It Had To Be You: Chapter 4 - You've Got A Friend
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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU
Summary: Set a couple of months after Chapter 3, Benedict and you are becoming best friends.
artwork credit @colettebronte
Warnings: discussions of sex, swearing, publically faked orgasm
Word Count: 3.1k
Authors Note: Unbetaed. A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, we see vignettes of Benedict and reader's growing friendship. And well... this ends with a twist on the famous scene. Yep. You know the one. Enjoy <3
21 months ago (3 months later)
Benedict Bridgerton is one of your best friends.
If you had uttered that sentence to yourself ten, even five, years ago, you would have laughed your head off. But it's funny how life turns out. In the months after you reconnect, you start to meet up regularly, at least once a week, sometimes more, and you text almost constantly. Becoming each other’s crutch as you rebuild your lives as single people.
On the surface, you couldn’t be more opposites, but he’s matured, and you find his company the most soothing and the most fun. Be it while having dim sum in Chinatown, wandering Victoria Park or helping him set up his new warehouse flat. There's always a tiny frisson, an undercurrent of something between you that, to be honest, makes it more appealing. A pilot light of heat that could, maybe one day, become a bonfire if the timing were right. You are not sure it ever would be, but it would be stupid to deny to yourself that it's there. There is certainly no one you like to verbally spar with more.
He FaceTimes you as you lay in bed on a regular Tuesday in September; it's become a habit. Just jabbering away until one of you falls asleep. Talking about everything, anything, and something nothing, watching a show or film together in digital silence. A comforting presence.
“What are you watching?” he hums, scratching his beard.
“Don't judge me,” is your instant response, and he chuckles.
“Tell me,” his voice drops an octave in a way you are sure he knows has an effect on you. Physically. A little shiver down your spine. Bastard.
“Titanic,” you mutter as he bursts out laughing.
“You hate that film!” he exclaims, and you wish you could throw a pillow through the screen.
“That doesn’t sound like not judging!” you bemoan but concede he is right.
“Channel?” he asks, still giggling.
“Four… wait, are you going to watch too?”
“Of course, then we can argue about it in real-time,” something in that offer makes you feel comforted. “It's near the end!” he decries after briefly pausing to change channels.
“How would you know?” you lobby, and he fixes you with a pointed stare.
“Please. This was Gen’s favourite; I had to sit through it five bloody times.”
“How is she?”
“No idea. She didn't speak to me after the breakup. Besides, wasn't she your friend?!”
“Yeah, but we lost touch,” you sigh, “sometime about seven or eight years ago, she moved to Bristol, and then we sort of drifted.”
He hums noncommittally, watching the movie, “So you’re saying Rose should not have saved him by sharing that door,” he states as the final scenes unfold onscreen before you both.
“I never said that!” you argue.
“Yes, you did! In the car on the way from uni!” he smirks.
“No, I didn’t!” you volley back indignantly.
“Fine, okay, you didn’t.” He rolls his eyes.
“I mean, that dick was so good, they fucked one time, and she returned to the ocean to say goodbye to it 70 years later,” you point out drolly.
He tosses his head back and laughs so hard you can’t help but join in.
“Fuck that’s the funniest take on this film I’ve ever heard,” he wheezes.
“Right?! I can’t take credit; it's a comedy routine; I’ll send you a Spotify link,” you offer.
“Look forward to it,” he giggles.
The urge to ask him if he’s ever had sex so good he’d go to the spot it happened to commemorate it is on the tip of your tongue. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t use the opportunity himself. He’s definitely grown up.
“Are you sleeping okay?” he asks, rubbing his eye wearily.
“Doing better,” you admit, “not completely there, but better than I was.”
“Do you still sleep on ‘your’ side of the bed?” he inquires with air quotes.
“No. I’ve taken to sleeping wherever now,” you answer truthfully.
“Wow, you’re doing so well,” he sighs. “I feel weird if even a leg wanders over to ‘her’ side… and this isn’t even a bed we shared.”
“Yours was a marriage, mine merely a long-term relationship,” you try to justify why he might still be more impacted than you.
