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wooobuddyletsgetnasty · 8 months ago

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maybe I have some Benedict Bridgerton girlies on here maybe not but I have to get this off my chest with the new season because the man looks good. And don’t think for ONE second that this is anything but self-indulgent.

there is ofc slight porn in here bc WHO DO YOU THINK I AM???

you’ve received your warning, come closer if you dare.

maybe something along the lines of Benedict being a best friend of your older brother, something along the lines of a staple in your household, someone you have grown far too used to seeing.

he is nigh a few summers your senior but still further progressed enough that they hardly allow you to play.

tragedy strikes on your year of three and ten, taking your mother and father, which leads you and your older brother, who is six and 10, to being sent to the countryside to stay until of age, until you are able to care for yourself.

—

it takes seven full summers for the two of you to make way back to the ton— on the eighth year, in the spring, you return— you make your debut with your brother heading the attempt to find a lawful man for you to wed.

that very same spring, you see Mr. Bridgerton again.. but he is different, as are you.

gone is the girl and in her place is a woman.

you are still bright-eyed, despite the tragedy— still quick witted and kind. but you are also different, ethereal— Benedict never realized how your smile lifts your cheeks, never realized how your brow furrows when you speak— Benedict sees you for the first time in years and it feels like he has really, finally seen you.

and he— he is a man now. taller than you remember, more filled out— stout. with strong hands and forearms you linger on longer than you should— something that proves the artist he is. but he is unchanged in mischief, in the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, in the way he tries to include you in conversation.

it is in the spring, the spring you return, when you realize— you love Benedict Bridgerton.

—

despite your realization, you note that Mr. Bridgerton will never see you as anything but his best friend’s younger sister. you are put out, saddened by it. but it does not stop you. you cannot, will not be your brother’s burden any longer.

it is then your discrete conversation, your inside jokes, and your admiration of Benedict’s art stops. you cannot be so close to a man if you expect to find a good husband, one that will care for you and make sure you are happy.

Benedict, Ben, will never love you and you are fine with that or at least you can pretend.

—

it does not take long for you to find a prospect, Lord Rothschild. he is kind to you— he listens when you speak, he does not treat you like you are lesser. you are content to marry him, happy even.

but it still feels like it is not enough.

his gaze does not burn through you— does not make you alive— it does not make you feel.

but you are fine— you convince yourself. you could be happy. you could learn to love him.

your engagement seems set in stone.

Lord Rothschild has asked your brother for your hand and you agree. your smile does not pull your cheeks in the way Benedict can make it— but the way your lips turn up when he tells you, it is enough for your brother to be content.

—

Benedict, Ben, he calls on you that very night— the very day your brother speaks with Lord Rothschild and there is something about him that seems urgent, terrified.

you speak to him quietly, your maid a shadow behind you, your gown sways in the light spring breeze, “what are you doing here?”

he pauses, hesitating in his answer, “I-I do not know, I do not know.”

you step closer, peering like someone might see you, “we cannot be seen— I am to be married— you cannot be here, Ben.”

he seems awed, struck in the same way he normally is by you, “i cannot tell you.. but i can show you.” you are rightfully confused but nod hesitantly, “alright, Ben. alright.”

“meet me at Bridgerton house in the early morn.”

you agree without question, hastily turning, nightgown ruffling with the movement, motioning your maid towards the door, “Bridgerton house. i will be there.”

—

you hold true and you come to Bridgerton house in the morn— but you do not end up staying there.

in a carriage surrounded by nothing but a stifling silence, you allow Ben to take you into town. your nerves are pooling in your stomach, making you feel ill— but something in his gaze makes you hold out.

when the carriage comes to a stop, Benedict leads you in a direction you are familiar with, and suddenly, he seems nervous to be standing in front of this building— you have seen it before and it does not help with your confusion.

it is his studio— a place you have spent far too much of your time in, wasting moments, talking about your favorite art piece of his, something abstract, something you do not understand but are happy to look at because he touched it.

“Ben.. what are we doing here?”

he swallows thickly, a nervous habit you have picked up on, “you will see.”

it does not quell your nerves.

—

the inside is different than what you have seen before. gone are the abstract arts and in their place is portraits— so many portraits.

you take a turn around, admiring the ones that are full of color, life. you admire the ones drawn hastily with dark lines and desperation. they are all beautifully done. you are awed by his talent, awed by how well done and intricate they seem.

it strikes you suddenly, quickly as you stare into one— those are all your eyes, your nose, your cheeks.

