I think that Anthony Bridgerton has OCD and yes it's probably a projection but what are blorbos if not for projection?
Ever since the day of his dad's death he is hyper vigilant while outside. Scanning gardens and parks and everywhere for any sign of bees.
He redirects his loved ones away from flowers during spring and summer- flowers are very anxiety inducing for him now.
"Stop and smell the roses, dear brother."
"I do not care much for roses."
Whenever any member of his family is sick his protectiveness and strictness goes into overdrive.
He stands by, looming and making the doctor and nurses nervous with his constant questions.
But they are used to it by now, knowing that the Viscount is very particular about his family's care.
He is pretty careless with himself, though. Since he believes that he cannot and will not ever outlive his dad, he puts himself into situations that he believes he will not make it out of.
When he lays down with his partner (whether Kate or reader) he subtly checks her/your pulse when he caressed your neck.
He has to make sure you're okay and asks often how you feel, especially when you are sick.
His father's compass is a soothing tool, but also a form of a compulsion. As long as he has it, he and his loved ones are safe. If he doesn't have it he believes something bad will happen.
When Viscount Anthony Bridgerton marries a woman befitting his name, his future is secured, orderly, respectable, and entirely devoid of the one thing he swore he could live without: love.
You.
Warnings: ANGST, heartbreak, kinda cheating, betrayal (let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count:
Masterlist
You learn of his marriage the way most things arrive in your life, quietly, and all at once.
A letter. Not from him. From someone else.
The paper is expensive. Thick. Embossed. The kind of paper that carries announcements meant to echo through drawing rooms and ballrooms and polite society.
Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is to be wed…
You do not read the rest at first. You cannot.
Because the name alone is enough to hollow something out inside you, something fragile and foolish that had believed, despite everything, that he might choose differently.
That he might choose you. He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Anthony Bridgerton was never meant to belong to something as reckless as love.
There had been a time when you thought he did.
When his letters came like breath, constant, necessary, impossible to live without.
You write too honestly, he had once told you. And you read them anyway, you had replied. I read them because I cannot stop.
You had smiled at that, foolish and soft, pressing the paper to your chest as though you could feel the echo of him through ink and parchment.
You had written back the same night. You always did.
---------------
You never stopped writing.
Even after the letters slowed.
Even after they became shorter, more restrained, more careful, as though every word had to pass through some invisible filter of duty before it reached you.
Even after the day his letter came, stiff and formal, with none of the warmth you had memorized.
It is no longer appropriate for us to correspond.
That was all. No explanation. No apology.
Just an ending, clean and merciless.
You had stared at it for hours, waiting for something more to appear, as if the ink might shift, rearrange, reveal the truth he had been too afraid to write.
It never did. Still, you wrote one last letter.
You told yourself you wouldn’t send it. You told yourself it was only to empty your heart of him, to give your grief somewhere to go.
You told yourself many things.
And yet, somehow, it found its way to him.
---------------
Anthony does not burn your letters.
He tries. God, he tries.
On the night before his wedding, the house is quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural, like the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation of the life he is about to step into.
He stands alone before the fire, the glow casting long, unsteady shadows against the walls. The room smells faintly of smoke and polished wood, of something warm and grounding, everything he has been taught to value.
Everything he is about to choose.
And still, his hands tremble.
Your letters are gathered there, bound together, worn at the edges from being unfolded too many times, read too often, held too tightly. The ribbon slips slightly beneath his fingers, loosened by years of quiet revisiting.
He unties it. He tells himself this is necessary.
That this is the moment he becomes the man he is meant to be.
One by one, he separates them, the soft rasp of paper loud in the silence. The top letter is yours, of course it is always yours, and he does not need to read the name to know it.
He knows your handwriting the way he knows his own thoughts.
His thumb brushes over the ink, just briefly, as though he might feel something of you still lingering there.
The fire crackles.
Waiting.
All he has to do is let go. Just one motion. One decision.
Duty, he reminds himself. Responsibility, the future of his family.
The words echo in his mind, firm and practiced, the same ones he has used to justify every step that led him here.
The flames flicker higher, as though urging him forward.
As though they understand.
