#benedict bridgerton x reader

[natti-ice]

[moonlight-joy]

A Writer’s Muse

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  At a masquerade ball, you share a kiss with a stranger. The next day, Benedict won’t stop teasing you about your secret rendezvous, unaware that it was actually him.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

You had always known that Benedict Bridgerton was an artist.

You had seen him sketch at balls, in the gardens, during long afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room. His fingers, always smudged with charcoal, moved effortlessly across the page, capturing the world with an ease that left you breathless.

But never—not once—had you realized you were his favorite subject.

And you would never have known… had you not found his sketchbook.

It had been left on a table in the Bridgerton library, tucked between the pages of an open book. You hadn’t meant to pry. Truly, you hadn’t.

But when you saw your face staring back at you from the pages, drawn with such detail, such tenderness—

Your breath caught.

There were dozens of sketches.

Some were simple—a quick charcoal outline of your profile, the curve of your lips when you smiled. Others were far more detailed—the way your hands rested in your lap, the way your eyes softened when you looked at something you loved.

And then—there were the ones that made your heart ache.

A drawing of you sitting beneath the large oak tree in the Bridgerton gardens, your dress flowing around you like water, your expression serene.

Another of you reading by candlelight, your face bathed in a soft glow, lips parted ever so slightly in thought.

One of you sleeping.

Your chest tightened.

This was not the work of a man who had simply sketched a friend.

This was the work of someone who had memorized every piece of you.

Someone who had studied the curve of your cheek, the shape of your hands, the way your mouth quirked when you were lost in thought.

Someone who—

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

You gasped, snapping the sketchbook shut as Benedict’s voice filled the room.

He stood in the doorway, his expression frozen between panic and something else—something vulnerable.

Your heart stammered in your chest.

“I—” You swallowed hard, holding up the book. “I didn’t mean to—”

Benedict strode forward, reaching for it. But you stepped back, clutching it tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Because I knew this would happen.”

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Benedict exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark curls. “I knew you’d look at me differently.”

Your fingers curled around the book. “Benedict…”

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw, “just forget you saw it.”

Forget?

How could he ask that?

How could he expect you to unsee the way he had drawn you—not as just anyone, but as someone who mattered?

You lifted the book, flipping to a sketch—a particularly detailed one of you laughing, your head thrown back, joy captured perfectly in every line.

“This is not something I can forget,” you said softly.

Benedict swallowed. “Then what do you want me to say?”

You met his gaze, searching. “The truth.”

Silence.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his body taut with tension.

And then—

“The truth?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded.

He took a slow, measured breath.

“The truth is,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I have been drawing you for years.”

Your heart pounded.

“The truth is,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion, “I never meant for you to see them because—because if you did, you’d know.”

“Know what?” you whispered.

Benedict exhaled, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“That I love you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Benedict ran a frustrated hand through his hair, laughing bitterly. “You see? This is why I never said anything. Because now, you’re looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

You shook your head. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “I’m looking at you like—like I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

Benedict stilled.

“I’m looking at you like I can’t believe it took me this long to realize,” you whispered. “That I love you too.”

His breath caught.

Then—before you could second-guess yourself—

You kissed him.

The moment your lips met, it was as if the world had been waiting for this exact moment.

Benedict inhaled sharply, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you back with a desperation that stole your breath.

It wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was slow, reverent—like he was memorizing every second, every feeling.

When you finally pulled away, Benedict pressed his forehead against yours, his breath uneven.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your fingers against his cheek.

“I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his expression one of pure relief.

And then, with a soft chuckle, he murmured—

“Well, I suppose I shall have to sketch this moment next.”

You laughed, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Only if you let me keep the sketchbook.”

Benedict smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

But then, before you could reply, he took the book from your hands, flipping to an empty page.

And right there, in that very moment, he sketched something new—

Not a portrait of longing.

Not an image of unspoken love.

But the two of you together, hands intertwined, a love no longer hidden between the pages of a book.

And as he looked at you, his muse, his heart—

He knew he would never stop drawing you.

Because you were his greatest masterpiece.

Please support my work with like and comment

[stupidnpoetic]

[berryblupie]

THIS IS GOOD!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!!

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

taglist: @mythical-goth @sfotiegiuls @shoyooss @booknerdlife @gratuitous-and-superfluous @got-the-cheese-touch @amysfav @pear-1206 @purplefluffycows @secretisme4 @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @s0mewhereweaknessis0urstrength @twistedkisses @vcnillafairy @labellapeaky @fxiryeon @eddiiiieeee @kalanthra @soniiyi @famouslywaiting @deeninadream @moschinocherries @monaskydancer @bobo-bush @agreeeeeeeeeee @tardis--tea--time

[colmiillo]

When y/n does something so cringe that i have to look at the invisible camera for a sec.

