Somehow this blog has turned into mostly Bridgerton Fanfiction, my own and reblogs of other talented authors. I may sprinkle in a few other gems here and there, but for now the muse demands The Bridgerton Brothers. Please take heed of the warning and ratings on fics found here. If you have a request, or simply want to chat about a fic, I'd love to hear from you. I'm an open book ;)
Powerful - Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU/ 6.7K Word Count/ 💋/ Complete
The Viscount Who Loved Me Too Much - Part One - Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU / 6.4K Word Count / 💋 / Ongoing
The Viscount Who Loved Me Too Much - Part Two - Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader/ Modern AU / 6.0K Word Count / 💙 / Ongoing
The Viscount Who Loved Me Too Much - Part 3 - Anthony Bridgerton x Hyacinth Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton x Violet Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton x Reader / Modern AU/ 5.1K Word Count/ 💙/ Ongoing
Not Like This - Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU / 6.4K Word Count / 💔💙💋 / Complete
Love To Hate You - Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU / 5.6K Word Count / 👄/ Complete
If the World Was Ending - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader/ Modern AU/ 3.5K Word Count/ 💔/ Complete
From a Father to a Son - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU/ 3.1K Word Count/ 💙/ Complete
Wide Open Spaces - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Rader / Modern AU/ 6.2K Word Count/ 💋/ Complete
His First Muse - Benedict Bridgerton x Violet Bridgerton / Regency / 5.3K Word Count / 💔/ Complete
Again - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader / Modern AU / 2.1K Word Count / 💋 / Complete
Hand Painted - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader/ Modern AU / 1.2K Word Count / 💋/ Complete / This was a birthday fill for a mutual
Amaryllis - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader/ Modern AU/ 3.2K Word Count/ 💋/ Complete
Say It - Benedict Bridgerton x Female Character / Modern AU/ 2.2K Word Count/ 💔/ Complete
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I do currently have a WIP list, but I am open for requests and prompt suggestions 🖤🖤🖤
Pairings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton & Edmund Bridgerton
Summary - Benedict has held his father’s words close to his heart for his entire life. The model of love that his parents provided set an uncompromising standard. All of the pieces to the puzzle didn’t fully align until he fell in love with you. Although his father is gone, Benedict gets to experience the love of his life through the lens of his father’s parting sage wisdom.
Warnings - This one is pretty tame. I toned down the angst and dialed up the romance. It is sickeningly sweet.
Word Count - 3.1K
Author’s Note - The song inspiration for this one was If You Love Her by Forest Blakk. It isn’t necessary to listen before you read, but if you want a soundtrack… This is where my brain was lol
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Spring was always Benedict’s favorite time of year, in spite of the fact that it held some of the most painful moments of his life. The world was coming back alive. Colors brightened, days grew longer, and the sun soaked into everything it touched, greeting those in its embrace with a warm hello. It was a time for new beginnings. A time that embodied promises of better things to come. That’s probably why it seemed to be the time of year when the world fell in love.
Wedding season was in full bloom. He had already watched three of his old friends from school tie the knot this year. Each time he witnessed a bride take her first steps toward the rest of her life, he would turn and look at you. You were always there, right by his side, looking more lovely with each passing day. He watched you, as you watched her. Your eyes would mist over with joy, and when you felt his gaze on you, your skin would turn the most alluring shade of pink he had ever seen. That was always his favorite part.
He could never resist the urge to reach over and join your hand with his, watching together, as the two people before you joined their lives in a sacred union. Naturally, it would always send his mind down a certain trajectory. With the warmth of your palm pressing into his, it was easy to imagine your future, and he would think to himself, some day.
The parallel between Edmund’s advice and the last line work really cemented in my absolute adoration for this fic and the message that you so lovingly wrapped in it.
Your analysis of love in its truest form was breath-takingly beautiful. Your delivery was absolutely brilliant in both Edmund’s words and in its being shown throughout as Benedict contemplates his own love.
This is was so philosophically rich and poignant that I’ll be thinking about this fic for weeks. Thank you for sharing this absolute masterful work with us 💜
Thank you so much for your kind words and for the reblog ☺️🥹 - I love the idea of getting a behind the scenes look of the relationships Edmund had with each child. So much of what Julia Quinn has written/said herself suggests Benedict is much like his dad. So I imagine their hearts understood love in the same way.
Thank you to @colettebronte and @fayes-fics for the tag.
The rules are just to share a snippet from a current WIP. Here are a few paragraphs from Chapter 4 of The Viscount Who Loved Me Too Much.
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Your fingers gripped tightly around his wrist, preventing him from wandering any farther. “I changed my mind. Let’s order in.”
“Are you sure,” he frowned. “You’ve been talking about the chef’s chocolate souffle for weeks. This was the only reservation they had available until next month.”
“Positive,” you confirmed, snuggling in closer to his chest. “I’m feeling greedy. I don’t want to share your attention with anyone today. Not even the wait staff. And you putting on more clothes so we can go out works in direct opposition to my goals for the afternoon.”
The laughter in his chest rumbled under your cheek and your bones started to melt. “That’s my girl. Ever the achiever. Tell me more about these goals. It might be helpful if you had an extra set of hands.”
“Hands, mouth, whatever other appendages you’d like to volunteer. I don’t discriminate. Just as long as we don’t leave this apartment until I have to be on the plane.
@silverhallow @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @queenofmean14 and whoever else would like to participate!
Summary: A brief insight through the years of Violet’s relationship with her children.
Warnings: Angst, Whump, Mentions of character death
Word Count: 5.3K
Author’s Note: Thank you so much @bridgertontess for this awesome edit. It goes perfectly with this fic. And thank you again to @colettebronte for always keeping me from going off the rails with commas.
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“Come and paint with me, Mama!” Benedict’s sweet, small voice pleaded as he pulled lightly on his mother’s arm.
Violet laughed affectionately at her son’s impatience. “Benedict dear, give your Mama just a moment. Getting up isn’t an easy feat these days,” she said while cradling her swollen, pregnant belly. She loved each of her three sons beyond measure, but her heart was secretly hoping for a beautiful little girl with her father’s eyes.
The light that positively radiated out of her second-born son was one of her greatest joys in life. She wasn’t sure what ignited that spark, but she prayed it would never be extinguished. The world desperately needed more of it, and so did she.
From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.
As his tiny body grew, so did the capacity of his heart. He was a sensitive soul, always searching for understanding in others, but rarely finding what he was looking for. Even though he followed his older brother around with ardent admiration in his eyes, Violet knew they were two very different little boys.
Summary: A brief insight through the years of Violet’s relationship with her children.
Warnings: Angst, Whump, Mentions of character death
Word Count: 5.3K
Author’s Note: Thank you so much @bridgertontess for this awesome edit. It goes perfectly with this fic. And thank you again to @colettebronte for always keeping me from going off the rails with commas.
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“Come and paint with me, Mama!” Benedict’s sweet, small voice pleaded as he pulled lightly on his mother’s arm.
Violet laughed affectionately at her son’s impatience. “Benedict dear, give your Mama just a moment. Getting up isn’t an easy feat these days,” she said while cradling her swollen, pregnant belly. She loved each of her three sons beyond measure, but her heart was secretly hoping for a beautiful little girl with her father’s eyes.
The light that positively radiated out of her second-born son was one of her greatest joys in life. She wasn’t sure what ignited that spark, but she prayed it would never be extinguished. The world desperately needed more of it, and so did she.
From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.
As his tiny body grew, so did the capacity of his heart. He was a sensitive soul, always searching for understanding in others, but rarely finding what he was looking for. Even though he followed his older brother around with ardent admiration in his eyes, Violet knew they were two very different little boys.
From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.
This whole paragraph just hits my heart in a way I cannot explain in words. Beautiful descriptive imagery!
But Anthony was older, and things came to him with a frustrating ease. When he failed, he outwardly raged and tried again until he got it right. Benedict handled defeat differently. He absorbed it, folding in on himself instead of releasing his anger to the rest of the world.
Such a good way to describe their characters as kids, I see it so clearly!
From that moment forward, he never stopped capturing his world. It was as if he had been wading through life with so much to say but had been rendered mute, and now he had discovered language. It wasn’t long before he was fluent.
Ben’s art origin story!! omggg this is so freaking cute and I love that Violet is so closely tied to it, it seems right and very special for them to share.
On the nights when the crying found no end, he would sneak into her room, scoop her from her bed and invite her once again. “Come now, Mother. Come and paint with me.” And she would. She would sit in the stillness he cultivated and calm herself to sleep. She always woke the next morning safely in her bed, with a Benedict Bridgerton masterpiece resting on her bedside table. That was the first time she could remember what it felt like to smile again…
Dear author, I don’t think I can fully explain or convey how this makes me feel. The loving tenderness and return to something familiar is so special and wonderful especially in a time of grief, and that image for Violet and Ben in particular is just eating away at my heart in the best way possible.
Violet tried with every fiber of her being to avert her eyes from the wound spilling her son’s life onto the ground, but the evidence of its existence could not be avoided. It touched the entire atmosphere with its presence. The air was thick with heat from the fresh blood, and the smell permeated the taste buds, leaving a distinct metallic taste on the tongue.
THIS IS NOT THE DIRECTION I THOUGHT THINGS WERE GOING IN OH MY GOOD LORD
“Yes, we’re outside. Look how beautiful the sunset is tonight. It holds all your favorite colors. The oranges are so vibrant.” The pain released him and his face softened as he took in his surroundings. This is how she would do it, keep his torment at bay. “Benedict, dear, come and paint with me. Tell me how you’d capture the sky. What colors would you need?”
Bestie, I am NOT okay!!! MY HEART IS RIPPING INTO SHREDS
Oh my word that angst at the end my friend you had me shedding tears!! This whole story was just like one of Ben’s paintings, so vibrant, full of colour! I could see every stroke and how you used a certain flow of words to convert emotions that hit me right in my gut.
This fic was so wonderfully beautiful and I would fiercely recommend it to anyone who is as fond of Benedict and Violet’s relationship as I am!
Thank you so much for all your kind words and for taking the time to put them all down for me. I'm so happy you enjoyed this. It has been my favorite Bridgerton fic I've written thus far. I was feeling particularly angsty that day 😂.
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has been your favorite rival since college. Nothing gets your blood pumping quite like getting under his skin. No matter how much you love to see him squirm, you hate the defeated look on his face at someone else's hands. You never thought you'd see the day when your only worthy opponent would become you're most exciting conquest.
That’s how long this merger had been at a standstill. You’d spent the last 72 hours listening to a room full of grown men performing a metaphorical dick measuring. It was a miracle that your eyes weren’t permanently rolled to the back of your head.
The only thing keeping you from telling your pompous asshole of a boss to swallow his pride and make a few concessions was the palpable irritation radiating off the man seated across from you at the conference table.
Anthony Bridgerton.
Since your college days, you had lived to needle this man. He wore every expression clear as day across his annoyingly handsome face. It was so easy to rile him up, and even more rewarding to spar with him when he came back at you with his sharp, alluring tongue. He had proven himself a worthy opponent – someone who was not only willing to play with you, but who was capable of leaving you a panting, sweaty mess under his designer shoe.
The crease between his brow deepened with every idiotic word that left his associate’s arrogant mouth. Something about this man’s tone pissed you off. He spoke with the authority that Anthony was allowing him to possess, but it fit him just as poorly as that knock-off suit that stretched too tightly across his bulky shoulders. He would never wear that power like Anthony. Anthony earned his arrogance and wore it like the fucking king he was.
This guy needed to be humbled in an embarrassingly public way. Bonus points for the emasculation he’d feel once you shredded his ego to a bloody pulp with the ace you were hiding up your sleeve. Not only would this shut up the blundering idiot still talking out of his ass, but it would also piss Anthony the fuck off. It wasn’t hard to imagine the shade of red the tips of his ears would turn as he tried to reign in his temper.
Squeezing your thighs together under the table to suppress your arousal, you turned to your rival with a knowing smirk.
“Bridgerton, I knew you were reckless, but I never thought you were sloppy. You’ve clearly taken your eye off your company if you’re letting Vickers here run unsupervised around your kingdom.”
His shoulders stiffened in delicious frustration at the sound of your voice, but his lips turned up mischievously as he took you in.
“Careful, darling. Do you really want to play that game? I can assure you; my eyes see all.” The aforementioned eyes slid down to where your legs were pressing together in desperation beneath the table. “Every. Single. Detail.”
Fuck. Why did his voice have to be so hot?
Shake it off, bitch. Your pussy can get hers later. Right now, you need to focus on your takedown.
“Oh, is that so?” You smiled back at him, willing him to take the bait.
You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on your chest just a moment more than was polite.
“I’m a man of my word sweetheart. And control is my drug of choice.”
Oh, this was too good. He was about to lose his mind when you yanked away his high and sent him spiraling into a bad trip.
“So, you were aware that your associate signed contract amendments on your behalf? And if I had to guess, he didn’t read them fully because according to these documents… Anthony Bridgerton consented to the 40% increase over the first 12 months. And then an additional 20% based on profit margins.”
The color drained from his face as your words hit home. A chill ran down your spine at his utterly lethal expression. You were used to his irritation. Intimately familiar with his anger… but this was different.
You could feel it the moment the last shred of restraint left his body. His already dark eyes turned almost black when he fixed them on his target.
“Is this true, Luther?” His voice was deceptively calm, but you could sense the predator lurking beneath the surface.
“Of course not,” Luther lied. “Are you really going to believe this manipulative bitch over me? That’s what she does. Why do you think Morrison hired her firm for legal representation. She’s a lying cun- …”
“STOP TALKING!” Anthony roared. “Finish that sentence and I will shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting leather.”
The room was deafeningly quiet now. A rush of wetness flooded between your legs when Anthony turned his gaze to you, and you couldn’t stop the little gasp that escaped your lips. Anthony may have gotten his high from control, but you thrived on chaos. And this was the very definition of playing with fire.
“Contracts…” he said, thrusting his hand toward you in a demand.
Victory was all but dancing in your eyes as you slid the papers under his waiting fingertips. Checkmate. This round went to you,
After a diligent assessment of his forged signature, his fingers curled into fists, crumpling the paper in his grasp.
It would be easy to prove the signatures invalid, voiding the contract and rendering it moot. But God, was it worth it to bask in the absolute manic energy he was barely keeping contained.
That simply wouldn’t do. You wanted to see him erupt.
You were in the midst of your plan to stoke the flames when Luther all but did the work for you,
“She’s lying Anthony! Come on, mate. You know me!”
“I do know you,” Anthony deadpanned. “You’re the same conniving, slippery bastard you’ve always been. And we are most certainly not mates. Apparently, you’re also a moron! Do you honestly believe I can’t decipher between my own signature and a fraud? It’s right fucking here in bold black ink, you twat!”
Luther opened his mouth to argue like the true dunce he was, but Anthony silenced him with his glare alone. The danger in his slow, deep voice all but purred over my skin.
“Get. The fuck. Out of my sight.”
“You can’t just fire me! I helped you build this fucking company. You’re nothing without me, Bridgerton!”