He lifts the letter slightly and holds it over the fire. The heat curls against the edges, threatening, insistent.
And then, his eyes catch on the first line.
I saw something today that reminded me of you…
His breath stutters.
He shouldn’t read it again. He has read it enough. Memorized it, even.
But something in him falters, weakens, fractures under the weight of everything he is about to lose.
His gaze drops further.
You would have laughed at this…
He exhales slowly, unsteadily.
There had always been laughter in your letters. Even when you wrote of ordinary things, you made them feel brighter, lighter, as though the world was something to be shared, not endured.
As though he could be something more than what was expected of him.
His grip tightens. The paper trembles.
I wish you had been there.
That line is the one that breaks him.
Because he had wished the same thing, more times than he could ever admit.
In crowded ballrooms.
In quiet studies.
In every moment that should have felt complete but never quite did.
His jaw tightens, he cannot breathe.
The fire snaps sharply, a burst of sparks rising, impatient. Waiting.
He lowers the letter an inch closer. The edge darkens, just slightly. One more second, that is all it would take.
One second to erase you from his life.
One second to become the man everyone believes him to be.
His hand falters. Stops.
Because the truth, unbearable and unrelenting, is this, burning the letters would not undo you.
It would not silence your voice in his mind, nor erase the way your words had carved themselves into something permanent inside him.
It would not make him forget. It would only leave him emptier.
Slower, now, almost reluctantly, he pulls the letter back from the flame.
The heat fades.
The moment passes.
And with it, something final.
He stares at the page for a long time, his expression unreadable even to himself.
Then, he folds it.
Carefully. Gently.
Like something sacred. Not to be destroyed. But to be preserved.
He gathers the rest, his movements deliberate now, resolute in a way they had not been before. Each letter is stacked, aligned, returned to the order he knows by heart.
He ties the ribbon again, though it sits looser than it once did.
Time has changed it.
Just as it has changed him.
But not enough.
Never enough.
He does not look at the fire again as he turns away.
Because he knows, with a certainty that will follow him into every day of his marriage, this is the one choice he will never be able to undo.
So he hides them. Every single one.
Your letters, tied together with a ribbon that has long since lost its color, tucked away in a drawer no one thinks to open.
Not even his wife.
---------------
Kate Sharma is not a fool.
She notices things.
She notices the way Anthony is attentive, polite, dutiful, everything a husband should be, and yet there is a distance in him that never quite closes.
A space she cannot cross.
She does not press him at first.
Marriage, after all, is an adjustment. A learning of rhythms, of silences.
But there are moments.
Small ones.
The way his expression changes when he hears a certain phrase.
The way he lingers over letters longer than necessary.
The way he sometimes looks as though he is remembering something he cannot afford to speak aloud.
She tells herself it is nothing.
Until the day it isn’t.
---------------
It happens by accident.
It always does.
A misplaced key. A drawer left slightly ajar. A curiosity that would have meant nothing on any other day.
Kate does not expect to find anything of consequence.
Certainly not a bundle of letters, worn at the edges, handled too often to be forgotten.
Certainly not something hidden.
Her fingers pause as she lifts them.
There is no name on the outside.
Only the ribbon.
She hesitates.
Then, she unties it.
---------------
You do not know the moment your life is unearthed in another woman’s hands.
You are somewhere else, living a quieter version of what you once imagined, your days no longer punctuated by anticipation, your nights no longer filled with ink-stained confessions.
You have learned to exist without him.
Or at least, you have learned to pretend.
---------------
Kate reads the first letter.
Then the second. Then the third.
She tells herself she will stop.
She does not.
Because the voice in those letters is not the man she married.
It is someone else entirely.
Someone softer.
Someone undone.
Someone who writes “You must not write to me like this. Not when I find myself waiting for your letters as though they are the only honest thing in my life”.
Her breath catches.
She turns the page.
I do not believe in love. I have made that quite clear. And yet, when I read your words, I begin to understand why others do.
Kate’s hands tremble.
This is not duty.
This is not obligation.
This is something far more dangerous.
She keeps reading.
Because she has to know.
Because she has to understand.
Because she has to see just how deeply her husband has been shaped by someone who is not her.