“Same difference, except you don’t have a lawyer bleeding you dry arguing about shit…. Urghh, I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t,” you argue, “stay in bed and drink your water.”
“You can be very bossy sometimes, you know?” he opines but reaches for his glass of water on his bedside table as he says it, doing exactly what you suggest.
“It’s for your own good,” you point out.
“I know, I know. I suppose I should thank you. You’d be surprised how little men give a shit about their friends' well-being, even their best friends.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” you fire back. “You’re all clueless idiots with the EQ of a shrimp.”
“Wowwww, okay,” he mimes being shot in the chest, “please don’t take out your Dr Tom issues on the rest of us unsuspecting shrimps.” It’s in jest, but you can hear the underlying argument and know he’s right.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You don’t have the EQ of a shrimp. I’ll give you, hmmm, a crawfish,” you offer with a giggle.
“Oh great, thanks,” he deadpans, “Could you not at least give me lobster?”
“Okay, fine. I hear lobsters are very smart, so you flatter yourself there, but yes, okay, lobster Ben. Please go get some sleep.”
“Alright,” he yawns, “can I call you my lobster too?”
“Why?” you frown sleepily, bemused.
“Some lobster thought it could predict the World Cup winning team—always thought it was right. That’s very you,” he stares pointedly down the phone camera at you.
“Fine, I’m your lobster too,” you stick out your tongue a little.
He chuckles as you settle deeper into your pillow, flicking off the TV as the credits scroll. Even you can acknowledge having a person to talk to is so comforting right before sleep.
“Goodnight, lobster Ben,” you yawn, your eyes drooping.
“Goodnight, my little blue lobster,” he murmurs.
“Why blue? Cos I’m sad?” you hum, eyes closed.
“No,” he chuckles gently, “I have my reasons,” he says quietly, and you pass out as the call drops off.
——
“So I had that dream again,” you mention offhand as you wander down the Southbank from Waterloo a few weeks later. It’s a crisp October day; you’ve taken the afternoon off work to visit the Tate Modern—there’s some exhibit he wants to see.
“The sex dream?” he verifies, weaving around an old lady who shoots him a disapproving look.
“Yup,” you confirm, kicking through the colourful pile of leaves under one of the trees. “So we are going at it up on this roof terrace, and this time he flies away just before I orgasm. I mean, what the fuck is that!?”
“Let me get this straight: you’re having sex with some mythical half-man half-dragon creature?” he seems completely bamboozled by the idea. “And just before you can come, he flies off?”
“Yeah. What do you think it means?” you ponder.
“I think it means you need to get laid,” he laughs.
“Great fucking insight Sherlock Holmes,” body-checking him with your shoulder. “What about you? What’s your latest sex dream?”
“It’s always the same one. There’s this woman. She walks in, just wordlessly strips off my jeans and climbs onboard,” his cheeks have a high dot of pink that looks adorable, almost as if he’s embarrassed to say it.
“What does she look like? Are we talking Halle Berry? Helen Mirren? Florence Pugh?”
“I dunno… she’s just sort of faceless,” he gestures vaguely.
“Hmmm. Unusual. So then what happens?”
“I always wake up,” he sighs, staring into the middle distance, over to the Millennium Bridge.
“Wait….,” you stop walking and grab his arm, “...a faceless woman strips off your jeans and sits on you, and that’s the only sex dream you’ve had… ever?!” You can scarcely believe it.
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, I know. I’d like to state for the record that I’ve had a much more varied actual sex life. And daydreams? Top fucking notch. But my unconscious, sleeping dreams? Very not sexy or just this one recurring one.”
“Does it ever change? At all?”
“I mean, sometimes I’m wearing trousers, not jeans?” he offers, looking nonplussed as to what else to add.
You cannot think of anything to say to that, so you just shoot him an exasperated look and walk away towards the entrance. How on earth can he get to sleep at night if that’s all he’s got to look forward to?
