in Mayfair."

"Hear, hear," Colin toasted. "To the empty nursery and the very full sketchbooks!"

As the laughter resumed, Benedict leaned in close to you, his voice a private murmur. "Though, if the child looks like you... I might be persuaded to clear a corner of the studio."

[scentedspidermartyr]

You’re my muse

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x wife!reader

Masterlist

The morning light in Number Five was never a singular thing; it was a symphony. Because of the glass dome stretching across the center of the drawing room, the sun didn't just enter the house—it claimed it.

You woke from your triclinic bed, to the smell of turpentine, crushed linseed oil, and the earthy fragrance of damp ferns. Benedict had long ago abandoned the idea of a formal "studio." Instead, the entire house had become his canvas, and you were the heartbeat within it.

You found him exactly where you expected: standing in the center of the sun-drenched living room, surrounded by an encroaching forest of potted palms and climbing ivy. He was barefoot, his white linen shirt splattered with a constellation of Prussian Blue and Ochre.

"Don't move," he murmured, his voice scratchy with sleep and focus. He didn't look away from the charcoal in his hand. "The way the light is catching the silk of your robe... it’s like liquid silver. Just a moment, darling."

Your home was a beautiful sort of chaos.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, refracting through the glass dome above to create dancing rainbows on the floorboards.

Moss grew in terrariums on side tables; jasmine vines wound around the banisters.

Sketches were pinned to every available surface—charcoal studies of your hands, watercolor washes of your profile, and oil drafts of your eyes.

Benedict finally dropped the charcoal and crossed the room in three long strides. He didn't offer a traditional "good morning." Instead, he took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw as if memorizing the anatomy of his favorite subject.

"I spent three hours trying to capture the exact shade of your eyes in the dawn light," he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "I failed. Paint is too static for you. You’re always shifting, always more beautiful than the last stroke I laid down."

"Perhaps you just need more practice," you teased, reaching up to wipe a smudge of graphite from his cheek.

"I plan to spend the next fifty years practicing," he countered, his grin lopsided and soulful.

He led you to a small table nestled between a giant monstera plant and a stack of half-finished canvases. Breakfast was a secondary thought—a plate of fruit and cold tea—because the real feast was the atmosphere.

You sat for him while you drank your tea, not in a rigid, formal pose, but in the messy reality of your marriage. You read the morning papers while he sketched the curve of your neck. You laughed at a bit of gossip, and he captured the specific way your nose crinkled.

"To the rest of the Ton, art is a hobby," Benedict once told you. "But with you, it's a conversation. I don't just see you; I translate you."

As the sun climbed higher, Benedict pulled you toward the large easel in the center of the room. It wasn't a finished portrait, but a collage of "you"—moments of your life together woven into a dreamlike landscape.

"I'm adding the garden we visited in Kent," he explained, pulling you into his arms from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder as you both looked at the canvas. "But the light source in the painting isn't the sun. It's you, standing at the edge of the frame."

You leaned back into his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. In this house of glass and greenery, you weren't just his wife; you were his inspiration, his critic, and his greatest work of art.

"It's a bit chaotic, Ben," you whispered, looking at the splashes of color and the vines creeping across the floor.

"It's perfect," he corrected, kissing your temple. "It's us."

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the floating dust motes and the glorious, colorful wreckage of a night spent in the throes of creation.

You were tucked firmly under Benedict’s arm on the triclinic bed he’d dragged into the center of the drawing room weeks ago. It was supposed to be a temporary fixture, but it had become your favorite nest. Benedict’s thumb traced idle patterns on your shoulder.

The house was, to put it lightly, a disaster. Half-finished canvases leaned against the mahogany tables; open jars of pigment stained the rugs; and a rogue paintbrush had somehow found its way into a fruit bowl. It was your private sanctuary of chaos.

Then, the front door didn't just open—it rebounded off the wall.

"Benedict Bridgerton! If you think for one moment that being a married man excuses you from the basic tenets of familial duty, you are sorely mistaken!"

The voice of Violet Bridgerton preceded her like a physical gale. Benedict jolted upright, nearly dumping you onto the paint-splattered floor.

"Mother?" he croaked, squinting against the sudden intrusion.

Violet marched into the drawing room, her bonnet slightly askew from her haste. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes darted from:

The Floor covered in sketches and discarded charcoal.