---------------
Anthony finds her with them.
Of course he does.
There is no universe in which this ends quietly.
He knows something is wrong the moment he steps into the room.
The silence is too heavy. Too deliberate.
And then he sees the letters. In her hands.
Open. Exposed.
Everything he buried, laid bare in a single, devastating moment.
“Kate,”
His voice falters.
He has faced down grief, responsibility, the weight of an entire family on his shoulders.
But this is something else entirely.
She looks at him.
And for the first time since their marriage began, there is no softness in her gaze.
“Who is she?”
The question is quiet.
But it cuts deeper than any accusation.
Anthony does not answer. Because he cannot. Because saying your name aloud would make it real in a way he has spent years trying to avoid.
Kate rises slowly.
The letters remain in her hands, but she does not clutch them, she holds them as one might hold evidence.
Proof.
“You kept these,” she says.
Not a question. A realization.
He swallows.
“Yes.”
The word feels like a confession. Her jaw tightens.
“For how long?”
He doesn’t need to think. “Since the beginning.” Since you.
---------------
There are many things Kate could say.
Many ways she could react.
Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.
All of them would be justified.
Instead, she asks the only question that matters.
“Do you love her?”
The room stills.
Anthony closes his eyes. For a moment, he considers lying, it would be easier.
Kinder. Safer.
But he has already done enough damage with silence.
So he tells the truth.
“Yes.”
---------------
The word does not shatter the room.
It does something worse. It settles.
Heavy. Final.
Kate inhales sharply, as though the air itself has betrayed her.
“And yet you married me.”
It is not an accusation. It is a statement.
Of fact.
Of reality.
Of the life she now understands she has stepped into.
Anthony opens his eyes.
There is something broken in them.
Something that has been breaking for a very long time.
“I married you because it was my duty.”
The honesty is brutal. Unforgiving.
“I thought…” He exhales shakily. “I thought it would be enough.”
Kate lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Enough for whom?”
He has no answer. Because there isn’t one.
---------------
You receive a letter.
You almost do not open it.
You have trained yourself not to hope for things that cannot belong to you.
But something in you, something stubborn and aching, refuses to let it go unopened.
So you break the seal.
Your hands tremble before you even read the name.
Viscountess Bridgerton.
You frown, confused. Then, you read.
---------------
Kate’s letter is not what you expect.
It is not cruel.
It is not bitter.
It is something far more unsettling.
It is honest.
I found your letters.
Your breath catches.
I did not intend to read them. But once I began, I could not stop.
Your grip tightens on the page.
You should know that he kept them all.
Your heart stutters.
Every single one.
There is a pause in the ink, as though she hesitated before continuing.
I asked him if he loves you.
Your vision blurs.
He said yes.
The world tilts.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
Cannot think.
Cannot exist outside of that one, impossible truth.
And then, the final line.
I thought you deserved to know.
---------------
Anthony does not know she wrote to you.
Not at first. Not until he sees the way something in your expression changes the next time your paths cross.
Because of course they do.
This is the cruel symmetry of your lives, you are never quite free of one another.
You stand across the room, surrounded by people, noise, and expectation, and yet it feels like it is only the two of you.
Your eyes meet and everything that was buried rises to the surface.
He sees it in you.
The knowledge.
The understanding.
The grief that never truly left.
“You know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod.
You do not trust yourself to speak.
For a moment, neither of you moves, because what is there to say?
What words could possibly bridge the distance that duty has carved between you?
Anthony takes a step closer. Then another.
He stops just short of you, as though there is an invisible line he cannot cross.
“I never stopped-”
He cuts himself off.
Because finishing that sentence would be a betrayal of everything he has chosen.
Everything he has sacrificed.
Everything he is still trying to uphold.
You swallow.
Your voice, when it comes, is soft.
“I know.”
That is the tragedy of it.
You always have.
---------------
There is no grand resolution.
No sweeping declaration that changes the course of your lives.
Because some choices cannot be undone.
Some paths cannot be rewritten.
Anthony returns to his wife.
To his duty. To the life he chose.
And you carry on. With the quiet, persistent knowledge that somewhere, hidden away, there are pieces of you that he could never let go.