“I can, and I just did.” His careful, composed mask was slipping back into place and you already missed his rage. “You’re done here Luther. There won’t be a single person in this industry willing to work with you after I’m through.”
Shoving back forcefully, Luther pushed up from his rolling chair and straight into the woman carrying a try full of coffee orders for the room. It all happened so fast and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do to stop it.
The tray flung from her hands, dumping its contents onto Anthony’s broad chest and waiting lap. He stood abruptly, cursing under his breath, hands frantically trying to shoo the scalding liquid from his body.
When the woman’s hands reached out to assist him, your entire body froze. She was touching him, and you fucking hated it. You were also unsure of how he would react to the blunder. Luther deserved his wrath, but this poor girl did not.
Your heart did something funny in your chest when he gently gripped the wrists of the panicked, trembling woman in front of him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bridgerton! It was an accident. Are you okay?!”
“Jeannine…” he soothed. “Jeannine, it’s okay. I’m perfectly fine. Maybe a little wet, but unharmed. So, there’s no need for tears.”
Ugh… Now she was looking at him like she’d just fallen in love with him. You mean, kind of like you were 30 seconds ago? Shut up, brain! Don’t look at me like that. You saw nothing, and I don’t want to talk about it.
Anthony rubbed his hands up her arms to reassure her once more. “I could use a new set of clothes. Could you send for something for me?”
She beamed at him. “Of course, sir. I’ll get anything you’d like. That’s what I’m here for.”
Eye roll. Of course she had called him sir. And he undoubtedly loved every second of it.
“Thank you, Jeaninne. You’re truly invaluable. You know my sizes, and you know what I like, so I have no doubt you’ll choose something that flatters me.”
“That won’t be hard to do,” she blushed up at him.
His answering smile made you want to smack it right off his face. Charming bastard.
“Buy yourself something as well. Anything you want. Cost is no problem. I fear your pretty white blouse is ruined now.”
Yeah, you scoffed. Ruined and conveniently see through.
Jeaninne gave him one last embarrassed smile before retreating from the room. Before she reached the door he called after her.
“Oh, and Jeaninne… If you wouldn’t mind calling security to have them escort Mr. Vickers from premises.”
She replied with a nervous nod before fleeing the room.
You could cut the remaining tension with a knife. Everyone unsure of how to breach the standoff.
Predictably, it was my boss, lulled into a false sense of superiority, who decided to brave speaking.
“Well, well… It looks like the infallible Anthony Bridgerton isn’t invincible after all. It seems my attorney has managed to get underneath all your armor and hit her mark. How does it feel, Bridgerton?”
“How does what feel?” Anthony feigned interest, still wiping coffee from his trousers.
“To know you’re no better than the rest of us mere mortals. You’re just an arrogant boy who was handed his daddy’s company when he didn’t deserve it. Edmund would have never made a mistake like that one.”
Shit.
A small fleck of insecurity washed over Anthony’s features. He recovered quickly, but you saw it. It was an expression that was so out of place on him that for a split second he looked like another person entirely. Someone younger. Less larger than life, and more vulnerable.
It made you uncomfortable. You were the only one who was allowed to push Anthony’s buttons, and even you never wanted to tear him down that far.
Anthony opened his mouth, no doubt to tell your rotund boss to fuck all the way off, but it was your own voice that filled your ears.
“That’s enough! Mr. Morrison, you’re out of line. Don’t pretend to know anything of Edmund Bridgerton. That man would never have even granted you an audience. That’s how beneath him you would have found yourself. If I were you, I’d consider yourself grateful for even getting through the door.”
This meeting was getting out of control quickly. If you knew Anthony, and you believed you did, he was about to cut his losses and scrap the entire deal. He didn’t need this partnership. He wanted it, but he sure as fuck didn’t need it. And from where you sat, that was a dangerous place to be.
If you wanted to cash that big, fat commission check that only came after the ink was dried, you needed to do damage control.
“I think we need to take a breather. Everyone out!”
Mr. Morrison actually had the gall to laugh in your face.
“And I think you need to learn your place. I like you because you’re such a ball busting bitch but make no mistake – I’m the one in charge here. I pay you, not the other way around. So, I suggest you sit down and shut up while the men finish their conversation.”
The air in the room was charged with barely restrained fury. Whether it was yours or his, you couldn’t be sure. Mr. Morrison may have started this war, but Anthony Bridgerton was the one who finished it.
“Speak to her like that again and not only will I cancel this partnership, but I will buy your company outright and dismantle it piece by piece. I’ll sell it for parts while you watch your life’s work burn to ash. Did you think I didn’t know your proposal was a measure of last resort for you? I don’t need you, Mr. Morrison. Make no mistake – I’m the one with the real power here. From my vantage point, you’re the one who needs to learn their place.
Holy fuck…
If Mr. Morrison didn’t get the hell out of this room immediately, he was going to become intimately acquainted with your naked body, because – HOT DAMN! You were pretty sure it was the part of the story where the enemies were about to become lovers.
The look on Morrison’s face would have been funny if your clit wasn’t throbbing to within an inch of its life!
Walking to the door, you opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for him to make himself scarce. “We can reconvene on Monday. I think calmer heads will yield the best results, don’t you?”
It surprised you when he didn’t try to argue. Anthony’s threat must have done its job.
Closing the door behind him, you locked it and tapped the high-tech keypad to cloak the space in privacy. The floor to ceiling glass immediately turned opaque and the sounds from the surrounding offices disappeared into silence.
You turned to find Anthony leaning against the large boardroom table, arms crossed over his toned chest. His eyes narrowed on you when you took a step towards him.
“I know you’re pleased with yourself, but I didn’t take you for the type to stick around to gloat.”
What a clueless jackass… He had no idea what was about to happen. The two of you had never crossed this line before, but you didn’t think you could survive another second in his presence without your mouth on him. Did he not feel this too?
God, this was going to be so embarrassing if he rejected you. It was a very real possibility. It would make perfect sense with the antagonizing nature of your relationship for him to even the playing field. Was it wrong that it turned you on even more to think about him putting you in your place?
“Shut the hell up, Bridgerton, and take off your pants.” Straight to the point was always the best approach with this man.
Genuine surprise colored his cheeks.
“I beg your pardon?!”
“You have been a raging dick for the past three days. If that vein in your neck is any indication, you’re going to stroke out before we can finish this deal. I’ve put way too much work into this project and spent way too much time in a room filled with guys staring at my tits for me not to get this bonus check. Now, take your fucking pants off so I can suck some of that stress out of you.”
“You’ve been thinking about my raging dick for the last three days, haven’t you?”
The smug turn of his perfect fucking mouth was almost enough to make you change your mind. It felt a bit too much like he was gaining the upper hand.
“And you’ve been thinking about my ass bent over your desk since I stepped foot in here on Wednesday. Don’t act like you don’t stroke yourself to sleep at night to thought of hate fucking me.”
Your fingers went to the buttons on your blouse and started to slowly reveal the lacey black bra beneath. You felt him go still.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice dropping to a sinful register.
“Giving you a better look,” you smirked “Every time I looked up today your eyes were on my tits. Touch them. They feel even better than they look.”
“You’re being serious right now…” he quipped. “What makes you think I would ever want to touch you?”
“Well, for starters,” you said, inclining your head toward his straining crotch. “Your cock looks like it wants to tear through those trousers to get to me. Or had you not noticed?”
You watched, mesmerized as his hand came up to rub himself over the restrictive fabric. Those pants were your new arch nemesis.
“If you want to rid me of my stress, it would be as easy as getting in your car and not coming back. You are the absolute bane of my existence, you know that?”
His surly words were doing nothing but egging you on.
“Maybe…” you purred, stepping into his space. You brought his warm, strong hands up to splay out over your waist. “But I’m also the object of all your desires.”
He growled in your ear when you leaned down to lick the protruding vein running up the length of his neck.
“This changes nothing between us. I still think you are the most infuriating woman on the planet.”
The heat of him looming against your stomach was too much to resist. Your fingers gripped him firmly until you felt him twitch in your palm.
“Are you going to fuck me or not, Bridgerton? If not, I think I saw your brother at the end of the hall when I closed the door.”
You made to pull away from him when his hand locked around the back of your neck, pressing you firmly into the sizable bulge resting between you.
“Don’t you fucking dare. We both know you would eat my brother alive. You’re not that kind of cruel.”
“No,” you agreed. “I’m your brand of cruelty, Anthony. I think someone designed me just for you. The arrogant, entitled prick in need of someone to put him in his place. I’m your comeuppance, baby. Now be a good boy and serve your penance.”
His forehead pressed roughly into yours, trapping you to his gaze.
“You never learned how to shut this smart mouth, did you? You’ve been lashing me with that tongue for 10 fucking years.”
The tongue he just accused of bringing him pain jutted out to show him pleasure, stroking over his kissable lips.
“You don’t want me with my mouth closed, Bridgerton.”
“I don’t know,” he teased. “A little peace and quiet might be a nice change.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head. His pupils blew wide when you dropped to your knees in front of him. “You want my mouth wide open, baby. If you want me to shut up, then fucking make me.”
His fingers threaded into your hair yanking your head back to force your attention on his face.
“You are such a fucking brat. You’re practically begging for someone to teach you a lesson. Is that what you want? Do you want to learn your lesson?”
With all the innocence you could muster, you challenged him one last time.
“I’m an exemplary student. I’m hungry for knowledge, sir. Practically ravenous.”
If he was holding on to his restraint before, it was all gone now. His fingers tightened in your hair, sending a pulsing need to your attention hungry cunt.
“Take my dick out and stick out your tongue. I’m going to fuck that pretty face until you’re crying all over my lap. How does that sound? Do you want to choke on this cock for me?”
A whimpered “fuck” left your lips when he sprang free in front of you. You couldn’t think of anything you wanted more right now than to take him down your throat until he was a mindless mess. Licking your hungry lips, you leaned forward eagerly for a taste, but he pulled you back again.
“I asked you a question. Run that mouth one more time and answer me.”
“Yes,” you nodded enthusiastically. “Please, Anthony. I want to choke on your cock. I want to learn my lesson.”
A visible shudder ran through him at your confession.
“Good-fucking- girl. Give me your tongue.”
For once, you obeyed without protest. If you didn’t taste him soon you might actually die.
His hand guided the warm head of his dick along your waiting tongue. His hissed breath matched your rising desire, and you moaned in pleasure. You needed more. What was he waiting for?
“Any day now, Bridgerton.” Antagonizing him was second nature at this point.
With one exasperated thrust, he slid into your mouth effectively cutting off your air supply. His quick, deep pumps had you gulping around his length. Your eyes were already streaming down your face. The fuzzy, euphoric feeling of oxygen deprivation was starting to dance behind your eyes. Your lungs burned with the need to inhale but there was not a chance in hell that you would stop this.
His needy, frantic movements were setting your blood on fire. Your imagination never could have conjured the sounds rumbling from his throat. If this is how you died, you would do so proudly and with a smile on your face. Your tombstone would be emblazoned with bold lettering that you died doing what you were made to do – choking on Anthony Bridgerton’s perfect dick.
Just when you feared that you would have to admit defeat and beg him for mercy, he pulled free from your greedy mouth leaving you a saliva-soaked mess. His labored breathing was going to be your undoing. Getting a rise out of Anthony Bridgerton had always been your preferred pastime, but this way by far your favorite way to do it.
“Is this what you wanted,” he asked. “Do you think you’ve learned your lesson yet?”
You smiled up at him, eager to poke the bear at every turn.
“Nope…” you said, popping the p in a way you knew would annoy him. “You’re a shit teacher, Bridgerton.”
Fire ignited in his rich brown eyes and your pussy all but cried out for help. The promise that one look held was enough to have you clenching around nothing, wishing he was buried inside you.
You let out a groan of satisfaction when he slapped his cock across your face.
“Did I say you could put your tongue away? Stick it back out and leave it there. I won’t tell you again.”
Desperate to taste him again, you did as you were told. He quickly rewarded your obedience with more slaps along your tongue. It was so dirty and debasing, but you loved every minute of it.
His leaking tip was smearing the salty promise of his relief all over your tastebuds. You almost came on the spot when he spit in your open mouth, coating himself thoroughly on your outstretched tongue.
“Wrap your pretty lips around my cock and swallow that.”
For fuck’s sake! You actually might not survive this.
“That’s my good girl,” he praised. “Look how gorgeous you are when you’re doing what you’re told. Now put your hands on my thighs and hold tight. I’m going to ruin all your pretty makeup.”
Before you even had a chance to brace yourself, he was pumping back into your mouth at a relentless pace. It didn’t take him long to find a pattern that was pushing him towards the edge of his release. After a torturous onslaught of punishing thrusts, he rewarded you by holding you down on himself, burying your nose into the hair at the base of his shaft. The scent of him there was blindingly erotic, and you wanted to cover yourself in it. When he thought you had earned a breath, he would drag you off him and leave you gasping for air before starting the pattern over again.
The pressure building at the apex of your thighs was maddening. Removing one of your hands from his thigh, you reached down to ease the aching. No sooner had you moaned in pleasure around his cock did he take it away from you. You instantly felt bereft at his absence.
“Put that hand back on my thigh. I didn’t say you were allowed to touch yourself. That pussy is mine. It’s mine to touch, mine to lick, and mine to fuck.”
Your brain wanted to be obstinate, but your pussy – she wanted to be owned.
But old habits die hard. When he pushed himself back over your tongue, you scraped your teeth along his shaft in warning. It was enough to do damage, but it definitely got his attention.
Sometimes being a brat pays in spades.
Two strong arms snaked around your waist and hauled you to your feet. The abruptness elicited a surprised yelp from you, and you found yourself splayed out face down over the cool surface of the conference table.
His hands found the slit in your tight pencil skirt and ripped upward until the fabric gave way and your panty clad ass was on full display to the room.
The heat from his toned body and his sinful scent invaded all your senses when he folded himself along your back to growl into your ear.
“Why do you insist on testing me?”
Honesty was the only way you could respond.
“Because you’re the only one I’ve found who can handle the challenge. I love that you’re always willing to play with me, Anthony.”
Your hips started to push back into him involuntarily. There was so little separating your neglected, needy cunt from the one thing it wanted most. The tantalizing friction that his rigid erection provided, along with his deep throaty growl was enough to spur you on.
“Come on, Bridgerton. Give it to me. You know you want to.”
“You don’t deserve it after the stunt you just pulled. Only good girls get fucked when they need it.”
You couldn’t help but goad him. “Well, what do obstinate little bitches deserve? I’ve earned my punishment, Ant. Now fucking give it to me before I find someone else to do it for you.”
His leg pushed open your thighs apart even wider leaving you open and vulnerable. It also prevented your throbbing clit from finding even a modicum of relief. The force he used to drag your soaked panties down the ground had your heart racing all over again. You needed him to fuck you into this table until you couldn’t see straight.
His control was slipping again. It wouldn’t take much more to push him past his limit. If you really wanted to, you could have him pounding you with one strategically worded sentence.
As much as you wanted that, you enjoyed your game. You wanted to see what he’d do when left to his own devices.
You screamed, first in shock, and then in pleasure, when his hand smacked against the skin of your ass.