The Furniture draped in damp cloths to keep the oil paint from drying too fast.

The Couple both of you still in your nightclothes, hair bird-nested, blinking like owls caught in the sun.

"It is noon," Violet said, her voice dropping an octave into that dangerous territory only mothers can reach. "Eloise returned from the countryside three days ago. We have sent three invitations. Three!"

"Was it three?" Benedict murmured, rubbing his eyes and reaching out to pull your silk robe closer around your shoulders. "I lost count after the first one."

"Benedict!" you hissed, nudging him, though you were far too comfortable to actually move. "The invitations, love. We forgot."

Violet’s gaze swept over the room again. She stepped over a particularly vibrant blue smudge on the floorboards, her indignation momentarily flickering into bewilderment.

"There is paint on the clock," she noted, pointing a gloved finger. "There is a palette on the tea tray. And you two... you are sitting here, in the middle of the day, in your linens, while your sister is pacing the drawing room at home demanding to know if you've been kidnapped by brigands!"

"Not brigands, Mother," Benedict said, a slow, mischievous smirk spreading across his face as he pulled you back down against his chest. "Just inspiration. We were up until four in the morning finishing the series for the gallery. You know how it is when the light is right."

Violet looked at the two of you—disheveled, covered in faint streaks of Prussian Blue and Rose Madder, looking entirely too happy for people who had ignored the Matriarch of the Ton. Her expression softened, though she tried to maintain her stern posture.

"You are both impossible," she sighed, though she didn't leave. She began to clear a space on a nearby chair, moving a stack of sketches with surprisingly gentle hands. "The house looks like a battlefield of color. Do you even have a maid anymore, or have you painted over her as well?"

"She's been given the week off," you offered with a sheepish grin. "We didn't want anyone moving the 'installations'."

Violet shook her head, a small, defeated smile tugging at her lips. "I shall tell Eloise you are alive. But if you are not at the Bridgerton House for dinner—dressed, scrubbed, and without turpentine behind your ears—I shall send Anthony. And he will not be nearly as polite about the state of your rugs."

"We'll be there, Mother," Benedict promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Benedict flopped back onto the pillows, pulling the duvet over both your heads. "We have six hours until dinner," he whispered. "Do you think we can finish that sketch of the garden?"

"Benedict," you laughed, "your mother will actually kill us."

"A worthy risk," he grinned, reaching for a charcoal pencil on the floor.

Two hours later, you and Benedict stood outside the doors of Bridgerton House. You were scrubbed raw, your hair pinned back with not so precision, and Benedict was trapped in a starched collar that he kept tugging at.

"Do I have paint behind my ear?" he whispered urgently.

"No," you lied, spotting a tiny speck of yellow ochre. "You look perfectly respectable. Do I look like I’ve spent the week sleeping on a rug?"

"You look like a Duchess," he grinned, squeezing your hand. "A very messy, beautiful Duchess."

The doors swung open, and the chaos of the Bridgerton dining room hit you like a wave.

Eloise didn't even wait for you to sit. "Oh, look! The recluses have emerged from their cave of charcoal and despair!"

Anthony narrowed his eyes at Benedict’s cuffs. "Is that oil paint or gravy from Monday?"

Daphne offered a sympathetic smile. "Ignore them. We’re just glad you aren't dead. Though Mother did have a brief moment where she thought you’d joined a traveling circus."

As the soup was served, the questions came thick and fast. Being the "artistic couple" meant the family treated your absence like a mysterious disappearance.

"We were working," Benedict defended, reaching under the table to lace his fingers with yours. "The creative process doesn't follow a clock, Anthony."

"It clearly doesn't follow a calendar either," Hyacinth chimed in, earning a muffled laugh from Gregory.

"We missed the news about the botanical gardens," you said, trying to steer the ship into calmer waters. "And Eloise, your letters from the country were—"

"Unread, apparently!" Eloise laughed, though she leaned in closer. "Truly, what were you painting that was so important? Or were you just hiding from the Ton?"

Benedict looked at you, a private, tired, but utterly content smile playing on his lips. "A bit of both," he admitted. "But mostly, we were just... being."

Violet watched you both from the head of the table. Despite her lecture earlier, her expression softened. She saw the way you and Benedict leaned into each other—two people who had found a kindred spirit in the beautiful, chaotic mess of life.