Letters that refused to fade.
Just like the love they held.
And perhaps that is the cruelest thing of all.
Not that he did not love you.
But that he did.
And still he let you go.
--------------------
I have been on a Bridgerton binge recently so yk I had to write something for them. If anyone has read the books let me know if they are worth buying cause I'm condsiering it, but like $204!! <3
hello!! I saw that your requests for Benedict Bridgerton were open. I was wondering if you could do a story about him and reader who is a fantastic author. Like she’s not bad at art but is so much better at writing. I always thought it would be a cute dynamic. Have a good day love!
benedict helped you spread the blanket on the grass, smoothing the corners. you put down the little basket you'd prepared with some food and a bottle of wine. then, laughing, you slipped out of your dress until you were down to your underwear and ran into the river. benedict followed you, his boots left on the shore along with his clothes. he caught up to you easily, grabbing you by your waist.
he held you as you wrapped your legs around him. benedict rested his forehead against your shoulders, pressing soft kisses there and going up your neck. your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer as you tilted your head to give him space.
now you were sitting on the blanket, legs pulled to your chest, using them to steady your notebook as you wrote. benedict lay beside you, turned onto his side, propped up on one elbow, staring at you. you showed him the page full of words and he grabbed the notebook to read it. when he was done, he looked at you again.
—you should publish it. everyone deserves to read this.
it wasn't the first time benedict suggested it.
—you always say that, —you took back the notebook from his hands.
—and i always mean it, —he replied.
you traced your thumb along the edge of the paper, considering. —we're about to be wed, benedict, i don't want to embarrass you.
—embarrass me? —his brows drawn together in disbelief. he shifted closer, searching for your face.
you shrugged, —with my stories.
whole worlds lived in these pages and characters that loved too much, who bled their hearts out so that you could capture it in ink. these novels had been half hidden in your drawers and boxes under your bed, some of them took months, other years.
—if i publish them, people will read them and what if they think they're silly? or worse, what if they think you married some foolish girl who spends her days making things up?
for a moment benedict just stared at you, like you'd said something truly incomprehensible. then he let out a small laugh.
—my love, —he said, —you did not just call yourself foolish.
—be serious, ben.
—i am serious, —benedict pushed himself up to his elbows, —last winter you had me pacing the room because you hadn't finished that chapter and i needed to know if that poor man survived the war.
you tried not to smile.
—that's not foolish, —he went on as he took the notebook from your hands, —that's amazing, —his hand found your chin, guiding your face back to his, —besides, i'd be insufferable. i'd tell everyone. 'have you read it? that's my wife. she wrote that.' i'd buy copies for strangers and i'd argue with critics in the street.
you laughed, closing the distances to give him a quick kiss, —you would not.
—i absolutely would, —his thumb brushed your cheek. —i'm marrying you because you're bright and stubborn and full of stories. i won't have you making yourself smaller, not for me, and certainly not for anyone.
you exhaled and leaned into him, pressing your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, hiding for the world like it was your safe space. benedict tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
—send it out. one manuscript. just one. and whatever happens, you come home to me.
you looked down at the notebook again, then back at him.
—alright. one manuscript.
he showed you a big smile and tugged you down onto the blanket with him. you laughed as you fell, letting him wrap you between his arms. you pushed yourself up on his chest.
—should i let you decide which one? —you asked.
his whole face lit up, —the soldier one.
you rolled your eyes, —you're obsessed with that soldier.
—he's complex.
—he's impossible, —you argued back.
—he's misunderstood.
you narrowed your eyes at him, —you only like him because he reminds you of yourself.
—i do not brood that much, —he said, giving a quick kiss to your nose.
—you absolutely brood that much, ben. you cried when i wrote the last chapter, didn't you?
he shook his head, sliding a hand up your back, drawing lazy patterns on your skin, —my eyes were watering. very different.
you hummed, not convinced, —well. if it happens and it did make you cry, i enjoy seeing you affected by my work, and if i'm gonna send out one of my stories, i'd love for you to illustrate it.
benedict's hand stopped against your back.
—illustrate it? —he repeated. you nodded. benedict asked, —you'd trust me with that?