“Fuccckkkkk,” he groaned. “You filthy little whore. You liked that. I can see that hungry, perfect pussy searching for my cock. You’re dripping down your legs, baby.”
Something about the tone of his voice when he called you baby had your heart misbehaving in your chest. It sounded almost reverent. Like he was proud of you for how much your body begged for him.
“Count and tell me you’re sorry,” he instructed.
“One,” you complied. “I’m sorry, Anthony.”
“Tell me why you’re sorry.” His tone was an order.
“I’m sorry you weren’t man enough to handle a little scrape of my teeth.” The rush you got from needling him was unparalleled.
The next blow was even harder than the last and had you lifting onto your toes. If he thought this was a punishment, he was sorely mistaken. You could easily become addicted to his discipline.
“Two,” you moaned. “I’m sorry, Anthony.”
“Tell me why.” The strain in his voice was a dead giveaway to his level of need.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed in front of the boys today. They probably don’t respect you now.”
That earned you a smack right across your dripping core. It was the perfect mixture of pleasure and pain. You felt like you could pass out from the adrenaline rushing through your system.
He asked you again and again why you were sorry, and each time you provoked him a little more. Your entire backside burned with the memories of the sensations his hands had left on you.
He asked you a final time.
“Why are you sorry, baby? Be honest.”
“Honestly,” you paused, braving your next words. “I’m not sorry. Not even a little bit. We should have done this a long time ago.”
One big hand curled around your throat and lifted your back to his front. His lips crashed into yours for a searing kiss. His other hand slid down your stomach and pressed into your clit with the perfect pressure. His fingers circled you as you moaned into mouth.
“Anthony,” you cried. “Please, fuck me. I need you. I can’t take it anymore.”
His body pushed yours back down to the tabletop and with one swift movement he was buried to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite. How had you gone so long without knowing the feeling of his cock moving inside you? That had to be some sort of crime against humanity.
You were both too far gone. It was impossible to savor it. It was quick, filthy, and hurt in the best way possible. His hips drove you so hard into the edge of the table that the bruises were likely already forming. The sounds the two of you made together were obscene. Skin slapping against skin. The desperate protest your wet heat made when he left your body for a fraction of a second and the whimpered thank you it made when you clutched him back into you.
His voice was the thing that truly sealed your fate. He was vocal and he wasn’t shy about it. His groans. His curses. His generous praise. He left no room for doubt. You were bringing him pleasure and he was lost to the euphoria.
“Fuck! Oh, fuck…” he hissed. “I’m gonna come. Come for me baby. Milk this cock with your tight little cunt.”
As if on command, you could feel the orgasm begin to swell. Your muscles clamped down on him, holding him prisoner inside you. You pulsed around him, and you could feel him get impossibly stiffer as he spilled himself into you.
“Yes. Yessss,” he cried out. “That’s it baby. Ride it out. I’m right there with you. You feel so fucking good.”
Breathing was hard, and your legs were seconds away from giving out on you. You winced at the pain when he pulled from your body. His release trying to follow suit, dripping down your thighs. You were a fucking mess.
His fingers collected your combined orgasms, pushing it back inside.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. “You’re going to keep all of my cum right where it belongs. I’m claiming this fucking cunt, baby.”
His fingers moved from your core to your lips. They were slicked with the evidence of what the two of you had just done.
“Suck,” he ordered.
You were done fighting him. At least for today.
Opening wide, you sucked his fingers into your mouth and tasted the two of you together on your tongue. A little hum of pleasure was all you could express. He had well and truly fucked you.
“Good girl.”
He straightened your body, righting your clothes and wiping the hair back from your sweaty face.
“Don’t move. Stay just like that.”
He moved away from you, gathering something from the other end of the table. When he reappeared at your side, it was with his phone. He pulled the camera up to snap a photo of your sex drunk face and then lifted your skirt again to document the damage he did to your ass.
“You look perfect. Absolutely wrecked.” He turned the phone to show you the picture.
He was right about the wrecked part. Your mascara was streaked all down your face, and your lips were swollen and red from the rough assault he made on your mouth. And you had the matching red hand shaped wilts on your ass cheeks to go with it.
“You’re welcome,” you teased.
“For what, exactly?” He was trying and failing to hide his smile
“I told you I could suck the stress out of you. You look much more relaxed now. Borderline happy even. It’s kind of creeping me out.”
His next words took you by surprise.
“Thank you.”
A loud buzz sounded and Jeaninne’s voice filtered into the room.
“Mr. Bridgerton… Your clothes have arrived, and your lunch is waiting for you in your office. I ordered your favorite.”
You couldn’t help the eyeroll as you continued to button your top.
“Thank you, Jeaninne. You’re the best.”
“You’re shameless,” you accused
“What,” he shrugged. “I like to see how often I can make her blush.”
You huffed in disapproval. The poor girl was probably in love with him.
“Can I ask you something?”
You turned to look him in the face at his sudden change of tone.
“Sure,” you replied. “Ask away.”
“Do you respect me?”
You eyed him in shock. That look of vulnerability was back and you loathed it.
“Is this about what I said earlier? About me embarrassing you in front of your team?”
His silence was the only answer you needed.
“Do I seem like the type of woman who would put your cock in my mouth if I didn’t respect you?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Good.”
You gathered your briefcase and strode towards the door. You only stopped at the sound of his voice.
“I respect you, too.”
“I know,” you smiled. “You wouldn’t play so well with me if you didn’t. Get your shit together, Bridgerton. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning with revised contracts. I’m sure Morrison is chomping at the bit to get this settled after your little pissing contest today.”
Your hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again.
“You want to respect each other again next week?”
You shot him a playful wink before sauntering out of the room. You would most definitely be respecting the hell out of him as soon as humanly possible.
If you were lucky, maybe you could get him to respect you a little less.
Summary: A brief insight through the years of Violet’s relationship with her children.
Warnings: Angst, Whump, Mentions of character death
Word Count: 5.3K
Author’s Note: Thank you so much @bridgertontess for this awesome edit. It goes perfectly with this fic. And thank you again to @colettebronte for always keeping me from going off the rails with commas.
________________________________________________
“Come and paint with me, Mama!” Benedict’s sweet, small voice pleaded as he pulled lightly on his mother’s arm.
Violet laughed affectionately at her son’s impatience. “Benedict dear, give your Mama just a moment. Getting up isn’t an easy feat these days,” she said while cradling her swollen, pregnant belly. She loved each of her three sons beyond measure, but her heart was secretly hoping for a beautiful little girl with her father’s eyes.
The light that positively radiated out of her second-born son was one of her greatest joys in life. She wasn’t sure what ignited that spark, but she prayed it would never be extinguished. The world desperately needed more of it, and so did she.
From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.
As his tiny body grew, so did the capacity of his heart. He was a sensitive soul, always searching for understanding in others, but rarely finding what he was looking for. Even though he followed his older brother around with ardent admiration in his eyes, Violet knew they were two very different little boys.
I am sobbing, every word of this beautiful piece is art! Violet understanding what each of her children needs in any moment perfectly illustrates her caring spirit. I am so glad Benedict painted with her! 😍
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU
Summary: It's that time of year... when you could use a fake boyfriend.
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), vaginal sex, dirty talk, hand as gag, quiet sex, sex in childhood bedroom. Fake dating, family dynamics, lots of feelings, friends to lovers.
Word Count: 11.3 k (eek Im sorry)
Authors Note: Here's my tropetacular winter 2023 Benepic! Request fill for @broooookiecrisp (HERE), who wanted fake boyfriend trope with Benedict accompanying the reader to the USA to spend Christmas with her family. I hope you like it, my dear. Thanks to @colettebronte for the read-through. Enjoy and happy holidays! 🎄
December 20th
“Thank you,” Benedict clinks his champagne glass against yours, “for everything.”
You blush and look down from his intense blue-eyed gaze, staring instead at the untied bowtie around his collar that seems almost more attractive than when fastened.
“It was nothing,” you demure.
“It was not nothing!” he scoffs, giving you a gentle shoulder bump as you both lean on the high-top table.
“Alright, it was my job then,” you modify, giving him a modest smile as you hotch slightly - beautiful though they are, you cannot wait to take off these high-heels.
“And you are excellent at your job,” he asserts before downing the rest of his champagne and refilling both glasses from the bottle before you.
He is lingering much longer than you thought he might, long after all his family and all the guests have left. The event was over a while ago, and all around you, the venue staff are clearing tables and stacking chairs.
Tonight was indeed a rousing success. Your first-time event managing the end-of-year fundraising gala for the Bridgerton Family Foundation, they hit a new record amount raised. Standing next to you is the newly minted CEO of that organisation, Benedict Bridgerton, looking far too dashing in his custom-fitted tuxedo. Empathetic and naturally in tune with the needs of others, he is indeed the perfect replacement to run the charitable arm of the family business now that his mother has decided to retire. In previous years, you both took deputy roles - him to his mother, you to your old boss - this was the first year you both stepped up to the plate to run things, and if you do say so yourself, you have both done an excellent job of it. A delightful working partnership built on years of friendship since meeting at university as an exchange student.
“You deserve a long Christmas break after this,” he breezes.
“Going home to the States in a couple of days,” you nod. “I’m both looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure, to be honest,” you confess, this second glass of champagne acting like a truth serum. You didn't want to or even get the chance to drink earlier, but a little tipple to round off the rewarding night is lovely, especially in present company.
“How come?” he seems genuinely curious, his forehead knitting adorably. Of course, he wouldn't understand; he comes from an idyllic family.
“I am very much the black sheep,” you shrug, twirling a finger absent-mindedly around the rim of your glass. “Being childless, unmarried and single at thirty-three in a midwestern family is unheard of and thus the subject of much ridicule.”
“Wow,” his eyebrows shoot up, “that's…,” he hesitates.
“Judgemental? Parochial? Small-minded?” you supply dryly on his behalf.
“I was going to say traditional… but sure, those work too,” he chuckles.
You giggle a little, then sigh. “So a mixed blessing, really. It's nice to see them all; I just wish they were a bit less them, you know?” you gesture vaguely into the air.
“A boyfriend would really take the heat off?” he queries.
“Hah!” you can’t contain the bubble of amusement at the mere thought. “Chance would be a fine thing. But, yes, that likely would take the edge off the worst of their barbs.”
“Well, I’m at a loose end,” he comments, seemingly changing the subject. “The family is spread to the four corners of the globe this Christmas. Mum is going to Costa Rica for a retired ladies' trip with Lady D. Don't ask,” he adds amusingly, holding up his hands. “Kate and Ant are taking their kids to Lapland, and my various siblings are travelling or staying with partners. Weirdly, it’ll be our first Christmas apart. At least we will all reunite for New Year's at Aubrey Hall.”
“Aww, that sounds nice,” you offer neutrally.
“What I'm saying, y/n, is…,” he continues slowly as if waiting for the penny to drop, “if you need a fake boyfriend, I am available. It’s the very least I can do after all of this,” he explains, gesturing around the room. “Plus, it might be novel to experience a typical American Christmas,” he shrugs casually.
You can’t help it; you gape at him. Completely floored. The idea is utterly left-of-field and yet so exciting your heart pounds. If there is one downside to working so closely with Benedict these last few months, it has been the exponential growth of your inappropriate feelings for him. He is so sweet and handsome; no one would be immune, frankly. It was bad enough when you were at university together; now, well, it’s slightly lethal. Your mind boggles at him playing the role of a doting boyfriend; your body, however, seems very enthused, a warm flush creeping over your skin at the mere thought.
He chuckles nervously, a likely reaction to your stunned silence. “Listen, it was just a silly suggestion; you don’t have t-”
“Yes!” you squeak, interrupting and grabbing his jacket cuff boldly when he seems to be withdrawing. “Please,” you add almost as an afterthought, unsure how to thank someone for such a generous offer.
His face breaks out into the most handsome grin.
“Excellent! Then, it's a date!” he exclaims, tilting his glass towards yours again. “Well, a fake date,” he amends with a lopsided grin that makes your stomach flip.
Oh god. What am I letting myself in for?!
___
December 23rd
“Are you sure about this? You can still back out...” you offer, fidgeting in the bag-drop queue at Heathrow three days later.
“Please. What else am I going to do? Sit around my flat, billy-no-mates, and eat a sad M&S ready meal?! You are literally rescuing me,” he counters, probably exaggerating for your amusement.
Very much following the motto of not looking a gift horse in the mouth, you had texted Benedict your flight details that same night, and he has made it all happen in the hours since. Somehow, he managed to wave the Brigerton magic wand and secure what was probably the last seat on your direct flight two days before Christmas. Unluckily for him, he has to slum it in economy with the rest of the plebs like yourself. He couldn't even get a seat near you; he's stuck down the back, in the middle, near the galley.
“How about we swap seats at least?” you offer, guilt creeping in, looking at your printed boarding pass. Not only is Benedict doing you a favour, but he’s also pretzelling his tall self into an uncomfortable seat. The least you can do is offer him your aisle seat.
“I’ll be fine,” he dismisses, waving a hand and fishing out his passport as you are called to the desk.
“Travelling together?” the pretty, painted lady breezes at you, holding out a perfectly manicured hand to take your passport and ticket. Then you watch her practically melt as she claps eyes on Benedict.
Tsk. Typical.
“Not exactl…” you begin.
“Yes,” he cuts in with a winning smile. “Sadly, we couldn't get seats together, though,” he pouts a touch theatrically.
“Oh! Well, let me see what I can do about that… It is Christmas, after all,” she winks at him conspiratorially, then taps on her keyboard.
A few minutes later, your bags are checked in, and you are upgraded to Premium Economy. The lady was apologetic that you still couldn't get seats together but a row apart instead. You are pretty sure if there was space, the handsome bastard would have gotten you upgraded to business without even trying.
Oh, to be a pretty Bridgerton.
___
Twelve hours later, you are in a taxi, tired but grateful for the additional legroom on the flight, even managing a few hours of light napping. Benedict is similarly sleepy, both of your heads lolling around as the car zips down the road. By the time you reach your family home, it’s evening, but to your body clocks, it's the middle of the night.
As you slide out of the taxi, a long arm wraps around your shoulders, and you startle.
“Best to look convincing from the off,” Benedict mutters as he throws his duffle bag on top of your suitcase and trundles them up the path with his other hand.
You nod and dutifully wrap your arm around his waist over his puffer coat, slightly annoyed at how good it feels, as if your arm belongs there.
“This is so American it's almost a cliche,” he jests, looking up at your parents' house, holiday string lights twinkling in the dusk.
You giggle at his remark and bump him with your hip, quickly escalating into a friendly tussle. He hauls you into his arms and swings you in front of him.
“What are you doing?” you whisper, your limbic system alive at the feel of him pressed into you even behind heavy coats.
“Just go with it,” he responds with an easy confidence and that dazzling smile. As if in slow motion, his lips descend, and you reel as they lightly brush yours, an explosion behind your ribs at this passing touch.
Over your shoulder, you hear the front door opening and realise it’s for show, for a particular audience. You are grateful for the forethought but completely discombobulated from this partial kiss.