"Well," Violet sighed, raising her glass. "As long as you are both here now, and neither of you has developed a cough from living in a room full of turpentine fumes, I suppose I can forgive the silence."

"To the artists," Colin toasted, winking at you. "May they eventually find their floorboards again."

The shift in conversation happened just as the decanter of port began its second circuit around the table. The air was warm, the mood was mellow, and that was precisely when the Bridgerton family’s favorite topic—legacy—reared its head.

"Now that you’ve emerged from your... artistic seclusion," Anthony began, his tone deceptively casual, "one wonders if you’ve given any thought to the future. Specifically, the sort of future that requires a nursery."

Benedict, who had been mid-sip, let out a soft, choked noise that was half-laugh, half-strangle. He set his glass down with a precise clink. "The nursery, Anthony? We can barely find the dining table under the canvases. A child would be lost within the hour."

Violet leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with that dangerous "Grandmother" spark. "Oh, Benedict, don't be dramatic. A house is never too messy for a child. In fact, a child adds a certain... wonderful chaos."

"We already have wonderful chaos," you countered gently, smoothing a stray lock of hair that had escaped your pins. "Yesterday, I found a palette knife in the bread bin. I'm not sure a toddler would improve that situation."

The family, however, was not to be deterred.

Colin: "Just imagine, Ben. A miniature version of you, but with even less respect for the furniture. They could paint the baseboards while you do the ceilings."

Eloise: "I think it’s a terrifying prospect. Can you imagine the poor thing trying to crawl through a forest of easels? It would come out looking like a Jackson Pollock painting before the man is even born."

Hyacinth: "I want a niece. Someone I can teach to spy on people. Artists are very observant; she’d be perfect at it."

Benedict reached over, his hand finding yours on the table. He didn't look flustered—not anymore. He looked at you with a gaze that was far too intimate for a public dinner, his thumb tracing the knuckles of your hand.

"We have discussed it," Benedict said, his voice dropping an octave, turning the conversation from a family joke into something grounded and real. "But the thing about art, and about life, is that you cannot rush the sketch. You have to wait for the right light."

He looked back at his mother. "Currently, our house is full of us. Our ideas, our messes, our growth. We are still learning how to be two people in one space. Adding a third... well, we want to make sure we have enough ink in the well for that."

You nodded, backing him up. "Lady Bridgerton, we spent three days forgetting what day of the week it was because we were so lost in a project. I fear we’d forget the baby in a cupboard if we were mid-inspiration."

The table erupted in laughter, but Violet stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way you and Benedict sat—shoulders pressed together, hands entwined, a tiny, self-contained universe of two.

"You speak as if children are an interruption to your art," Violet said softly, reaching out to pat Benedict’s other hand. "But you forget, my darling boy... you are my greatest work. And you were quite a messy masterpiece yourself."

The room softened at that. Even Anthony stopped looking like he was checking a ledger.

"When the time comes," Benedict said, raising your hand to his lips and kissing your soot-stained knuckles, "that child will have the most colorful life in London. But for now, I think we’re quite content just being the two most disreputable painters in Mayfair."

"Hear, hear," Colin toasted. "To the empty nursery and the very full sketchbooks!"

As the laughter resumed, Benedict leaned in close to you, his voice a private murmur. "Though, if the child looks like you... I might be persuaded to clear a corner of the studio."

[yaren23]

Me looking at the imaginary camera when there is a plot twist in the fanfic I'm reading

[scentedspidermartyr]

Mr.Mountebank

Joe Keery x fem!reader

Guys I don’t even know where this came from… I just got inspired by Djo’s song “Mr.Mountebank” (it just gives me strange vibes). It’s a nonsense short story but I hope you’ll like it! Xoxo!!

WARNING!!: I don’t intend denigrate or disrespect Joe Keery as a person or a artist!! It’s just my point of view if he would have a alter ego while singing!! Thank you xoxo

The stage lights are a hazy, amber blur, and the air in the venue smells like cheap beer and ozone. Joe—or rather, the persona he inhabits when he’s “Djo”—is pacing the backstage area. He’s wearing the oversized suit, and those sunglasses that make him look like a sleek, 70s vision of a corporate executive gone rogue.

He stops when he sees you leaning against the equipment trunk.