—i trust you with everything, ben, —you let your head fall against his chest, —you're in love with that soldier anyways.
his chest rumbled with a soft laugh, —i'm only in love with one person. an amazing soon-to-be-best selling author.
you groaned, hiding your face in his chest, —you're impossible.
—i'm optimistic.
you lifted your head just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes, —you're biased.
I didn’t flinch when I saw John die but BAWLED like a BABY when Charlotte held her only friend’s hand for what was going to be the last time in a LONG time
I love Charlotte so much she’s just a girl and I’m so normal about her
synopsis – dark rooms were very popular at the after-hours parties you attended. they were perfect for a lady like you, discreet and safe in a way only darkness could, until one night, when the man you lost yourself to in the dark wasn't a stranger at all.
smut.
my bridgerton masterlist
you loved the adrenaline of the dark room.
in there, everyone who was inside was a mystery, reduced to movements and sounds, to hands gripping a little too tight, touches that were meant to be momentary, lips that brushed skin longer than they should and vanished before they could be claimed.
the dark made everything easier, not like the large and bright bridgerton dining room. there was nowhere to hide there. your families were practically one, which meant there was no escaping the monthly dinners lady bridgerton hosted. no polite excuses, no convenient illness. you were expected.
and hungover.
at least no one seemed to notice. the table buzzed with conversations, everyone absorbed into their own chatter. your mother leaned toward violet bridgerton, voices low and conspiratorial. your father sat next to anthony, the two of them deep in discussion, nothing serious by the way they both laughed from time to time.
colin had your older brother's full attention, he was probably talking about his travels again, and your younger sister was enjoying eloise and penelope's company, talking far too fast for someone who clearly hadn't spent the morning battling nausea and regret.
no one was looking at you.
or at least that's what you thought.
while you were doing this revision of everyone at the table.
benedict reached for the bottle of wine and tipped it toward your glass. you noticed too late, his wrists was already turning, the bottle tipping and the red liquid filling your glass. just the sight of it made your stomach lurch. if that wine touched your lips, you were certain you'd throw up right there. no more alcohol. possibly not ever again. or at least until next weekend, when selective amnesia would set in.
—rough morning?
you pushed the glass away when he finished filling it. benedict smirked.
—you could say that.
—let me guess, —benedict said, leaning back in his chair, —last night seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.
you exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to drop your head onto the table, so you just pressed your lips together into a guilty smile and nodded. the chatter around you continued, everyone unaware that you were fighting for your life over a glass of wine. benedict looked like he was enjoying every second of it.
—brave of you, —he added, —to show up today.
—i had no other choice. i would have been dragged here anyway.
benedict's smile showed that he was entertained.
—kicking and screaming, i imagine.
—barely conscious.
you and him shared a quiet laugh. he lifted his glass in a mock toast, taking a sip of his wine. your stomach twisted at the idea.
—cruel —you mumbled, reaching for your water instead. then, as casually as you could, you added, —they say you're in search for a wife.
benedict rolled his eyes and shook his head as if the very idea physically hurt him, —they say many things. most of them wildly untrue, —he through gritted teeth, looking toward lady bridgerton at the head of the table.
violet smiled, —benedict is trying, —he let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, —trying is a first step.
you hid your smile behind your glass of water. if nothing else, it was a comfort to know that even the bridgertons weren't immune to family expectations. especially benedict who had a lifestyle not so different from yours. the parties, the alcohol... you glanced at him over your glass. he looked relaxed enough, but you knew better. some people weren't meant to be contained.
while the conversation went on around you, you gulped, feeling all the memories from last night coming at you at once.
the room was completely dark. you'd taken the last sip of your drink without thinking before tossing the empty glass aside and letting it shatter. then sound came first, music low, laughter somewhere close, but especially it was a mix of soft moans and deep groans. bodies moved unseen, close enough that you felt their heat without touch.
you bumped into them without warning. two bodies, tangled together, breathless. one of them laughed softly, surprised, and his hand grabbed your waist. not rough, but inviting. you were pulled into the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. his fingers brushed your hair back from your shoulders and his lips were suddenly on the curve of your neck.
your fingers tightened around your water glass and you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself back into the bridgerton dining room.