How am I going to survive a week of this?
“Mrs y/l/n, Mr y/l/n,” he calls as you linger in his arms, not wanting to turn around just yet.
“Well, hello there. This must be the famous Mr Bridgerton,” your dad's opening line. “We have heard so very little about you. Before yesterday anyway,” he adds, already twisting the knife in early as you pull up to the porch.
“That may well be because I asked her not to,” Benedict rebuts smoothly, releasing you to give a firm handshake. “I love the element of surprise,” he adds with a smile you have seen him deploy before, a weapon’s grade charm offensive.
Your mother’s face is a picture. “Well, well, we certainly didn't expect someone quite so handsome to accompany our daughter,” she drawls, verging on flirtatious.
Benedict drapes his arm around your shoulders and nuzzles your hair. “Whyever not? She is simply wonderful,” he sighs, his hot breath tickling your scalp before letting you go again.
Damn, he is good at this.
“Hello, mom, dad…” you greet politely before moving in for a short hug from both.
“Happy holidays, darling. Let's get inside,” your mother fusses.
Within a few minutes, after some casual pleasantries are exchanged as you remove coats, you watch your mother give Benedict a tour of their home, including, to your chagrin, your childhood bedroom, which is a time capsule from your teen years. At least the dog-eared band posters have been taken down. As you drift back to the living room, Christmas music plays from a speaker behind the tree. Your family loves to go all out on the holiday decorating. It does feel festive and cosy, though.
“It will be a full house with all of our kids and their spouses staying tonight. So there are no spare rooms. You are on the sofabed in the den, Mr Bridgerton,” your dad comments, gesturing to the room next door; the message very clear.
“That's fine,” Benedict huffs genially, “and please, call me Ben.”
“I might actually head to bed now,” you admit over a stifled yawn. “My body thinks it's 2am.”
“Same,” Benedict chimes.
“Oh, you should stay up, try to get into the timezone,” your mother clucks, always with an opinion about how you are not doing things how she would. “Ben has not yet been introduced to Tucker, Travis, Tegan and their spouses. They are all still out at dinner…” she indicates, listing your siblings and looking most perturbed at your decision.
“Tomorrow, Mom,” you assure.
“Alright,” she capitulates with a sigh, mostly when she sees Benedict yawn behind his hand.
“Goodnight…” you offer to all and go to leave the room, but as you get to the door, Benedict stops you with an arm shooting out.
“Don't I get a goodnight kiss, my love?” he pouts.
At first, you look up at him shocked, then a flick of his eyes over your shoulder makes you realise he is continuing the ruse.
“Maybe,” you flirt back, jetlag somehow making you daring. An ideal excuse to be coquettish, even though your parents likely can't hear your exchange above the music playing. They can certainly see your body language, though.
“Oh, I see. What do I have to do to earn it?” Benedict plays along, a dangerous smile and a large hand low on your lumbar spine, pulling you into him.
“Tell me you will miss not sleeping next to me,” you boldly request, a little cheeky smile tugging at your lips to see how far he will let you push this.
A long finger swipes a tendril of hair out of your face and behind your ear, a thumb curling under your chin.
“Every night I'm not sleeping next to you is my misfortune,” he replies, sounding wistful, his eyes seeming to burn with something approaching sincerity. It makes your stomach swoop like you are standing on a cliff edge on a windy day.
“Good answer,” you stumble in acknowledgement, pushing up onto your tip toes, heart in your mouth.
“I do what I can,” he answers against your lips and then draws you into a slow, plush kiss.
His mouth doesn't open, but it doesn't matter; the hint of wetness on his pursed lips has your body reacting, a charge ripping through your being. A sudden yearning for him to push you against the wall and plunder your mouth with his tongue. When he withdraws, you know your pupils are blown wide, but you are taken aback that his are, too; the dampness on his lip shines in the glow of the Christmas tree.
Your father pointedly clearing his throat breaks the spell, and you jump apart as if burned.
“Sorry,” you both mumble and Benedict pulls the most adorable ‘oopsie, my bad’ face.
“Goodnight, y/n,” he says tacitly.
“Goodnight, Ben.”
As you climb the stairs slowly, exhaling the breath it feels like you have been holding since he grabbed your arm, you know that kiss will be replaying in your head for weeks. If he keeps this up, you may well combust.
This was a fantastically bad idea.
___
December 24th
You awaken on Christmas Eve when it’s still dark outside. A glance at your phone says it’s right after 4:30am. Already knowing you won’t get any more sleep, you throw open your case and grab slippers and a hoodie, deciding to head down to make a coffee.
You almost jump out of your skin when you see a silhouette sitting at the kitchen table.
“Sorry,” Benedict atones as he sees you clutching your chest, “time zones.”
“Same… coffee?”
“Please…”
As you potter around, making a pot as quiet as possible, he scrolls on his phone. You join him once it’s brewing.
“How is the sofa bed?” you ask, wincing guiltily.
“I've slept on worse,” he obfuscates jovially.
“Sorry, if I’d known there wouldn't be a spare bed, I would have booked a hotel,” you apologise, rubbing your temples.
“No, it’s tradition to stay with family at Christmas,” he rebukes with a smile.
“Thank you again for all this,” you mutter, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets. “Have you done this fake boyfriend thing before?” your question is only partially in jest.
“No, what makes you say that?” he huffs bemused.
“You, uhh, have been doing an excellent acting job,” you shrug. “Thank you, by the way. I don’t think they quite believe I could land you, but I’d argue you have been very convincing regardless….”
“Don't say that,” he frowns, cutting in.
“You don’t think they buy it?” concerned things may not be working as well as you believed.
“Not that,” he waves a dismissive hand, “the other thing. Why wouldn’t they believe you could ‘land me’?” he rounds off with a quotation gesture.
You bark a laugh. “Have you seen you?
“Stop,” he seems genuinely ticked. “That is all shit. I would be lucky to have you,” he mumbles, not meeting your eye, staring out of the French doors into the inky blackness. It won’t be sunrise for another three hours this time of year. “I am lucky, in fact, to have you as a friend,” he adds, his thoughts sounding far away.
“Well, same. I still have no idea how to repay you for all of this…” you admit.
“I already said, none needed. Why would I not choose a little foreign adventure with a good friend when the alternative is Christmas alone?!” he scoffs as the coffee machine beeps.
Unsure quite what to say, you get up to make a cup, knowing without asking how he takes his. Retaking your seat, you pick at the idea again.
“I think we should strategise…” you mutter into your mug.
“About what?”
“The plan. Now you have some inkling of what they are like, maybe we should talk tactics…?” you trail off, not sure even yourself where you are going with this.
“It's simple, isn't it?” he counters, taking a gulp of coffee. “We hold hands, hug and kiss occasionally, you know, act like a couple….” he shrugs as if it's the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it is to him; his heart probably doesn't pound when you so much as touch.
“Okay, well, I guess we can improvise. But let me know if it all gets too much. Send me a secret code or something,” you offer.
“Like a safe word?” he chuckles.
“Something like that,” you allow, trying to mask the heat you feel creeping up your sternum at the very thought.
Just then, his phone vibrates on the table.
“Sorry, it's Ant. I should probably take this,” he apologises, standing up.
You swallow a sip of your coffee, trying not to think too hard about anything, when suddenly he leans over your shoulder from behind, the phone still buzzing in his hand.
“By the way, my safeword is Byron,” he rumbles silkily into your ear. “Not that I’ll ever need it,” he adds, walking away casually while you try to bring your heart rate back to normal.
Dear God, this man is going to kill me.
___
You take your coffee back to bed when Benedict doesn't reappear after a few minutes and end up passing out again for a couple of hours. By the time you are awake again, the house is a hive of noise and activity. You pass Kallie, your oldest brother's wife, in the hallway, and she punches your arm lightly.
“Welcome home, and well fucking done!” she winks, and you frown, confused what she’s talking about. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “That delicious slice of Britishness in there,” she elucidates.
Shit! It just occurs to you that by falling back asleep, you left Benedict alone to fend for himself in the melee of your family. The poor man must be mauled alive by now.
So when you enter the kitchen, the last thing you expect to see is the sight before you. Benedict, with an apron on, tossing American-style pancakes like a pro on the hotplate while your family chatters around him, applauding as he serves up another perfect-looking batch.
“Darling!” he calls when he sees you. “Come here!” he exclaims warmly, holding out his arms.
Unsure what else to do and powerless to resist the opportunity, you walk over and allow yourself to be swept into his arms. He presses a kiss onto your cheek. He smells like butter and syrup, and you want to burrow into him.
“Sorry I left you alone in the lion's den,” you say close to his ear so only he can hear.
He smiles into your hair. “They are fine, honestly; I can handle it,” he assures mutely.
You pull back and swipe a tiny fleck of batter from his face, enjoying the round of his cheekbone as you do. What makes an odd weight land on your ribs is how his pupils dilate fractionally as you lick the dot off your thumb.
“Delicious, Mr Bridgerton,” again, unable to stop yourself from flirting with him now you have the excuse.
Something in him looks almost wild as your gaze locks.
“Get a room!” your brother, Tucker, jeers from the table.
Part of you wants to sass back some version of ‘apparently we’re not allowed’ and ‘I wish’, but all you can do is smile at Benedict as he mirrors your expression.
“More, please, Mr Brid-un,” your youngest nephew toddles over, holding up his plate expectantly.
Benedict finally looks away and ruffles the little kid’s hair. “Certainly, Brandon,” he offers warmly.
“What I find fascinating is how a proper British gentleman knows how to make good old-fashioned American pancakes,” your mother pipes up from her seat at the kitchen island.
“Oh, my nanny was an American,” Benedict waves the spatula as he pours more batter onto the hotplate and begins a new batch.
“Your grandmother was from the colonies?” Travis mocks, feigning outrage.
“Oh no… not that sort. My umm nanny nanny, as in the lady who looked after us as kids,” he explains, looking somewhat sheepish.
“Shhiittttt,” your sister Teegan drawls, looking up from her phone for the first time. “You’re like actual rich, huh?”
“Language Tee!” your mother warns from across the room.
Teegan pulls a face and then turns her attention back to Benedict, awaiting his response.
“Please, can you all not be so… y/l/n,” you cut in, holding up your hands to the gathered family. “For once, can you all just…?” you taper off, hoping they will read between the lines.
“How’d you two meet?” Dean, Teegan’s husband, calls out, ignoring your plea completely.
“We actually met at university many years ago,” Benedict explains, flipping the pancakes as they bubble. “But we started working together last year on various projects, and well, we grew much closer.”
So far, so truthful.
“Then, well, one memorable day, when we successfully wrapped up a project we had worked on so hard together, I realised she meant so much more to me than a friend,” Benedict continues, sounding so sincere you almost believe it yourself. A tiny flutter in your chest that the project he refers to could be the Gala. “I kept it to myself for a while, but late one night, I couldn't resist, and I confessed my feelings. I am the luckiest man alive because it turns out she felt the same. And, well… here we are,” he concludes, shooting you a look so loaded you forget it's a yarn for a few seconds.
“Friends-to-lovers, I stan,” Claire, your other sister-in-law, comments. She always has her head stuck in some romance book.
As Benedict serves the next batch, the focus of the room is pulled to your nieces and nephews as they overload their pancakes with toppings, and you are grateful to be out of the glare of the family spotlight temporarily.
“How did I do?” Benedict murmurs into your ear as he sidles up next to you, wrapping an arm around your back. There's a tinge of pride in his voice. He knows he has them eating out the palm of his hand, and fuck if it isn't so attractive.
“I should tip you…” you joke, not wanting to give away quite how flustered you are.
“I accept payment in kisses,” he breathes, his smouldering stare sliding down to your lips as you crane your head to look up at him.
It's only a few minutes later, as you grab a pancake from the stack that you realise he didn't say that at volume anyone else could hear… it was purely for you. And you have no earthly idea what to do with that thought.
___
The rest of Christmas Eve passes with your family’s usual rituals, with Benedict beside you, playing the doting boyfriend to perfection. Each brush of his makes your adrenaline spike—a divine torture.
While dinner is cooking in the afternoon, your parents usher most of you out of the house for a walk in the bracing cold to build up an appetite. And so you stroll, Benedict’s gloved hand in yours.
“So Ben, is everyone in London not married with kids, or is it only my sister who can't seem to figure it out despite her old age?” your sister Teegan digs as she pushes the buggy next to you.
“Well, we are a similar age, and I'm not married with kids either,” he points out breezily.
“Yeah, but…” she halts, realising there is no response she can think of. “Wait, why don't you have kids yet? Don’t you want a family? I thought you said you had lots of brothers and sisters?”
“I do come from a big family, yes. And I suppose one day, yes, I do want kids of my own,” he adds, seemingly honest as you listen intently, your heartbeat in your ears, “but I feel no rush yet.”
“So you’re not knocking this one up anytime soon then?” your brother Tucker stirs, checking your shoulder roughly from the other side.
You can't help but feel a blush darken your cheeks at that and refuse to look up at Benedict. You open your mouth to tell Tucker to shut up, but Benedict cuts across you.
“If anyone has come close to being someone I would consider having kids with, it's your sister,” he admits casually, as if talking about the weather. But for you, it feels like you are back on that proverbial cliff edge about to dive over, heart racing. It takes every fibre of your being to keep walking and acting naturally, grateful for the gloves between your joined hands; not sure you could handle his skin touching yours as he says such things.
“Ooooooo,” Tucker singsongs, “going to the chapel, and they’re gonna get mar...”
“Cut it out!” you grouse.
He peels a laugh, then jogs on ahead to catch up with Dean.
“I’m sorry about that,” your apology hushed as you keep walking, Teegan falling behind you to deal with one of her kids' tantrums.
“Why? It's an inevitable question when you meet your other half’s family,” he points out, squeezing your hand reassuringly as you wander as a pair.
“Yes, but… it's a bit much, considering they just met you hours ago. They are intentionally stirring the pot. Trying to scare you off,” you frown, realising what they are doing as you say it aloud.
Benedict stops walking, and it makes you halt, too. “Nothing could scare me off,” he assures, his face soft with understanding as he cups your jaw. His cold, damp glove is a balm to your flushed, embarrassed face.
“Right,” you nod, “cos this is all fake…” you add quietly, trying to hide the defeated tone.
“Anyone who knows how great you are would not be scared off by the idea of a future with you,” Benedict says soothingly, a thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“Well, when you meet a candidate who fits that bill, send them over to me, yeah?” you quip brittly as you look off into the distance, unable to meet his hazy, sincere eyes.
His response is interrupted by your niece tugging on his coat.
“Uncle Ben, can I sit on your shoulders? Please? Daddy already has Brandon, and my feet are so tired,” she whines in that dramatic way only little ones do.
Benedict laughs and releases you. “Certainly, Sofia,” he smiles as he hauls her onto his shoulders, uncaring of the mess her little boots smear onto his coat as he does so.
“Faster! Go faster!” she orders, and genially, Benedict obeys, moving ahead and breaking into a light jog as she giggles loudly and holds onto his chin.
You try to ignore the flutter in your chest at the sight of him with a kid on his shoulders, as if he were born to do so.
