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wooobuddyletsgetnasty · 9 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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clarkiewrites · 11 months ago

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The Final Straw

Warnings: Smut, G!P, kitchen sex, rough sex, cute cuddles afterwards

Word count: 1163

Summary: After Outreach Day and Wednesday’s shenanigans, Larissa is feeling stressed and wound up. Her dear girlfriend wants to help in anyway possible

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams behind me, furious footsteps following the abrupt sound. I turn around, dropping the tea towel behind me, the remaining washing up to be left for another day. Larissa enters the room, throwing down her handbag and removing her gloves, not caring where they land.

“Darling, what’s the matter, is everything okay?”

“NO! Everything is not okay, Wednesday Addams has gone and ruined everything. Again! Can I not have one day of peace!”

I lean on the kitchen counter, the blonde goddess still pacing about. Ever since this Addams girl has started at Nevermore, Larissa has become more and more stressed, which consequently leads to rougher sex. Not that I mind of course, but days like today only end up one of two ways.

“What can I do to help you Rissa?”

She stares at me before moving towards me, grabbing my neck with her right hand.

“You can strip yourself of all clothing and bend over this fucking counter. And do it quickly.”

Following her orders, I remove my dress in one quick motion before unclasping my bra and letting it fall to the floor. I shuffle over to the counter, placing my hand on it to stabilise myself against it before taking my heels off.

“Leave the heels on.”

I nod in response before reaching for my underwear, dragging them down my legs and letting them fall to the floor. Bending over the counter, I hear some shuffling behind me, but don’t dare to turn around. The anticipation of what might happen makes me wetter by the second as the shuffling stops and I feel her press her front into my back, her mouth right next to my ear.

“You are going to take everything like a good girl and be good for me, okay?”

Whimpering in response, I shuffle slightly, feeling something press into my lower back. Immediately, I know what is about to happen and can only pant, no words forming in my mouth.

Larissa moves her hand, slowly caressing me, her hand slowly inching forward before rubbing small circles on my clit. I moan out in pure pleasure, her delicate hand causing my stomach to flip on itself. I try to arch my back into her but she presses me back down, not letting me move from my position.

“Riss, fuck…please…”

“What do you want baby, use your words. Tell me what you want from me?”

She pushes the tip of her finger into me, not moving it, just resting it in my entrance making my knees buckle slightly.

“I want you to fuck me so hard, with your mouth, fingers or cock. Please, take me however you want!”

“However I want? You may well regret that my love.”

She removes herself from me completely before I can complain. I hear her dress hit the floor but I know that if I turn around now, I will be severely punished. Silence echoes around the room, time seems to stretch forever but eventually I feel a gentle hand run up on the inside of my thigh, grazing close to my entrance.

“Deep breaths dear.”

Before I can question what she means, I feel her push into me, being met with no resistance due to how wet I am. I sinfully moan as she draws back and pushes deeper into me, her hips meeting my back. Larissa picks up her pace, rocking backwards and forwards into me, stretching me delightfully, only feeling her and nothing else. The front of my hips getting pressed into the counter, I feel enclosed, held captive by this goddess.

“Fuck Riss, you feel so good. Please, please don’t stop!”

I cry out as she continues to fuck me, her movements becoming somewhat aggressive. Her slight animalistic side starts to show but I couldn’t care less as she pushes me further and further to my peak. Our pants and moans echo throughout the kitchen, pure pleasure coursing through our bodies.

A coil starts to form in my abdomen as my walls tighten around her. I move back into her, matching her thrusts as she grabs my hair, wrapping my locks around her wrist, making sure that she is in control of me.

“Are you going to cum baby girl? Are you going to make me proud?”

I moan in response as I continue to rock back on her, the peak reaching closer and closer.

“PLease let..god…let me cum, please…oh fuck…so good…PLEASE!”

Her movements get a little sloppier as she bends over me, her mouth once again next to my ear, hot breath brushing over the side of my face.

“Let go my dear, come for me”

She kisses my neck as I arch my back into her, releasing all over her. We cum at the same time, collapsing onto the countertop. I turn to face Larissa, stray hairs falling onto her face, a red flush adorning her face and neck. I push myself off the counter as Larissa pulls out of me. Attempting to move towards her, but instead crumble to the ground, my legs giving out beneath me.

“Oh my darling, are you okay?”

She kneels down beside me but I laugh in response.

“I feel thoroughly fucked, so yes okay. You work wonders darling”

She removes her own heels before scooping me up, her arms wrapping around my legs and arms before carrying me to our bedroom. She places me on our bed before removing my heels and running to the bathroom to start a bath.

I try to move off the bed to help her but she comes back, tutting at me.

“You are not going anywhere missy, you lay down here until the bath if run, okay?”

I nod before falling back onto the bed in exhaustion. A dull ache thrums in me as I can only stare at the ceiling, reliving the past few moments.

“Larissa, come lie with me for a moment. I want to hold you.”

I close my eyes and hear shuffling next to me, then feeling the bed dip beside me as arms envelope me. Soft hair brushes against my face as I turn to face her. A slight layer of sweat adorns her forehead, her bright blue eyes staring at me.

“I’m sorry if I went too hard on you, my love. Ever since-”

“You don’t need to explain yourself. I understand you are under a lot of pressure and stress, and I want to help you in any way possible. Even if it does mean getting fucked into oblivion.”

I cut off her apology, caressing the side of her face.

“No need to be so crude about it! Besides, you sounded like you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, I did.”

We cuddle for a few more minutes before Larissa goes to turn off the taps, the bath finally ready. I know I shouldn’t ask her about the Wednesday girl, but I want to make sure everything is okay. A discussion for another time maybe

#gwendoline christie #larissa weems #rissa #principal weems #gwendoline #smut #clarkiewrites

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