“Dinner after this?” he offers as you stare up at the giant sculpture suspended in the main Turbine Hall. It's been a fun few hours of wandering the exhibits.
“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t,” you obfuscate, feeling sheepish as you bring your gaze to him.
“Hooking up?” he inquires with a comedy eyebrow wiggle.
“Maybe,” you deflect, tucking your hair behind an ear, somehow bashful to talk with him about your first date in six years. “I’ll have to see how the date goes first.”
“A date? That’s wonderful!” He seems genuinely enthused, a big smile claiming his whole face.
“Yeah, I mean… I hope so? Let’s see. It’s been a bloody long time,” and saying that, nerves flare in your belly. “Not sure what I should wear, to be honest,” you admit, glancing down, self-conscious of your jeans and simple black top. “You think this is okay?”
“Of course it is,” he dismisses casually. “You look as beautiful as you always do,” the compliment just falls from his lips as if you asked about the weather. It still gives you that slightly gooey sensation under your ribs. Bastard.
——
The next evening you’re three cocktails down at Bar Americain on a night out with some work friends when your phone buzzes.
BB: How was the date?
Y/N: He cried about his custody arrangement at the table.
BB: Divorced dad, eh? How fast did you scarper?!
BB: Guess it will be a while until you can get that orgasm, lol.
Y/N: ... I err, didn't?
Y/N: Oh, I got one.
BB: You slept with him?!?
You always love to push it with him when you are tipsy, be a little daring with what you say. So you have your tongue in your cheek, wishing you could see his face when he reads what you are about to reply.
Y/N: Yeah, I mean, to be clear, the crying didn't turn me on. Not one of my kinks. But he had these nice hands, and I could tell from his jeans something good was going on down there. I was right. 8 out of 10, very nice.
Y/N: And he didn't grow wings to fly off before I had an orgasm, either… so win!
BB: How does one hang up on a text….?
Y/N: 😜
Five minutes later, your phone buzzes again.
BB: Wait. Do all women rate the dicks of the men they sleep with?
Y/N: I don't know all the women in the world, Ben…
BB: How is that an answer?
Y/N: 🤷♀️
“Ant…” Benedict calls, tossing his phone aside on his kitchen island and going to consult his brother across the room. He’s pretty sure that can't be all women, can it?
——
“I don't understand this at all,” Kate frowns, resting her weapon on her shoulder like a lumberjack.
“What don’t you understand?” you reply, staring at the target at the other end of the cage. You've decided this is an excellent cathartic way to do girls' night—just flinging axes at Whistle Punks after a hard work day in early November.
“You think he's attractive?” she pauses to applaud your throw as it smacks just below the bullseye.
“Yup.”
“You get on really well and Facetime and text every day?”
“Yup.”
“He’s straight?”
“Yup.”
“But you’re NOT fucking?” Kate quizzes, shooting you a look as she steps up to the plate.
“Nope.”
“I literally don't understand,” brow creasing as she takes her aim.
“Why can't you be proud of me? Not just crawling into bed with him on the rebound. He’s become a really close friend. Plus, I get the straight man’s perspective on things. It's really helpful now that I’m back on the market again. I can talk to him about sex stuff, and he's honest,” you argue.
“Sounds wrong to me…”
“Kate, you are fucking a married man,” you point out her hypocrisy archly.
“Yeah… and that's the point! I'm actually fucking him. What sort of Bert and Ernie shit do you and this Ben have going on?!”
“Please. Bert and Ernie are lovers,” you answer scornfully.
“Well, if they were, all the more reason you guys should be?!” she practically yells, hurling her axe with such gusto the manager comes to check on you.
——
Benedict takes you for dinner in the run-up to Christmas at some place so trendy it doesn't even appear to have a name. It's also where something transpires that haunts your spicier dreams for weeks.
As usual, it starts with you both squabbling.
“Oh please, women fake them all the time,” you dismiss, stirring your soup.
“I don't doubt it,” he agrees, “but men can do it too.”
You shoot him a withering look. “Please. Half of men can't even fake enthusiasm; there's no way a man could fake an orgasm,” you argue with finality.