This was such a mistake…
___
“When are you moving home, y/n?”
You knew this was likely coming. The question your mum has to ask every time you visit. And every year, your answer is the same.
“I don't think I will be, Mom,” you explain calmly as you pass the plate of peas to your sister, not wanting to look at Benedict, who sits opposite you at the long table. “I love London. It feels like home,” you add with a shrug.
“Yes, but this living abroad thing is supposed to be a phase—a young person thing. You are mid-thirties now. It's time you settled down,” she frowns.
“I am settled,” you reply neutrally, “I have a place of my own that I love.”
“Yes, but an apartment, sorry ‘flat’,” she self-corrects sarcastically, “that’s not a real home. A home is a house with a garden in a safe town with good schools for your children,” she lectures.
This line of discussion used to annoy and rile you up, but you have become weary of it over the years. The rest of your family is tucking into their food but listening smugly, having towed the traditional family line.
“I think home can be many things,” Benedict pipes up from across the table. “A home is about where you feel safe and secure, surely Mrs y/l/n?”
“Well, yes…” your mother falters, slightly taken aback by his interruption but still charmed by his effortless congeniality.
“Then I would say your daughter’s home is London,” he smiles disarmingly. “You should see her there; I encourage you to visit sometime. She has a home she has made beautiful. She has many friends, and she is amazing at her job. She is happy. I, for one, cannot imagine her anywhere else.”
Again, you can feel your heart beating at his sweet words, even knowing they are all for show; it's lovely that someone has your back for once, defending your choices.
“But what of the schools, Mr Bridgerton?” your dad piles in, “I have heard nightmares of the school system in the inner cities, in this country and yours,” he shudders.
“My family has always gone to a superb prep school in Chelsea. I see no reason why our children could not do the same when the time comes,” Benedict responds with a winning smile.
You almost drop the corn casserole at that line.
Plonking it heavily on the table and taking a deep breath, you finally pluck the courage to look over at him. Looking back at you is a playful smile and a wink. And suddenly, you know what he is doing. It likely appears genuine to others, but you know him too well; you know all his facial tells. He is doing this for sport. To entertain you. The kaleidoscope of emotions you feel is near exhausting, relief mixed with a tang of disappointment that it's all for show.
“Well, that's wonderful news, Benedict,” your mother squeaks. “I cannot wait to hear more once you are engaged,” never failing to find an opportunity to take a dig.
“You will be the first to hear, I promise,” he smiles winningly and takes a bite of food. “This is delicious, by the way,” he adds, “I hope you will share the recipe with me, seeing as we will likely be family one day...”
And just like that, he expertly manoeuvres your mother onto the only topic she loves more than marriage - cooking. As if he could intuit how to steer the conversation. Relieved, you sit back and finally take a deep breath, then a bite of your admittedly delicious plate. You are even grateful he manages to distract them long enough that there are no jibes about your weight.
Maybe this wasn't such a mistake…
___
A few hours later, with the little ones tucked up in bed, the adults gather around the tree with the fireplace roaring and the festive music softly playing. It's time for gift exchange, a family tradition away from the hubbub of Christmas morning with the focus on the children ripping through all the gifts Santa left for them.
You are enjoying the buzz a second large glass of wine provides when the focus turns to you. Benedict sits beside you and slides a hand onto your knee. Still, your body reacts, but you attempt to act as if it doesn't make your blood pump hard in your head.
“Benedict, we didn't know you were coming, so I'm sorry we have no gift for you to open,” your mother says sheepishly, “and y/n, we have done as you always ask; we have sent you a gift card over email,” she explains, “which makes me sad as you have no gift to unwrap….”
“That's fine, Mom, thank you. And don't worry, I don't need a gift,” you assure, taking another swig.
“Actually….” Benedict clears his throat, “I have a gift for my girlfriend if that is okay?”
You look agog at him.
“But… I didn't get you anything,” you splutter, even as he moves his hand from you and reaches behind his back, revealing a small navy velvet box.
“Don't worry. It's nothing really, just something small,” Benedict assures, even as you can feel everyone’s eyes on you as you reluctantly let him place it in your hands.
Slowly, you pull at the tail of the lovely soft gold ribbon until it relents. With your heart in your mouth, you snap open the box. Nestled in more navy velvet is a tiny, beautiful crystal penguin, your favourite animal.
“Ben…” you are lost for all other words, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.
“I remember you loved the larger one my mum had on her desk,” he explains lowly as you stare transfixed by all the facets catching the twinkling light. “Every time we had a meeting, you would stare at it or play with it. So I knew I had to get you one too, for your desk… or wherever you want to put it,” he modifies sweetly.
You can't help it - the swell of emotions makes you throw your arms around him as you clutch the precious item. It's like he has managed to distil everything you could want from a Christmas gift - something personal, tailored to you, nothing too extravagant but small, elegant and beautiful. And that he had the forethought to bring it across the Atlantic with him makes your heart burst even more. He is possibly the best friend you could ever have. You fervently wish he was so much more.
“I can't believe you remember that,” you mumble. “This is perfect and beautiful. Thank you, Ben, thank you so much.”
“Merry Christmas, my love,” he says into your hair at a volume you know is designed to be heard by the room.
“Merry Christmas,” you return quieter, only for him.
Vaguely, you hear your mother moving on to hand a gift to another, perhaps embarrassed by the display of affection between you. Grateful that the family focus seems to have shifted to someone else, you go to pull away from the embrace, but Benedict draws you tighter into him.
“Lovers don't let go so quickly,” he whispers. “Now I'm going to kiss you again if that is okay…”
Your tummy flips. “Okay…” you barely struggle out the word.
Then his hand is on your cheek, and time seems to slow like treacle; his eyes burn into yours as he moves in, then flutter closed as his lips meet yours. Again, it is like a rollercoaster, a thrilling plunge as his lips move over yours. It's like the previous night, respectful with a closed mouth but so sweet and promising, so much more a whole ripple runs through your body. You need more, so much more, desperate to climb into his lap and demand a real kiss, audience be damned. When you part, he tilts his forehead against yours and smiles gently, licking his lip as if savouring the taste.
“I'm glad you like it. The gift that is,” he clarifies, a sweet mumble.
You giggle. “I love it, Ben, thank you. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything; I feel terrible.”
“Being here with you is gift enough,” he assures in a voice that melts your insides, which you assume is for the audience.
My god, this man will be the death of me.
The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant fog of wine, your siblings holding court and telling stories as you listen, feeling the weight of Benedict’s hand again on your leg as he sips on a whiskey. Once again, you feel the creeping of jetlag and decide to turn in around 10pm. You give Benedict a peck on the cheek before he can draw you into another confounding kiss and make your escape upstairs with a glass of eggnog and your book.
As you settle into bed, you try not to let your thoughts spiral as you catch sight of the crystal penguin in its box. Instead, you tell yourself he is a good friend and rich; it's likely nothing to him, and not to read too much into it.
___
December 25th
At some point, you drift off to sleep, book in hand, the timezone still catching you out. You only realise it when you are awoken suddenly around 2am by a knock on your door.
“Come in,” you croak, sitting up and rubbing your eyes to adjust to the light; you had fallen asleep with the bedside lamp on low while reading.
The door opens ajar, and Benedict’s handsome face pops in. “I saw your light on…” he says softly, “just wanted to check on you.”
You put your book aside, pull the covers around your neck and feel an odd flutter as he closes the door behind him. He looks cosy in long tartan pyjama bottoms and a soft dark t-shirt.
“I'm sure your dad would kill me if he knew I were here,” he jests as he hovers a few feet away.
“Come sit,” you pat the bed next to you, even as you feel strange about him being here, dead of night on Christmas Day.
He nods gratefully and perches on the edge of your bed. It's a full-size mattress, bigger than a twin, but not a double bed. You can feel his weight tugging the bedding tight over your thighs.
“Thank you again for my gift, truly,” you gesture to the box on your bedside table.
“I had to. I couldn't think of anything more… you...” Benedict smiles that demure smile with downcast eyes that always makes you want to shake him and tell him to stop looking so fucking adorable. Or mount him. Or both. You have to bite your lip to stop blurting out your errant thoughts.
“But still to buy me such a wonderful gift and put up with my family… I mean… you deserve a medal,” you shrug.
A hand clamps onto your knee through the bedding, but it still surprises you.
“Stop it,” he gruffs. “I'm going to need you to stop. Seriously. I chose to come here. It's been fun. Something different. Yes, your family is a bit… intense, but everyone’s is. Each has its own special blend of crazy. You’ve seen the Bridgerton brand of dysfunctional up close,” he points out, knowing without saying more how much you have watched them bicker over the years.
“But you’ve said all those lovely things, made up all these amazing believable stories…” you argue back weakly.
“Every single thing I have said to your family has been the truth,” he responds solemnly.
You replay a few choice record-scratch moments in your head. “But what about the stuff about me being the person you could see yourself having kids with and where these imaginary kids would go to school…” you point out, wincing as you do.
“I told no lies,” he answers each syllable enunciated slowly, staring you down.
It feels like your whole world tilts when he utters those words.
“What are you saying?” you query, breathier than you mean to sound but needing him to spell it out.
He sighs, but a mischievous grin twitches the corner of his mouth. “You are much smarter than this; don't be obtuse now, y/n,” he rumbles, something in the challenging way he says it catches a fire behind your ribs.
“Ben…” you warn, so many contradictory feelings at once.
“You are all the things I said and more, and you must know how amazing you are,” he offers softly as you feel your eyes misting.
“Please don't,” your last vestige of resistance, still not believing what he says can possibly be true, too close to a festive miracle. Part of you thinks that at any moment, you will wake up alone and bereft.
His fingertips brush your cheek, and you inhale sharply and look up to see him inches from your face.
“Fine, if you don't somehow believe my words, maybe you’ll believe my deeds…”
It's the last few words out of his mouth before his lips meet yours.
This time, it's not for an audience; it's just for the two of you, and it almost stops your heart. A hesitant, soft, sweet brush that becomes more as he leans in and deepens the kiss. His lips part yours as your mind grinds to a halt, tentatively following his lead, kissing him back… the catalyst, the permission he needs. A large hand rounds behind your head and pulls you forward. Suddenly, it's a tidal wave, his tongue rolling greedily over yours, becoming hungry, urgent, desperate, your body awash with chemicals, scarcely able to believe Benedict, the star of every one of your spicy dreams, is here in your childhood bedroom, kissing the very life out of you in the early hours of Christmas Day.
“Lay down,” he murmurs into your skin as his lips glide over your cheek, and you follow his order without thought, shuffling down obediently until you lie flat and stare up at him transfixed.
It’s as if he’s taken your disbelief as a challenge to prove how very real this is. With one hand, he tosses aside the covers and crawls over you until he is engulfing you, surrounding you with his scent that makes your mouth water. His lips are hot on your neck as his hands map your body, lingering in places you are self-conscious about.
“Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” he sighs as if disputing your internal monologue, his breath ghosting warm over your collarbone.
“Stop…” you demure, wriggling under him, feeling bashful.
“No..” his crooked smile is lethal as his head pops up from worrying your throat with a little edge of his teeth. His hand skates your clothed breast, and on instinct, you push up into it, your nipple hardening as the heat of his palm seeps through your nightshirt. “Please take off your top,” he implores, his mouth finding your lips again. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamt of touching your naked body.”
“I can’t believe this…” you mutter, shaky, confounded that it could be true—the man you desire desiring you back just as wantonly. He lowers his body between your legs, surging his hips so you feel something insistent inside his pyjamas.
“Now, do you believe me?” he dusks into your ear.
“Benedict…” falls from your lips as an excited shudder.
“Say my name again, please,” he huffs right against your cheekbone, pinning you under him with his pelvis.
“Benedict,” you repeat, revelling in the effect it seems to have on him.
It gives you the courage to whip off your top. The noise he makes as he realises you are naked underneath it is a beeline right between your legs.
“Shh,” you hush, giggling, a rush through your veins, not wanting anyone to disturb this, as he slides his lips down over your skin towards your breasts.
“I cannot,” he remarks gleefully, “not with such a bounty beneath me.”
His lips clamp onto your left nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs.
“Might wake fam…” you stumble out, impressed you can even do that.
He pulls up, his biceps in tense relief as he balances on his fists curled on either side of your waist. “Then lock your damn door,” he growls in a way that has you clenching.
“No lock…” you squeak, wishing beyond belief you had one.
“Shit, really?” he sighs, leaning back down to kiss over your sternum. “I’m not sure I can be quiet; I’ve wanted this for too long…”
You go to query that statement, but he moves to your other breast and does the same, so the only sound you are capable of is a guttural moan.
“Shh,” he hushes you back cheekily, tilting his head up from your chest, eyes sparkling and face so achingly handsome you still can barely believe this is happening,
“We really do have to be quiet…” you point out reluctantly.
“I know,” he sighs into your breastbone, dropping a soft kiss there. “I want to tell you so many things….”
“Whisper them to me…” you beseech, running your fingers through his lush, thick head of hair, tilting your breast back up to his mouth.
He smirks and catches your unsubtle hint, once again using his talented mouth to make you shudder under him. He runs a finger down your centre line to your belly.
“Your body is perfect,” he sighs. You go to protest, but he shoots you a disapproving look, so you bite back your words. “I could get lost for hours tracing your lines,” he hums, his featherlight touch tickling as it crosses under your belly button, making you giggle. “Hmm, a little ticklish too,” he sounds utterly captivated by that discovery, throwing you a very troublesome expression.
“Don't use it against me…” you warn, knowing he will ignore you, a fizzy feeling at this playfulness.
“Oh, I just might…” he chuckles as he runs his tongue lower over your torso, a hot, damp line that leaves fluttering in his wake. “I could do this all night…your skin is so soft,” he purrs, inhaling deeply, nuzzling his nose above the line of your pyjama bottoms. “You always smell so fantastic,” he sighs, using his teeth to tug on the ribbon.
You’ve never had someone be this vocal during intimacy. It makes you feel reassured but also slightly bewildered by just how aroused you are getting, Benedict’s resonant voice skittering compliments over your skin, making you embarrassingly wet. Your hands greedily pull at his t-shirt, hoping he will get the hint.
“If you want something from me, you have to say it,” he teases as he switches to using his fingers to undo the bow on your pyjamas.
“Please take off your top, Ben,” you mewl, even as your heart pounds at the idea you will soon be naked under him.
“I will,” he promises, “in a minute…”
As if sensing your apprehension about removing your last item of clothing, he leaves it in place, shuffling lower and stretching your legs wide with his shoulders. You gasp loudly as his mouth, hot through the thin cotton protecting your modesty, sucks insistently over your slit. A large hand curling around your hip to stop you canting off the bed. Your clit throbs, and your pussy leaks copiously down your bottom.
“Fuck I can tell how wet you are even through this fabric,” he stutters.
“I'm sorry...” you squirm, embarrassed.
He surges upright, grabs your hands from around his head and cages them on the mattress beside your hips.