“Ben,” you pause, attempting to find the words, “are— are these all of me?”

you turn, looking at him with a look he has never seen before. Benedict swallows heavily, voice hesitant when he speaks, “yes, they are all of you.”

you turn back, a new admiration in your gaze, “you have painted me?”

you do not turn back when he speaks, “you are so beautiful, it is hard not to.”

you pause again on the one that seems desperate, the line of your brow drawn crudely, like he feared forgetting, “why me?”

there is a quiver in his voice, “even when i am unable to draw— to paint— i can still imagine you. i imagine you in perfect detail, every time. sometimes it’s only you, only you, i don’t even realize i am doing it— not until you, you with that enchanting smile, are looking back at me.”

your chest tightens, “Ben— please— please, explain what this means.”

there is a waver in your voice this time— echoing the same as his.

he answers steadily, a newfound confidence in his tone. Benedict moves, admiring his own art, “i have seen you millions of ways— millions of emotions,” with his next phrasing, he motions to a different art, art made by his hands, “contempt, sadness, anger, happiness..” his voice trails, “i have seen a million emotions in your face,” his lip quivers when he finally turns to face you, deep eyes turning tender, “and i have loved each of them.”

you shudder, emotion overtaking you, but you do not respond to him, instead allowing him to continue to speak, “i have loved each of them and i will continue to love them— each emotion, every passion— i will never, never finish loving them, loving you.”

you can hear nothing but your heartbeat— nothing but the sound of your ribcage rattling, “you— Ben— i cannot… i cannot do this. Lord Rothschild has asked for my hand. i am meant to be wed.. he will propose soon.”

you are rambling, almost trying to deny him— deny what you feel.

Benedict hardens but does not attempt to move closer to you, “you say you are to wed him,” he pauses, turning desperate, “but do you look at him the way you are looking at me?”

you do not recognize that you are looking at him any other way than normal, not until he quivers under your gaze, “stop. do not continue to look at me that way,” his voice drips with hardly there restraint, “do not— or i will ruin you.”

you break under his equal watch, hands going up in desperation, before landing equally at your side, “you, Benedict Bridgerton, have already ruined me. i cannot marry that man,” you cannot stop the absolute noise of desperation that falls from your lips, “i cannot marry that man— and it is because of you!”

he seems aghast at your words, “me? me!” he swaggers closer to you, some part of him sure that this is what you want and you answer by stepping in to his frame, confirming it is, “yes! you! you and your artworks, you and the way you are leering at me— you and just you, Benedict— you have ruined me. i have nothing left for anyone else,” you quiver, but do not deny yourself the satisfaction of finally admitting it, “i love you— i love you.”

it feels like a prayer— like a secret, like something you should not have shared. it is too late to retract— Benedict closes in on you, lips pressing against yours with an anguish you can taste.

—

it takes a moment of his lips pressing against yours before Benedict is pulling away, hands raising above his head, dark hair shaking with the move of his head, “tell me to stop— tell me to back away, please, please.”

you cannot— you will not. you refuse to deny yourself any longer, “no— Ben, Benedict— no.” when he turns away, you follow, making sure he can see you, see the emotion in your face, “you cannot do this— you cannot show me this and expect us to go back to normal.”

he finds himself unable to turn away from you, instead, he cradles you, hands cupping at the sides of your face in a way you can only describe as tender, and he whispers— he whispers in something you can only describe as salvation, “i love you.”

you answer in a kiss, one that makes him back you into a table, one that makes him lift you high, seating you on a table in the very place he paints— he paints you. his hands grip desperately at your skirts— he is temping you, nothing but sin reeking from every pore, “i love you.”

you squeal a noise unknown to you when he disappears under the fabrics, mouthing at the most sensitive parts of you like they are his supper, “wait! wait! what are you—“ you are cut off by a noise so depraved you do not recognize yourself, “oh! oh!”

you gather your own skirts in your hands, trying to take away burden from him but also trying to find something to grab— something to hold. you need it— need to focus on something other than his quick tongue— you need something to ground yourself against the onslaught of his mouth against the place only husbands are supposed to touch.

“Benedict,” you sound hazy, a feeling in your gut pooling in the way you have only felt your own touch make you, “something is happening!”

he hums against you, against your tender most spot, signaling he knows— he knows and it is supposed to feel like this, that it is supposed to happen this way.

you release your skirts, opting to instead grab at the dark hair on his head, pressing him against the part of you that feels the most— the part that tingles from the base of your spine to the tips of your toes, “oh! Ben! oh!”

you do not need to elaborate, he can tell— he knows, knows you are crumbling from his touch.

he pulls away from you, only when your noises turn in to almost discomfort.

he appears from under your skirts, grin happy and face wet. he watches you for only a moment.

Benedict watches the way your brow eases, worries quelled, watches the way your mouth opens in gasps— from him, because of him.

you heave for air, gasping and heaving and he pauses, taking in the way your face changes with each breath.

“i think i will paint you like this next,” you peer at him, him still lingering between your spread legs, his pretty face framed by the silky fabric of your dress, “but only if you will agree to be my wife.”

#bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton x reader #send me asks #yes yes yes #shut up rissa

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