"You look like you're about to sell me a bridge," you tease, nodding at his ensemble.

Joe smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching. He drops his voice into that smooth, slightly rhythmic cadence he uses for the stage. "A bridge? Darling, I’m selling the whole city. Step right up."

As he hits the stage, the opening synth of Mr. Mountebank vibrates through the floorboards. From the wings, you watch him transform. He’s theatrical, waving his hands with the frantic energy of a man who has all the answers and none of the truth.

He catches your eye during the chorus. The lyrics swirl around the room:

“I’m the man with the plan / I’m the one who’s gonna take your hand..."

He’s playing the charlatan, the silver-tongued trickster. The crowd is eating it up, hypnotized by the groove. But when he looks at you, the "Mountebank" mask slips just a fraction. Behind the shades, there’s just Joe—the guy who spent three hours this morning trying to find his favorite socks and ended up making you burnt toast instead.

The set ends in a crash of cymbals and cheering. Joe practically collapses through the stage door, breathless and drenched in sweat. His hair matted and wild.

"How was the pitch?" he pants, leaning his forehead against yours.

"Convincing," you whisper, reaching up to wipe a smudge of stage makeup from his temple. "I think you convinced them you’re a genius. Or a con artist. Possibly both."

"And you?" He pulls back, his eyes searching yours. "Did I sell you on the act?"

"Joe, I’m the only one who knows the guy under the suit," you say softly. "The Mountebank is fun, but he’s a terrible liar when it comes to us."

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that isn't part of the show. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans, pulling you into his space. The chaos of the load-out is happening all around you—roadies shouting, cables being coiled—but he’s focused entirely on you.

"Good," he murmurs, his nose brushing yours. "Because the Mountebank has a very strict policy about not letting the best thing in the room get away."

"Is that your final offer?"

"I'll throw in a late-night diner run and the aux cord for the drive home," he bargains, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Sold."

The diner is a relic of the 1950s, all peeling vinyl and the smell of old grease, tucked away on a corner where the streetlights flicker with a rhythmic buzz. Joe is still wearing the trousers and dress shirt from the show, though the tie is gone and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

He looks human again—vulnerable, hungry, and buzzing from the post-show adrenaline.

You’re sitting in the booth across from him, the neon "OPEN" sign casting a rhythmic pink glow over your features. Between your fingers, a thin trail of smoke curls upward, drifting toward the yellowed ceiling.

Joe is halfway through a plate of fries, but he keeps stopping to watch you. There’s something about the way you look in the dim light, unbothered by the spectacle he just put on, that grounds him.

"You know," he says, pointing a fry at you, "the Mountebank would probably tell you those things are bad for your health. He’d try to sell you a miracle cure. A 'breath of fresh air' for only nineteen-ninety-nine."

You let out a dry laugh, exhaling a cloud of smoke that veils the space between you. "Good thing I’m not buying what he’s selling, then. I like my vices right where I can see them."

Joe leans back, his eyes softening. "Yeah. That’s why I like you. You’re the only person in the building tonight who wasn't looking for a miracle."

He reaches across the table, his hand hovering near yours. You tap the ash into the foil tray and meet his gaze. The charlatan from the stage is completely gone now; there’s just a tired man who loves the noise but needs the quiet.

"The song," you start, gesturing with your cigarette toward the window, "it’s about the performance, right? The way we all pretend to be something just to get through the door?"

Joe nods slowly, his thumb tracing the wood grain of the table. "Life's a bit of a hustle. Everyone's a salesman, even if they don't know it. But with you..." He pauses, a lopsided, tired smile stretching across his face. "With you, I don't have to have a pitch. I can just be the guy who’s too tired to finish his burger."

"I'd prefer that guy anyway," you say, taking one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out. "The Mountebank is a bit of a loudmouth."

Joe chuckles, grabbing your hand and pulling it toward his face to kiss your knuckles. He smells like stage sweat and cheap cologne, and you smell like tobacco and the cold night air outside.

"He's a loudmouth," Joe agrees, his voice dropping to a warm, raspy whisper. "But he's got good taste in company."

[kkittycult]

[cokelipgloss]

[ilzzey]

[honeycrispharrington]

holy mother of everything

steve harrington smoking mmmmbrrrrr... im gonna fuck him dirty yo.