“Let's get two things very clear,” his voice stern but achingly seductive. “One, your body is incredible, and you should know by now how much I desire you. Two, if you ever apologise again for being turned on, I will be annoyed. Do you know how proud I am? That I can do this to you? How absolutely rigid this makes me?” rutting his hard cock against your left calf to prove his point. “I want your desire running down to your knees. I want you mindless and trembling with need for me.”
“O-okay,” you stumble out, entranced. This filthy poetry and feralness is beyond anything you could imagine him capable of. You have seen hints of his menacing potential, but full force, it’s breathtaking.
“Good,” he smiles crookedly, releasing your hands. “Now lift your hips so I can get you properly naked,” the slightly bossy rejoinder really working for you.
Mutely, you do as bidden, his fingertips trailing fire down your hips as he tugs the material over your thighs, impatiently pulling them from around your ankles and tossing them over his shoulder, his gaze locked onto your body. He groans a curse, and you again find yourself clenching around nothing at his untamed response.
Whispering his name is a reflex, your fingers carding again into his hair as he lowers his mouth and suckles the skin of your hip before slowly, almost torturously, winding his way lower towards your centre. Every place he touches feels alive and fluttering, him whispering reassurance and praise into your flesh, like a sensual requiem that catches your breath. By the time he trails his nose down the crease where your thigh meets your body, you are panting, eyes screwed shut, head tilted back, anticipation knotting your guts.
“Look at me,” he orders softly, his face framed by your thighs as you gulp and look down the plane of your body to him. “Don’t look away; I want to see your eyes when I do this,” his breath hot on your slit.
He unfurls his tongue and ploughs through your wet flesh, making your toes and fingers curl. You have to bite your lip and curse behind your teeth, the sensation overwhelming, his eye flashing fire in his blown pupils at your bodily reaction. You hiss loudly, needing to call out so bad your lungs ache. You twist your pillow to bite down on a corner but keep your eyes on him as told. He chuckles pridefully, the sensation shooting up your pelvis, then keeps going. Teasing around your clit with a lathing action that is nothing like you've had before, devouring, using his whole face, strong arms wrapping your thighs in a vice-like grip, held lewdly open It feels so good that within moments you are panting. Still, part of you is tense, scared about your ability to be silent.
“Relax,” he breathes, shaking your hip gently in his grip, sensing the tension in your being.
“I'm worried I won't be able to stay quiet enough,” you admit, muffled around the pillowcase, looking away to stare at the ceiling as he busses a soft kiss onto your inner thigh.
“One moment…” he withdraws and hops off the bed. You watch, vaguely dazed, as he drags a heavy chair against the door and wedges it under the handle so it can’t be opened. “There, now we should get some warning.”.
When he turns back around, you instinctively pull the cover over yourself to hide your naked body, even as you can’t help but stare at the tent in his pyjama bottoms, mouth watering at visions of what lies beneath.
“Don’t do that,” he reproaches softly, “show yourself to me.”
Reluctantly, you push the sheet away again, squirming slightly as his eyes roam your body lasciviously as he prowls over to you, stripping off his t-shirt as he does. His naked torso is perfect, toned and honed, and as he crawls over you, you are hypnotised by the view.
“You are so beautiful,” he sighs, dropping a kiss on the tip of your nose, the scent of your arousal on his face. “Never cover yourself in front of me; you should be proud of your body.”
You’ve never had someone say that before, and your insides are molten, a need for him that burns so bright, an inferno purely of his making.
“Tell me what you want,” he proposes, lacing your fingers with his, kissing your fingertips, then sucking them into his mouth, looking at you expectantly as you stutter at his warm, wet, talented tongue lathing over your fingertips.
“Everything…” you blurt out honestly. “Anything. This is all wonderful… Can I return the favour for you?” you deflect, brushing your other hand tentatively over his bulge as he hovers over you.
“Yes, you bloody can,” he growls, releasing your fingers from his lips as his eyes flash dark. But he grabs your hand away from his cock, calming his tone. “But not tonight. Another time…”
“Another time?” you echo, temporarily stunned by the idea this isn't a never-to-be-repeated Christmas miracle.
“Yes. Why would you think this a one-time thing?” his brow knits as he drops a kiss on your cheek. “What about my actions and words tonight suggest that?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” you concede, “just history…”
He cups your jaw. “The past is the past. This is now and me,” he states clearly, running a thumb tenderly over your lip. “I will do whatever you want. If you tell me to leave this room right now, I will, and I won't think any less of you…”
“Don't you dare,” it's a snarl from some dark recess deep inside you, your legs twining around his to lock him in place.
“There she is…” he chuckles, that lopsided grin taking over his face before kissing a line down your throat. “Now tell me what you want, y/n.”
“I want you inside me,” you confess, running your hands over his naked back, loving the play of muscles under warm skin.
He groans at your words, an edge of teeth on your jugular, making you ripen, feel daring. If he wants to know just how wild he makes you, you are going to show it. You grab his face and drag it up until he is over you again, his pupils blown and his hair a mess from your tugging.
“Fuck me, right now, Ben,” you demand hotly, pushing your body up into his and delving a hand inside the back of his pyjamas to grab his shapely rear, keen for him to be as naked as you.
He snarls and pins your arms beside your head on the pillow.
“Do you have any condoms?” he breathes hot in your ear.
“Ah shit,” your head thumps back, chastising yourself for not planning better. But then this seemed like such an unlikely outcome, frankly miraculous; why on earth would you have?
“Good thing I came prepared then,” he teases, releasing his grip to produce a small packet from the pocket of his pyjamas.
“You….” you scold, equal parts impressed and irked, running your fingers around his waistband.
“It was a sincere wish, not an expected conclusion,” he smiles bashfully, his lips meeting yours for a searing kiss as he slips off the last of his clothing.
A shiver runs down your spine as he bears you into the mattress, naked, his rigid cock brandishing the inside of your thigh. He keeps kissing you over and over until your lips feel tingly from the slight hint of stubble around his. You wrap all of your limbs around him, craving for your bodies to be melded.
When he pushes up slightly to rip open the packet, you glance down and see, nestled in a patch of trimmed hair, a sizeable but very pretty cock. You can’t resist reaching out and touching it, loving the feel of steely strength under the silky texture; his soft groan is like music to your ears. Sighing his name, you are impatient for him to be inside you, already knowing it will feel wonderful, part of you craving skin on skin.
Again he wears that demure smile, looking up at you through his lashes, so you take over, eagerly rolling the condom onto that pretty cock and then pulling him down on top of you forcefully.
“I like it when you are just a little bossy,” he confesses into your mouth, one hand pulling the cover over you both, then sliding between your bodies to guide himself towards you.
“I like it when you are a little bossy,” you counter, but then all your words die out as his cock slides insistently into you.
Your eyes roll back as he inches inside, so much heat and girth, your body stretching to accommodate his invasion. You both seem to utter a curse, and your hands grasp each other tight.
“You feel amazing…” he murmurs as he bottoms out, the feeling of fullness so perfect.
You whisper your agreement as he withdraws and surges back in, your feet curling around his legs, toes sliding into the light fuzz on the back of his calves. There are soft sighs, both of you trying to muffle your sounds as he sets a languid pace, your body rolling with his; each push has your walls clinging to him, your breasts squashing against his broad chest. What strikes you most as you move together is that nothing is awkward; it all feels natural, predestined, an easy intimacy that suggests months or even years together rather than a first time.
He feels so good moving inside you, so perfect; all you can do is cling to him, trying to convey with your eyes what you dare not voice. Afraid that if you open your mouth, you will release the noises you are fighting to hold in, blazing in your lungs. His stare is blistering, too, a blush across his face that speaks of desire and denied words, his neck corded, a pulse beating wildly in his prominent vein, a sheen gathering on his forehead as he pushes into you over and over.
His breath is hot on your temple as he shifts, dropping a shoulder and reaching down, looping your leg into the crook of his arm, the sheet pulling taut around your knee as he does. He hits a new spot deep inside with his next thrust, which has you digging your nails into his back and whimpering behind your sealed lips. It's as if he is doing his damnedest to break you, make you cry out, and it's the best torture you have ever known.
You huff out of your nose as he does the same, both sounding winded, as he picks up the pace, your teenage bed starting to squeak in protest.
“Shhh,” you plead with the furniture as much as him.
He stops moving, buried in you, and reaches above, stuffing a throw pillow between the bedframe and the wall, his arms flexing deliciously right over your face, the scent of his body spiking your need. It makes you grasp your thighs around his hips and flip him over, landing with a bounce, him still inside as you are on top of him now.
“Wow, that was…” he looks both astounded and exhilarated.
“Surprising?” you supply with a triumphant crooked smile of your own, your hands tracing the lines of his pectorals.
“Wonderful,” he clarifies, his hands grasping your hips as you start to ride him. The way he looks up at you, with dark pupils and a bitten lip, makes you fearless. Starting a leisurely pace, you place your hands over his on your hips, fingers lacing as his eyes slip from yours briefly, transfixed by his cock disappearing into you.
He groans low, undulating beneath you, pushing up as you sink down, his eyes back to your face, a prideful expression as your mouth drops open, his cock nudging deeper than ever before, almost a dull ache that you need, moving faster now, chasing that hit with every downstroke. You can feel your body flushing hot from the exertion, your thigh muscles burning slightly. Still, you don't waver, too addicted to that feeling of being so utterly filled, his cock dragging all the right places inside that switch off your brain and forget everything, every doubt, every uncertainty about yourself and your body, and just chase pleasure.
“My god, you are beautiful,” he gasps, “I love to see you like this, so untamed, so free…”
The compliments just drip like whispered jewels from his tongue as he guides your joined hands up to your breasts and grabs them with a force that fans the heavy, hot feeling in your pelvis, his knuckles snagging your sensitive buds. It makes you want to ride him forever, your clit throbbing each time you sink down, tugging temptingly but not enough to quite tip you over. The clawing sensation of being so close makes you drag your fingernails down his torso and clench around his cock. He stutters and looks at you hungrily, possessed, and then, before you know it, the room tilts as he rolls you back under him, again never leaving your body.
He withdraws and thrusts back into you with such force the wind is knocked out of your lungs, the pillow muffling the thud against the wall. Something in the atmosphere shifts; an urgency, like the heat that has been simmering, is now boiling over for both of you. He grabs your knees and encourages you to wrap your legs high around his torso, tilting your pelvis to a new angle, and when he moves, you cry loudly behind your lips, his body glancing at your clit.
He hushes you with a prideful chuckle. So you grab one of his hands and place it over your mouth, knowing you cannot trust yourself to stay quiet now. The hitch in his breath as you gag yourself with his palm is like poetry.
Oh, Ben, you have no idea what I may want from you one day…
Your errant thoughts run to your darker fantasies, things you’ve never done before but are intrigued by, and in every one of them, it's him. Treating you just a little rough while you beg for more.
“Whatever you are thinking,” he gusts into your ear, moving faster now, “I hope it involves me.”
You nod, feeling his fingers flex across your face.
“Good, I can't wait for you to tell me,” he rasps lowly.
A bead of sweat forms along his hairline as the whole bed rocks now, the trapped pillow muffling the sound, his punishing pace pushing you ever closer to orgasm, pleasure spiking with each thrust. His hand grips your jaw; something about that pressure and the sweet words he murmurs is a contradiction of primal and tender. Sex before has always been one or the other for you; blended together, it's a potent elixir.
He takes you hard, without mercy, and you silently beg him with your eyes for just that; his cock feels so hot and rigid, pounding into you as your cries are muffled by his tangy palm. The onslaught is perfect, and you are teetering on the edge just as he pleads roughly with you to come with him. So you let yourself go, your mind blanks out, your body bucking under his violently. Shuddering convulsions fanning out from your pussy, gripping tight around him and racing through every ounce of your being, muscles taut, eyes screwed shut, a scream trapped in your lungs. He stills above you, his hand releasing your mouth as that bead of sweat splashes down onto your nose. He curls around you, coming hard, huffing gulps of air and twitching almost violently with tiny aftershocks.
After a pause filled with panted breaths and strokes on overheated skin, he carefully withdraws and discards the condom.
“Merry Christmas,” you giggle into his neck as you collapse together.
He hauls you into his embrace, tucking you under his arm and kissing your dewy forehead.
“Merry Christmas indeed,” his answer ragged, wrapped in a warm laugh.
And that is how you both drift off - exhausted, sated bodies entwined, damp skin pressed together.
___
A few hours later, you are awakened by overexcited nieces and nephews thundering down the stairs, eager to see what Santa has brought them. It takes a moment to recall what transpired overnight, a telltale delicious residual pang between your legs, followed by the realisation you are alone. Part of you relieved Benedict has snuck back to the safety of the den, but a larger part sad not to be waking up in his arms. Sighing, you roll over and spy a jaunty cartoon penguin Christmas card propped up on your bedside table. Upon opening, you beam, immediately recognising the beautiful, looped handwriting.
Y/n
Thank you for the most magical night. Leaving this bed might be the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather be on Christmas Day or, indeed, any other day of the year. But I don't want your father to be angry with me. I have a lifetime to disappoint him… if you will let me.
I can't wait to see you downstairs.
Merry Christmas,
B xx
P.S. I may have just booked a hotel for the rest of our stay. I think we deserve some privacy ;)
You giggle, elated; the exciting prospect of nights in a hotel and the pledge of a lifetime ahead makes your stomach leap—this could be the start of something. You momentarily clutch the card to your chest, revelling in your joy, before burying it into your book for safekeeping and going to take a shower.
When you descend the stairs, out of the picture window, you see most of the family gathered on the street with the kids circling on their new bikes. But as you round into the living room, a sight melts your heart. Benedict sitting cross-legged on the floor with Sofia, a novelty Santa hat perched on his head, surrounded by shreds of wrapping paper, festive music playing in the background as he puts batteries in some loud plastic toy that will no doubt drive everyone up the wall for the rest of the day.
She whoops with delight as the toy noisily springs to life and runs away to play with it. That's when he looks up and sees you watching from the doorway, his face lighting up. Slowly, he gets to his feet, and then you gasp as he wordlessly pulls you into his arms, brings your hand to his face and kisses your knuckles before starting to waltz.
“I didn't know you could dance like this, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease, impressed, allowing him to lead you around, dodging haphazard toys and boxes.
“Oh, there are so many, many things you have yet to learn about me, Ms y/l/n,” he proclaims alluringly as Frank Sinatra croons from the speaker.
♫ It's that time of year
When the world falls in love
Every song you hear seems to say
Merry Christmas
May your New Year's dreams come true. ♫
“I hope you don't have plans for New Year's,” he whispers into your hair as he brings you to a halt. “I would very much like you to accompany me to Aubrey Hall. As my girlfriend,” he explains, grinning. “Not fake,” he adds drolly after a pause.
You laugh, feeling lightheaded and giddy, but just as you go to answer, you are both interrupted by a little hand tugging on his jeans.
“Uncle Ben, you are my favouritist,” Sofia declares solemnly. “Will you visit every Christmas?”
Meeting your gaze, his expression contains multitudes.
“It would be my greatest honour, Sofia,” he replies to her, even though his eyes never stray from yours.