your hand lifted, finding the other man's your neck and you also pulled him closer to you. the space closed, their bodies pressing you tight. the man at your neck nipped at your skin there, enough to make you gasp, while the other cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulled you into a kiss that stole whatever air you had left.
then hands loosened and one of them slipped away, laughter fading as the other man was drawn elsewhere and you were left alone with the man who had been kissing you. not that you complained, he kissed like he was starving, hands that held your cheeks slid down to your neck, fingers pressing at the base.
your hands moved without permission, finding buttons and working them open. the dark hid his face but it sharpened everything else. his chest beneath your palms was hard, broad shoulders framed his body, the muscles in his arm tensed as he caged you against a wall and helped you to turn around.
the long fabric of your dress wrinkled beneath his hands. you felt the press of his chest behind you as he pulled down his pants just enough.
you shifted in your chair, adjusting your corset as discreetly as you could. you looked around the table, no one seemed to notice. had it gotten hotter here?
his thrusts were just as his kisses, desperate, as if slowing down was never an option. your sounds mixed with everyone else's in that room, your hand flew to the back of his head as his mouth found your neck. his sounds were deep, groans coming straight out of his chest. his hand came up again, firm at your neck to turn your face aside so he could kiss you. his hips were relentless, smacking against your ass again and again.
you took a sip of your water.
the way his fingers went inside your mouth, how he seemed exactly where to touch and how. one of his hands sneaking between your legs when he felt you were close, the way his arms held you when your legs started shaking. and the only thing he said, most of the people in those rooms never talked, but he murmured one single thing before he left...
—i had fun, —benedict said.
your head snapped, eyes shooting straight to the man sitting in front of you, —what?
everyone looked at you, benedict did too, surprised by your sudden interruption.
—at colin and penelope's wedding. i had fun, —he repeated.
and he said in the same way that had been murmured into your skin the night before.
you forced a smile and nodded, but your heart raced, loud in your ears, and the bridgerton dining room felt smaller. one of your hands went to your stomach as you focused on your breathing, —i couldn't agree more, oh, i'm...
you reached for your glass of water and accidentally knocked it instead. you stood, pushing back your chair. at the same moment, benedict stood too. everyone looked between the two of you, confused, but benedict saved it by lifting one hand and calling the service.
—no harm done, my dear, —violet said warmly.
you pressed your lips into a smile, eyes anywhere but on him.
—if you'll excuse me, i need some air...
you walked to the garden, before anyone could think to ask questions. the doors closed behind you, shutting the sound of the conversation, and the air of the night hit your face, cold and comforting. you stepped onto the grass and took a deep breath, then another, and then you realized you weren't calming down. you were nervously pacing around and the air that you've been taking in was from hyperventilating.
your face changed when you saw him crossing the garden to you. heat rushed to your cheeks and you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. before you could think of it, you started walking to him.
—are you...?
you pushed him by his shoulders, —where were you last night?
he looked down at your hands on his chest, then back at your face. he had never seen you like this before, —with my family. at dinner.
you let out a short laugh, —you know that's not what i meant.
benedict squinted. of everyone at that table, he was the one person who understood you in ways that only you and him knew. you and benedict had the same... hobbies. the same hunger for noise, and crowds and dark places. it had always been there, between you two. you never asked each other questions because you already knew the answer would look a lot like your own.
—i went out. why? —he finally replied.
—and what were you doing going out on the other side of the town? —you shot back.
—how do you...?
you didn't answer, instead you bit the inside of your cheeks, looking at benedict, waiting for him to realize. his brow furrowed, then slowly smoothed and all of a sudden it didn't feel like he was looking at you standing in the garden anymore, it felt like the shape of your hands gripping his shirt, the sound of your breath in his ear and the way you moved against him without hesitation.
without lights.
—you, —he stated.
the heat on your face intensified. you covered it with both hands like you could hide from it and you started pacing again. it hadn't been some stranger, not someone in the dark you'd never see in the daylight. it was benedict.
benedict who had known you since you were children, who had been beside you at these same dinners, across these same tables, exchanging jokes and rolling your eyes at the same boring parties. he wasn't supposed to exist in that other world.