His eyebrows shoot up briefly as you take a triumphant sip. He puts his fork down and wipes his face with a napkin. Then he makes a low rumbling noise. Perhaps the food doesn't agree with him. When he does it again a second later, you get concerned.
“You okay?”
He doesn't answer; he just makes the noise again. It's a low growl that almost reverberates around in his chest cavity, and something about it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
“Is your food bad?” you ask, a frown flitting over your face.
Again no answer. Benedict just makes another noise, louder this time. It’s definitely closer to a moan, and he takes a deep breath rolling his head to one side as if he's stretching his neck and really enjoying the sensation. Somehow you can't look away; you just stare at him, spoon in hand. Wondering what the hell he is doing, but captivated at the same time.
“Mmmm, that's it, baby,” he groans, and your insides are suddenly aflame. You've never heard his voice go into that register, it's low and throaty, and you feel a flush creeping up your chest.
“Don't stop,” he moans and throws his head back with a gasp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing hard, and it's then you realise what he is doing. He is faking an orgasm. Right here. In public. In a bloody restaurant.
“Okay, Ben,” you hiss, “fine, you win the argument,” attempting to get him to stop.
But it doesn't work. His head tips back down, and two dilated pupils bore into yours, a hazy ring of blue around black.
“Do you like that?” He’s staring you down as he says it, panting slightly, his jaw firm, challenging, goading.
You want to crawl into a ball and disappear. How much of that is because your fellow diners are starting to look over versus how much your body is rioting is undetermined.
“Yesssss,” he hisses, closing his eyes and biting his lip.
“Ben,” you warn, but again it falls on deaf ears. There is nothing you can do to stop this. Mortification routes you to the spot—that and the pounding in your ears and the little frisson of static running down your spine.
“You feel so good, baby,” he groans with a tiny tilt of his body; it's enough to make your imagination run wild—places it shouldn't. Dear god, this isn't right. He is your friend, one of your best friends; you can't be thinking such things.
To distract yourself, you look around at your fellow diners apologetically, shrugging as if you don't understand what he is doing. Thankful there are no kids in sight.
“Look at me,” he commands gruffly, and without thought, you obey; your eyes tear back to his. He is doing this deliberately, goading a response from you, from your body. And something in your snaps, you won't let him win like this.
“Go ahead, do it,” you mutter through slightly clenched teeth, so quiet only he can hear it. If he is going to do this, damn him, let him.
His hands wrap around the edges of the small table separating you, long fingers splaying out, and then his short blunt nails scratch down the wood. You don't think about those big, shapely hands doing the same thing on your body, no, definitely not. He is groaning and panting hard now, and it's utterly convincing. You can just picture him on top of….. STOP IT! You screech your mind to a halt. Don't go there.
“Come with me,” he snarls softly, just for you, and part of you wants to whisper back: yes, please, but instead, you bite the corner of your tongue to prevent a sound from escaping.
Then he turns theatrical, open hands thumping the table, grunting hard and rhythmically, and you just have to sit there and take it, so to speak. Just endure this weird mix of utter embarrassment and confusing arousal. Knowing you are flushed from head to toe. You daren't look around at the rest of the place, the buzz of conversation mostly dying out as they watch this formidable reenactment.
“Yessss, yesss, yessss,” he chants, and with a few convulsive body jerks and a long groan, his head lolls back, and he exhales a ragged breath loudly.
There are a few seconds of silence, and then he clears his throat, straightens up in his chair, shoots you a shit-eating grin, picks up his forks and jubilantly takes a bite of his dinner. He doesn't even bother to say anything; he knows he has won that argument, fair and square. You are still too shocked and disconcerted to speak.
“Sir, Ma’am,” the maître d' is suddenly at your table, “we would like you to leave, please.” his tone is decidedly stern. After a brief exchange of glances, you both burst into spontaneous giggles.
As you are bundled out of the door unceremoniously, not even being asked to pay, you hear a man ask a waiter a question that makes you laugh even louder.
“Did he have the daily special?”
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau
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