First and foremost, let me just say thank you for this feel-good holiday romp! I have read it twice (currently reading for the third time to craft these notes,) and it just seems to get better each time. You always put so much care and attention into your works and the effort does not go unnoticed. You even added little holiday light dividers on this one! And your coordinating cover art on this one just seals that holiday magic all together.
Without further ado... lets get to the good stuff haha
The opening scene really stood out to me from a technical standpoint. Your ability to capture and portray and atmosphere reads so effortlessly. I could immediately tell it was the end of a long, highly anticipated night that both characters felt a sense of pride and relief in its end. The little details in your writing always make things come alive. His disheveled bowtie and her shifting weight on tired feet. Those things really take you there and pull and audience in.
I also think this initial exchange does a wonderful job of conveying who they are as people and what we might possibly expect from them as the story goes on. Your description of him as being highly empathetic is immediately echoed by him being invested in her seemingly uncharacteristic extension of vulnerability. Among the many things I love about that man, his disarming essence is at the top of the list. I like that he rewarded her trust in him with immediate support. She didn't have to ask him for help. That was a gift in and of itself. Asking for help is hard, especially when you're completely smitten with a person. I'm just glad our reader accepted the lifeline. To be fair, he's kind of hard to deny lol. I think the poor airport attendant is living proof of that haha. The poor thing never stood a chance against that charm. I really enjoyed that scene because it is SO Benedict and would 1000% be how that went down in real life.
Pulling up to her family home, jet lagged and travel worn, I can only imagine the dread coursing through her. When coming face to face with people who tend to ridicule and belittle you as a pastime, you probably want to look and feel your best. Not rumpled from hours and travel and seconds away from drooling all over a pillow. So when they get out of the car and he reminds her that he is there for her with physical touch *chef's kiss* - She isn't alone this time. She has someone watching her six. I could almost feel her relax in that moment. Just in time for her to be drowning in another form of tension. He really is lethal. Way too good at his job. I like that, as the reader, you can already tell that he is enjoying getting the chance to touch her just as much as she is. It's no wonder her family doesn't need very much convincing of his affection for her.
Ummm, excuse me ma'am... but that kiss between them before he lets her go off to bed. His giant hand on her lower back and the moisture on his lips. That man would have me being okay with being an exhibitionist so damn fast. Everything between them is so charged! You are doing a freaking fantastic job of building up that tension.
I also adore all the banter you throw in here. Between the two of them, but also with her family. They have very clear and distinguished voices. The dynamins with the brothers and sister feel very familiar, but I love that the readers lens almost changes a bit when one of the spouses are speaking. It softens a bit. Almost as if she feels somewhat more kindred to them as "outsiders" of the family.
This marks the part of the story for me where it is glaringly obvious that they both are starting to forget this is a ruse. Their shared, intimate little moments have me kicking my feet. Again with the banter. When he tells her that he takes payment in the form of kisses - I almost died haha. Swinging back a couple paragraphs, I also almost died when he admonished her a bit for making claims that she was somehow not worthy of him. It gave me major Mr. Knightly vibes and I am HERE FOR IT. Not sure why it turns me on to get scolded haha
Out of all of his sensual touches and cheeky remarks, I think my favorite part about all of this is the way he steps in to defend her. He shuts that shit down immediately. And in a way that is impossible to ignore. He isn't a brute about it, but something about the words that he chooses and the tone that he delivers in leaves no room for arguments. It gives a real "You know nothing, John Snow" vibe lol. I think it also displays what kind of a man he would be in a relationship. As a parent, I think I would respect that so much. Witnessing him being so clearly in her corner, how he clearly sees her and dotes on her... It would be a relief to know my daughter was being taken care of when he lives a million miles away. But it also checks them a little bit. I'm not sure how he has mastered speaking to someone as if they are a child while somehow still managing an air of respect. Love it!
Hehehehe I see what you did there with the little penguin gift that he gave her. Adorable.
Eeeeeeeeep! And now he is sneaking into her bedroom for late night Christmas confessions! I freaking love the way he talks to her. Sweet but challenging! Ughhhh how do you do it Faye?! How do you wield such magic?! This foreplay is fucking killing me! And even through all the sexy stuff, you still manage to keep the banter alive, and throw in some very real moments. I love the discussion about needing to keep quiet but he already knows that isn't going to be possible because he has wanted this for so long. Something about knowing that he is going to come unraveled is so hot. And of course, gotta love his "lock to the door" demand haha. But you know me.... I adored that you put in the bit where she apologized to him for being so wet. God! That is so real. I freaking love you for that. And his response....🫠😏🥵. The mouth on that man!
The sex is INSANE! It is so intimate and desperate, but in the best way. And then when you hit that shift in atmosphere and things start to get a little rougher, a litter more unhinged.... GAAHHHH. The hand over her mouth and his plea to know the filthy thoughts dancing across her face. MMMMMMMMM!
His note in the morning was the best! Sweet, funny, and dirty. I mean, he really is a triple threat haha. And then to add ONE MORE THING to his list of hotness... She comes down to find him playing so sweetly with her niece. I mean, come on... - BOOM! PREGNANT!
This ends on such a happy note. Already making plans for more time together. And swaying to that Christmas song. You are a master at your craft Miss Faye. Absolutely stunning. Thank you again so much for taking on this massive prompt haha. I feel honored any time you take one of my little musings and run with it. I can't wait to see what you churn out in this new year.
Summary: Benedict thinks he is in love, but can you ever really be sure?
Word Count: 2.2K
Author's Note: No beta on this one. Just kinda had a thought and knocked it out quickly. I apologize for any egregious mistakes. Song Inspo for this one is Can We Pretend That We're Good by Daniel Seavey. Let me know what you think!
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It started on a drunken whim. An errant thought that the alcohol voiced without his consent. While he watched her giggle after tripping up the stairs to her bedroom, the notion struck him square in the chest. Did he love her? Maybe he did. He liked the way she smelled. He liked her satisfied hum right before she fell asleep after he had thoroughly fucked her senseless. Her unpredictable nature was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. He wasn’t sure if the way his heart raced when he was with her was affection or a warning sign. She would either be the best thing for him, or the start of his demise.
Yes, he had thought through the addled haze of his tequila soaked brain, he might love her. The garbled words were tumbling out of his mouth before his conscious mind even registered their meaning.
“Do you love me,” he slurred as she untucked his white shirt from the waist of his pants.
Her fingers stilled on his belt, eyes shooting up to meet his in shock. He had never seen her look shy before, it was cute. But he didn’t like the way she now hid from him slightly, and he actually hated the way her voice shook with uncertainty. “Would it be okay with you if I did?”
“Maybe,” he hiccuped with a shy smile of his own. “Would you mind if I loved you, too?”
“I think I could live with that,” she admitted before continuing to undress him.
He realized now that he had asked her this way because he needed to hear her say it first before he could take the risk.
Something that began rooted in insecurity turned into an intimate inside joke that followed them and evolved throughout their relationship.
She woke up in his arms every morning, and every morning he would smile into her neck, inhaling everything she was, and he would start their day together with a simple question.
“Do you love me,” he would ask in a sleepy morning whisper.
She always nuzzled her backside deeper into him at the sound of his voice. “You know I do.”
“Say it.” Sometimes a command, sometimes a plea.
“I love you, Benedict,” she would always oblige.
His name on her lips hardened him instantly, and her knowing giggle made him twitch against her.
“I love you too.”
“I know,” she said confidently. “Now show me how much.”
And he would. He would show her until there was nothing left of himself to give. He would show her until she clenched around him, clutching to his shoulders in ecstasy. He would show her until every shred of doubt was eradicated from her heart.
It was his favorite question to ask because her answer was always his favorite thing to hear. Do you love me? You know I do.
Even after knock-down drag-out fights, he would find himself uttering the words. They became a reminder, a coded acknowledgement that he was still all in. They could go hours without speaking, seething in separate corners, neither willing to admit defeat. But eventually he would always ask. Usually with his tail between his legs and his eyes averted, but he would ask. He would ask, because no matter how angry she was, he was always sure what the answer would be, and he needed to hear it. He needed her to give him the unspoken permission to show her how much he loved her in return.
“Love me?” His eyes would search her face beseechingly.
Her body softened into his, and she would meet him in surrender. “You know I do. I might not like you very much right now, but I always love you.”
Her declarations of love were a jolt to his heart - every… single… time. Who needed drugs when a high like that could be running through his veins? That vow, coming from a soul like hers… it was enough to carry him through anything. It fueled his ego, boosting his confidence to an absurd level. It gave him a delusional sense of invincibility, taking risks that others deemed him crazy in light of. But even if he failed, what did it matter when he had her behind him? Why would he care if the entire world hated who he claimed to be if a woman like her confessed to love him. She made him better in every sense of the word. She pushed him into greatness with her unflinching belief in him. She healed parts of him that he hadn’t even known were broken.
She was his measurement. She was his balancing scale. She weighed him in her gaze, delivering her verdict swiftly, and with a grace he seldom thought he deserved. When others tried to cast judgements over him, he would always bring them into comparison with hers.
All it took was a text. Four simple words, punctuated by a question, no other context required. Somehow she always knew why he needed to hear it.
B: Do you love me?
H: You know I do. <3
B: Say it.
H: I love you, Benedict.
B: Are you sure? Not tired of me yet?
H: Meh. Last week I could have been talked out of it. Yesterday was definitely iffy. But today… I’ve never been so sure of something in my life.
B: God, I love you.
H: Show me…
B: Tell me how and I’ll never stop.
H: What are you wearing?
He planned to ask her the same question until the day he died. He didn’t care how many times she rolled her eyes or swatted him away in annoyance. He planned…
But what of her plans? Did she want to be tied to him for the rest of her life? What did her version of forever look like? Was he in that picture? Maybe there was a new question he needed to ask her…
He didn’t like asking questions he didn’t know the answer to. There was always a chance he wouldn’t like what he heard. But the last time he asked her a question he was unsure of, it worked out pretty well. He was sure she loved him, and that fact alone gave him courage to ask something new.
“Do you love me,” he asked for the thousandth time.
“You know I do,” was her practiced reply
“How much do you love me?” He tested, nerves wracked from head to toe.
Confusion colored her beautiful features. He had deviated from their reliable routine. He feared he may have severely misstepped, but then she smiled. Warm and reassuring, she pressed into him. “More than enough, you goof.”
He held her silently for a moment. He wanted to remember this. He wanted to enjoy the feel of her body against his. He wanted to commit the smell of her hair to his memory, bury it so deep that it was impossible to forget. Just in case…
“Do you love me enough to marry me?” His lungs froze, hoarding all the oxygen from the rest of his body.
She went stiff in his arms, slowly lifting her head from his chest to look up into his face. “Benedict…”
His name had never sounded that way on her lips before, and he never wanted it to sound that way again. There was distance in her breath, trepidation on her tongue. He waited for her to go on, but they remained in silence, frozen in the echo of their last untainted embrace.
“Say it,” he pleaded.
“I can’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“You can’t say it, or you can’t marry me?” The prick of ice cold water was trickling down his spine. Fear… it was fear.
“I…Benedict… I ca-” her words fell away as her eyes filled with panic. “Please, can we just go back to who we were five minutes ago? Everything was fine the way it was. Why does it need to change? We were happy. We were free.”
“Free?” The horror of his realization plunged into his chest. On instinct, he let go and stepped away from her. “Marriage with me would be a prison, is that it? The idea of forever with me feels like a trap?”
“Forever is a long time, Benedict. I don’t know what I will want tomorrow, let alone forever. No one can.” She tried to reach for him but he took a step back.
“I do!” He ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. “I love you. I want you today. I want you tomorrow. I want you a month from now, and I’ll still want you fifty years from now when we can barely remember each other’s names. I want forever, and I want it with you.”
“I don’t think I believe in forever, Benedict. I believe in right now. You and me. I love you. Please don’t do this.”
“No,” his shoulders tightened defensively. “ You love me right now. What you’re really saying is that you love me - for now. Until what…? You get bored? Someone better comes along? Is that it, is there someone else?”
“No!” She reached for him again and this time he let her entwine their hands. “Of course not, Benedict. I would never do that to you. I fucking love you, you idiot. Why can’t we just keep going as we were? What’s so wrong with that? I’m not ready for this to be over.”
He shook his head trying to clear the chaos clanging around his mind. “You don’t want this to be over, but you don’t want forever. You just want the freedom to leave whenever you decide.”
“You’d have that freedom too. Who’s to say it would be me leaving you?” She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Who says anyone is leaving at all? If we have the freedom to leave, we also have the freedom to stay.”
“It would never be me leaving you. Never. I don’t want the freedom to go. I want the promise of always. Even when it’s ugly. Even when leaving would be the easiest choice. I don’t want it to be easy to choose to walk away. I want a covenant, something enduring. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for the day that you decide to leave me just because you can. That’s not love. That’s something imitating love. Something fraudulent trying to pass itself off as the real thing. Love doesn’t make evacuation plans. Love is sure. After all this time… you still aren’t sure about me?”
“It’s not that simple, Benedict.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her throat strained with tension. “And it’s not fair. Nothing is ever for sure. Not completely.”
“How can we build anything on a foundation of uncertainty? What’s the point if we can’t make plans, if we can’t dream together?”
“But why does there need to be plans?! We can support each other’s dreams without all of that.” Her voice was pitched in frustration.
“You see us in the future as two separate people on individual paths that are walking side-by-side. I see two people coming together as one and sharing a life dreamt together. One where there isn’t room for selfishness. A life combined, equal parts you and me. Children. Is that even something that you want?”
“I’ll tell you one thing I am sure of,” she wailed. “I hate this. I hate this so much. I want to go back.”
He swiped a tear from her face and stroked her cheek. “I don’t think that we can, darling.”
“Come to bed with me,” she begged. “Please, Ben. I just want you to hold me. I need you to make this go away. At least for the night.”
Reluctantly, he allowed her to pull him behind her towards her room. He allowed her to pull him atop her in the night. He allowed her to guide him inside her, to pull herself deeper into his heart. He allowed himself to forget the pain of the words said and the truth laid bare. He gave himself permission for one last time. For one last touch that lingered. For one more night with the promise of forever securely sleeping in his arms.
When he woke the next morning, wrapped around her like he always was, he pressed his nose to her neck like he always did, and inhaled the memory of her. He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t. He wanted to hear her say what she always did, but this time she wouldn’t. Not in the way he needed. Not in the way he thought she had always meant.
He could feel her stirring awake beneath him. Before he allowed himself anything else, he released his hold and climbed off the bed. Where to, he didn’t know.
He didn’t have time to decide before her small voice filled his ears. “You didn’t ask me if I love you.”
Pausing in the doorway, he looked back to her over his shoulder. “I didn’t need you to say it. I know you don’t.”
He wasn’t sure if anything would ever feel sure ever again.