—what were you doing there? —he asked, almost accusing.
you turned around to look at him, defensive, —what do you mean what was i doing there? that's my part of the town, i live there. you, on the other hand, were really far away from yours. i have never seen you at that party before!
he stayed quiet, letting you pace around, mumbling things he couldn't really understand, something about not knowing anyone, about that being the whole point.
—why is it so bad?
you stopped pacing again, frustration rising again. you turned again to face him fully, —because you're not some stranger i'll never know, benedict, —your hands lifted for a second like you were about to gesture, then fell uselessly back to your sides, —you're you. you sit across from me at dinner. you know my family. our mothers talk. i see you all the time. i can't walk back into that house and look at you like everything's normal when i remember...
—when you remember what? tell me.
benedict took a step closer, not enough to touch you yet. the garden felt smaller and you were suddenly aware of how tall benedict was, how broad his shoulders were. his tone wasn't gentle anymore, there was something curious in it, something teasing.
—i, —you started, then stopped, looking at him, —don't do that.
—do what? —he asked, taking another step, like he knew exactly what it did to you
—i'm serious, ben, —you mumbled. your back straightened but your feet didn't move, they didn't even try to leave which only annoyed you more.
—remember what? —he repeated, lower this time.
benedict was close enough, holding his own hands behind his back. so close that if you leaned, you'd touch him.
—i remember, —you swallowed, —i remember your hands... and... your mouth, and... —you looked down in embarrassment, but immediately after you did, one of benedict's hand held up your chin, tilting your face up and forcing your eyes back to his, —... and the way you touched me.
—don't look away, —benedict said, thumb resting against your jaw, —you're acting like we did something terrible. like you regret it, —his eyes searched for yours, —do you?
you shook your head, eyes moving from his eyes to his mouth. benedict tilted his head, nodding. he closed the distance slowly, making sure you saw it coming. this time there was no anonymity to hide behind, it was just benedict kissing you in the big backyard of the bridgerton house.
benedict's hands slid to the small of your back, and before you realized what he was doing, he guided you backward. your shoulders met the stone of the mansion's facade and he caged you with his body. just above you, a high window was half open, and through it you could hear everything from inside the dining room. your mother's voice. colin's laugh...
and outside, benedict put two of his fingers inside his mouth in the most sinful way a man could ever. you grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss because you knew it was going to be hard to keep it quiet once he started sliding his hand up your thigh. you gasped into his mouth once his fingers went inside you, his thumb connecting to your clit.
you clung to him, your forehead pressed against his when the kiss broke, both of you breathing too hard, —ben, —you moaned, your grip on him tightened.
—i know, i know, —he said, shushing you as his fingers curled inside you.
the open window above you let out another burst of laughter, glasses clinking, someone calling for more wine. life continued while you melt in benedict's hands. his thumb draw circles on your clit, two of his fingers when in and out of you, making your legs shake. it felt even better now, knowing it was him who was touching you, being able to look at him in the eyes when you came.
you threw your head back, resting it against the facade, trying to catch your breath.
—feeling better? —benedict asked, kissing the mountains of your breasts showing from the neckline of your dress.
you nodded, biting your lower lip.
—has anyone seen benedict? —lady bridgerton said inside the dining room.
you and benedict looked at each other in panic as you remember where you were. then his hands were on you again, but this time fixing your dress, his knuckles brushed your sides and smoothed the fabric where it had bunched at your waist.
—hold still, —he whispered.
—i am holding still, —you whispered back.
you were smoothing his suit lapels and straightening his collar. his hands were resting on your waist again, looking at the door, hoping your families would take a second longer before they sent someone looking for you. you yanked benedict down by his lapels and kissed him. he kissed you back, hands sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you close again.
you pushed him by his shoulders, —you are insatiable.
he huffed a laugh, —you were the one who kissed me again!
and you did it one more time, grabbing him by the same place. he stumbled forward with a surprised laugh, one hand against the stone facade behind you. the other one caught your hand on instinct.
you smoothed his lapels one last time, though they were worse than before. benedict fixed your hair with clumsy fingers, both of you trying not to kiss each other again.