Probably not the best way to start my long overdue praise by saying I’m mad at you. But if I’m being honest, yeah I’m mad. I’m mad that you released this incredibly poignant and unexpected story at a time when it resonated so intensely for me - almost like we’re on the same wavelength. I’m mad that you managed to make me genuinely upset with Benedict and are the first person to do that with their writing. And I’m mad that you’re so fucking talented and skilled with your words. It humbles me and I’m a prideful bitch. So yeah, I’m mad at how good this is. Here’s why:
The love confession is so adorable and organic. Both of them scared to say the obvious out loud, they play it off in non-committal questions. “Would you mind if I loved you too?” Benedict STOP, I’m already gasping on the floor… 🥵
And we know where his insecurities stem from. He needs to ask the question and hear her answer over and over and over, because his heart is too big for his body and needs constant tending to. Because he was loved but decidedly second place in his family, which leads him to worry he may always be second place in someone’s heart. Everyone deserves to be loved and reminded that they are but when does it venture from a sweet touch base into a crippling character flaw? I think you explore that beautifully with this story.
“Show me how much” 🔥 Girrrrlllll I have written something similar in LMBYA 😅 Ooof is it such a tasty challenge, and one that you know Ben will exert every effort to meet…“He would show her until every shred of doubt was eradicated from her heart.” 🫠 Fucking YES.
“I might not like you very much right now, but I always love you.” Have you seen that ancient viral video of the kid talking to his mom and he says “I love you too, but I don’t like you all a’ time” because she won’t give him cookies? 😅 Such a universal truth, perfectly captured here.
“Who needed drugs when a high like that could be running through his veins?” Okay, I promise I’m not just going to riddle this with references to other media but the song High Enough by K Flay came to mind reading this. It’s the song I used on my latest Ben video edit. A whole dive into this sentiment and so so perfect for Benedict 💙
“She healed parts of him that he hadn’t even known were broken.” 😭😭😭 If there was ever a description of what falling in love feels like…
“with a grace he seldom thought he deserved.” There it is again, his latent insecurity. He’s shifting them from his family and onto his lover. I’m sure we all do that. She’s helping him to heal and find self worth. But there’s a danger inherent to making one person responsible for every aspect of your emotional fulfillment forever, as we’ll see…
“He wanted to commit the smell of her hair to his memory, bury it so deep that it was impossible to forget.” I have no witty commentary. Just that I love this 💙
Then we come to it. The prospect of marriage. Benedict venturing out to the length of his emotional needs and asking her to be his forever. And to his horror, she’s not on the same page. The dialogue through this whole scene is perfect - so painful, so real and so understandable from each of their perspectives. And even though I know why Benedict feels the way he feels and even though my heart aches to see his unfulfilled longing…I’m mad at him. I think he’s being unreasonable. I think he has let his heart run away with him to the point that he simply can’t pause and understand the perspective of the woman he purports to love. He’s all soul, all heart, all romance - to a fault. He’s idealistic. He truly believes that a feeling can last forever due to sheer strength of character and/or the magical intervention of destiny. You have so deftly shifted my view of one of his great qualities and made me see how it can be a dealbreaking issue - and I love and hate you for that.
I’m fucking mad at him. I’m sad and mad at the same time. I don’t want his heart to break. I want him to get his happy ending, but not at the expense of the values of his partner. That’s asking too much and he needs to take a breath and recognize that. But his head is in the clouds, and her feet are on the ground. Some people aren’t amenable to a lifelong commitment. Some people live in the moment rather than in dreams and Ben needs to acknowledge that that’s a valuable perspective too. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. That what they have isn’t real. It means she doesn’t want to risk trapping either of them in resentment 50 years down the line and it’s a practical, flexible approach. But as I said, he’s all heart. It’s hopeless, all-consuming romance or nothing for him, and that just doesn’t work for her. This is a situation where no one is at fault, both of them love each other, but their personal values drop an irreconcilable conflict between them. It’s nuanced and raw and I cherish you for capturing it for us.
In the semi-fantastical regency context where we usually find Benedict, his overt romanticism is always endearing. He’s the heart, the lover, the romantic, the artist. But here you’ve pulled him into the modern day world, outfitted him with a messy human suit and painted an example of how these qualities can actually be a detriment. It’s brilliant and insightful and it hurts. And you’ve left me in awe. ❤️🩹
As always @eleanor-bradstreet , your words humble me. While writing this little fic, I too felt conflictins. I originally wanted to write this from a very black and white standpoint. I just had this phrase burning a hole through my brain. "You didn't ask me if I loved you. - I didn't need to. I know you don't." ..... I was going over and over it in my head. What would make him so sure that she didn't love him? At first, I considered infidelity, but as I started writing, this just came out in a world of greys. I'm always team Benedict, and even through his idealism, I still find myself firmly rooting for him... but with every word I had her utter and knew she was making valid points! It's not always cut and dry. And you're correct, I don't think either of them are wrong. I think this is an uncompromisable impass. His big heart is reacting to his worst fears manifested, and as you said, he's not acting with reason. But I think even once the dust settles, they would still come to the same unfortunate and painful conclusion - there is no tomorrow for them. Not without one of them severely relinquishing something essential to their well-being.
Where I fault him is his concrete statement that she doesn't love him. I think she does. She loves him in the way she knows how. Just because she doesn't love with reckless abandon in the same way he does, doesn't make her feelings for him any less valid. It's a tough spill to swallow that sometimes we just aren't enough for someone, or vice versa - we are too much. They are opposite sides of a coin. Situations like this are so frustrating to me because they make me feel helpless. It feels like love wasted, even though I don't believe love can ever be wasted. Not when we give it freely of ourselves. It is a kindness that we should never regret extending, even if we are met with rejection. Even if that person is horrible - YOU have loved. Your heart has curated something beautiful.
I'm so glad the nuances of this reached you. It was complicated. Messy. Real. Painful, but still beautiful I hope.
A Masterlist of Spooky/Supernatural Bridgerton fics
Men are beasts...
Forever by @queen-of-the-misfit-toys (vampire Benophie)
Enthralled (x Reader) by @fayes-fics (vampire Benedict)
Enthralled (OC) by @fayes-fics (vampire Benedict)
Chiaroscuro by yours truly (vampire Benedict)
Faoladh by @queen-of-the-misfit-toys (werewolf Benedict)
As the world ends...
If The World Was Ending by @thebabblingbrookenook (apocalyptic Benedict)
I'll Be Seeing You by yours truly (zombie Benedict)
All the Time in the World by @colettebronte (apocalyptic Anthony)
Enjoy these sexy, spooky, dark AUs with Benedict and Anthony Bridgerton from my endlessly talented fellow authors. 🖤 Something to sink your teeth into as the days grow darker...
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
Summary: A brief insight through the years of Violet’s relationship with her children.
Warnings: Angst, Whump, Mentions of character death
Word Count: 5.3K
Author’s Note: Thank you so much @bridgertontess for this awesome edit. It goes perfectly with this fic. And thank you again to @colettebronte for always keeping me from going off the rails with commas.
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“Come and paint with me, Mama!” Benedict’s sweet, small voice pleaded as he pulled lightly on his mother’s arm.
Violet laughed affectionately at her son’s impatience. “Benedict dear, give your Mama just a moment. Getting up isn’t an easy feat these days,” she said while cradling her swollen, pregnant belly. She loved each of her three sons beyond measure, but her heart was secretly hoping for a beautiful little girl with her father’s eyes.
The light that positively radiated out of her second-born son was one of her greatest joys in life. She wasn’t sure what ignited that spark, but she prayed it would never be extinguished. The world desperately needed more of it, and so did she.
From the moment he blinked open those observant eyes, a swaddled infant in her arms, she knew he would see the world for all its beauty. But she feared he would also be privy to all its pain. It was impossible to understand the depths of one without the other, and her son’s eyes were fathomless.
As his tiny body grew, so did the capacity of his heart. He was a sensitive soul, always searching for understanding in others, but rarely finding what he was looking for. Even though he followed his older brother around with ardent admiration in his eyes, Violet knew they were two very different little boys.
Summary: An industrial disaster ten years prior, has torn the world you knew in two. As a border guard for the Safe Zone, it's your job to keep The Infected from crossing over and spreading their strange sickness to the healthy denizens inside the heavily fortified City. When a young man from your not-so-distant past crosses the border as you once did and begs for your help, what are you to do? And why is he, like you, not an Infected?
Word Count: just under 1k
Warnings: For this part, not much, it's all set up, other than bleak themes and post-apocalyptic imagery. Is that a thing? Oh well, I’m warning you for them anyway. Eventually, the series will bump up to explicit but for now, it’s pretty tame, aside from what I mentioned.
Author’s Note: This is a VERY different type of fic for me. It’s more drama than smut. In fact, what smut there will be, will not appear for many, many chapters. I figured I’d warn you for that ahead of time. Please do enjoy this, my contribution to Spooky Month, my long-talked about Zomb!Anthony fic.
Special thanks to my wonderful discord friends. MANY MANY months ago, we all started spit balling various monster versions of the Bridgerton brothers. I look forward to seeing yours soon!
Ten Years Post-Incident
It’s yet another gray-skied day you note, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as you close the door of the single room shack you call home. Dead grass crunches under your feet as you flip open the latch on the gate, rotted wood and rusted metal easily give way as you then tap it with your hip to close it behind you before reaching back to push the latch closed. This is how your day begins. Every day. Just as it has for the last ten years.
Your rifle, as always, is stocked with rubber bullets. If this was all the protection you had, it would do little to keep you safe from the dangers that lurk in the valley beyond your gate. Lucky for you there is the thick barbed wire surrounding the small compound you’ve reluctantly called home since taking on the mantle of Border Guard.
It’s a far cry from the lush ivy and wisteria-lined walls of Aubrey Hall you had lived in from the age of eight until well, you had no choice to leave, ten years prior.
Frowning, you quickly shove the thought away. Dwelling on the past and all you had lost, who you had lost, did you no good, so what was the point? An image of a handsome young man yawning up at you as you poked him awake at the desk he had fallen asleep on, chestnut hair adorably sticking out in all directions, blinking sleepily as he adjusted his thick, black-rimmed glasses which must have gone askew in his sleep.
Blinking rapidly, you physically shake the image off as you climb the tall, rickety wooden ladder that leads to the guard tower, enabling you to look out over the whole of the valley below you.
The tower itself is small, a tight fit with room for just you, your rifle and the small rucksack that holds your essentials for your day-long shift. A box of rubber bullets, a few ration bars, two small canteens of City-purified water and a well-worn novel are all you need to get through the day. Every day. Just as it has for the last ten years.
When you first started as a Border Guard, you were constantly on alert, ready to scare off any number of Infected who tried to make it through the valley to get to The City. But they had to get through you first.
It had been discovered, long before you had become a guard, that while an Infected could spread their strange sickness through close contact, they were scared easily, so the use of rubber bullets was all that was warranted as necessary for the task. Cut off from fresh food and water that only The City could provide, an Infected died off quickly.
Now, years later, instead of the steady stream of Infected that once tried their luck to get to the metropolis, you were lucky to see one in a week. But still, your job was deemed as essential. It suited you fine. You preferred the nearly infinite quiet of the valley to that of The City, which if you turned around, you could just see off in the distance. At night, it gave off an eerie glow, that frankly, spooked you more than any Infected with their gnarled hands, sad eyes and gray complexion ever could.
Alone as you were, time lost its meaning. Though clocks had been provided for you, you gauged time by the light of day. You rose at first light. Your shift ended at dusk. Every day. Just as it has for the last ten years.
At last, dusk makes itself known, gray clouds turning even darker as the unseen sun sets. You climb down, faded wooden slats creaking under your weight as you descend. It’s twenty paces between the tower and your home. Flip the latch, open the gate, take two steps and pull it closed behind you, push the latch down. Every day. Just as it has been for the last ten years.
You open the door and enter your shack. As you close the door behind you, a gentle purring sounds as a flash of something large and fluffy hops down off a table low to the ground and winds itself around your legs. With a weary sigh, you sit on the floor and reach out a gloved hand to stroke your nearly ten-year old cat Snickers. She taps your leather-covered hand with the top of her chocolate brown and caramel-colored head, the sign she’s ready for her dinner. With a sharp exhale and creaking knees, you rise from the floor and go to the corner of the single room you’ve designated as the kitchen to pull out the one indulgent request you make from the supply truck that brings you items from The City bi-weekly, a large bottle of milk. Snickers meows her approval as you fill her dish and place it on the table as she jumps back up to drink. She allows you to stroke her white-furred back as you pull out a ration bar, first tearing the package open with your teeth and then eating, finishing it in four bites.
And such is your routine. Every day. Just as it has been for the last ten years.
tag list: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @amy123213 @elliemim @kmc1989
Yayyy! She's back! And with will no doubt be an amazing fic. Perfect for the spooky season. I can't wait for the rest @colettebronte . I can already tell from the setup that this is going to be good.
My dear friend Tess was not only one of the kindest people I’ve met, she was such a talented and valuable member of the Bridgerton fandom. There was nothing she couldn’t do - writing fanfiction, making gifs, video and audio editing, managing a (private) Youtube channel with me, and above all photo editing which she did with such creativity and generosity.
Entirely self-taught, she dreamed up edits that showcased the beauty of Bridgerton and its actors, tugged at the heartstrings, and even made us cry with laughter as she brought our insane in-jokes to life. Whenever a fic author wanted a certain image, she was always eager to fill commissions, going above and beyond to create a vampire Benedict or scientist Anthony or just change colors and mood.
It was obvious how much joy she got from Bridgerton and the creativity it inspired. She brought that same amount of joy to those of us who were lucky enough to know her and call her our friend. I was inspired to make this video highlighting her work, set to a Benedict-coded song that she enjoyed. A sweet, friendly, caring, funny and generous soul - she is so, so missed. 💙💔
Thanks to @colettebronte and @faye-tale who helped me to gather these edits, some of which were made in brainstorms and haven’t been seen before 🫶
Losing a friend is never easy. No matter how broad the distance between you or how brief your time together, when you share genuine joy with another person, their departure takes a piece of you along with them. And oh the joy we've shared with @bridgertontess . She was so sweet, so kind, and so strong. She shared herself selflessly with those she cared about. I'm lucky enough to be counted among those friends. She was so inspiring - putting herself out there and trying her hand at new things. She constantly underestimated her talents, but she tried anyway. That's bravery. She once thanked me for being a safe place for her to create and said that she always felt encouraged by my words. I hope she knows how much that meant to me. Especially now. To know that we carved out a place together with a bunch of other goofy Bridgerton loons, it makes this loss a little less bitter. Ppl can say what they will about Bridgerton. All the criticism the series receives may very well be true, but it will ALWAYS be dear to me because of the beautiful souls it has brought into my life.
Tess, I suspect you will be missed more than you could ever know. I feel your absence every day, but I feel lucky to still be able to touch pieces of you in the creations you've left behind.
"Does this fanfic writer have adequate enrichment to engage in writing behaviours?"
Fanfiction writers (Scriptor fictus) are intelligent animals who need plenty of enrichment as well as encouragement! If they're stuck in poor conditions (e.g. have studies, work, have to actually write to have something written) then they require the proper enrichment to engage in more healthy behaviours, like writing. Remember, due to poor breeding and socialisation, over half of all fanfic writers suffer from low self confidence and executive dysfunction so take care of them!
Give your fanfic writers proper care. Fanfiction writers are a life long commitment.
Use Your Words @thebabblingbrookenook - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