[shoot1ngst4r]

going out of your way to search up [insert character] ANGST and all you get is smut

[skyrigel]

me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[asuperconfusedgirl]

how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app

[natti-ice]

18+ mdni

that reality check hitting after reading smut

[fayes-fics]

The Wonderful Unexpected: Chapter 4

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (future chapters), Modern AU

Chapter Summary: Benedict Bridgerton turns up and is confused.

Warnings: not much, really… the Bridgertons being Bridgertons lol.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Benedict finally arrives back in London and is instantly confused by this woman claiming to be his brother's fiancee. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis. Thank you to @colettebronte for beta reading. Off topic, but this is my 5000th post on this blog - yay! Enjoy! <3

It's after 1am when Benedict finally arrives at Bridgerton House. Exhausted from the marathon journey from Edinburgh that took all day. Slipping in the door, what he hopes is quietly enough not to disturb anyone…. Only to be met by Hyacinth bounding down the grand staircase, loudly calling his name as he winces and gestures for her to be quiet, dropping his bag.

“Why aren't you asleep?” he chides in that affectionate, elder brother way after their brief hug.

“I got the new iPhone for Christmas,” she grins, following him as he heads towards the kitchen. “Cloud is still transferring. Takes forever,” she rolls her eyes, holding up her old and new phones with the odd burbling screen of dots.

“Didn't Mum give you the latest model for your birthday?” Benedict frowns, pulling open the fridge and rummaging around for a late-night snack. He settles on picking from a cheese tray covered with cling film, leftovers from the party earlier.

“Yeah but this is the Pro Max,” Hy counters, “and it's got more memory.”

Benedict shrugs non-committal, not really getting the fuss, being perfectly happy with his three-year-old model with a slight chip on the screen corner. 

“Oh, Ant’s fiancee is here,” she pipes up, grinning as he pops three cubes of Red Leicester into his mouth. “I convinced her to stay by plying her with far too much champagne.”

“Poor thing,” Benedict shakes his head, then pauses as he takes on board what she said. “Wait? Fiancee? They got engaged? I thought she was in LA for Christmas?” he garbles around the cheese before deciding a bit of manchego will be a nice contrast and throwing that in too.

“What?! No, she lives right here in London, dummy.” Hy withers before changing tack with a snarky observation: “You don’t normally eat like Colin…”

“I have been stuck on various trains for the last fucking twelve hours with no food, give me a break; I’m starving,” he protests but takes the hint. Slowing down to actually chew a bit, reopening the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

“Anyway, y/n is great. You are going to love her…”

“Who’s y/n?” Benedict interrupts, taking a swig of Evian.

“Ant’s fiancee,” Hy says slowly, as if explaining something to a toddler.

“I thought it was Sindy or something,” Benedict’s brow furrows. 

He vaguely recalls Anthony showing him the Instagram of some social media influencer he was seeing. Frankly, to him, she sounded like a high-maintenance nightmare, so he forgot what scant details he gleaned. The bottle of champagne Ant had treated them to that night probably didn’t help.

“Oooh, it's done!” Hy exclaims, holding up her phone with the ‘hello’ looping across the screen in various languages.

“Congrats…” Ben offers deadpan.

“Luddite,” she teases, knocking into him with her shoulder before sing-songing her goodbyes, but not before swiping a bit of Gouda for herself.

“No one can resist the late-night cheese,” Benedict opines with a knowing chuckle…. Then realises he's now talking to himself. 

So, with a shake of his head, he puts the tray back in the fridge and heads upstairs.

—

Usually, it's Chairman Meow’s demanding stomach that rouses you, his indignant paws whapping your cheek. So when you blink your eyes open in a fancy room that looks unfamiliar, it takes a second to get your bearings. You are still in the clothes from the party last night, which is not ever the most pleasant state to wake up in… but at least it feels like you had a good rest, slight muzzy head aside. Sitting up, you spy a couple of ibuprofen tablets and a big glass of water on the bedside table next to your phone, along with a disposable bamboo toothbrush and toothpaste.

Bless Hyacinth Bridgeton.

As you swallow the pills, you grab your phone and immediately book an Uber, knowing that if you are not home as soon as possible, Chairman Meow will indeed riot. There is no time to wait for Sunday morning transport options; he will likely wee on your rug in revenge if you are not back within the next half hour. You will just have to dip into your holiday fund to pay for it.

Multitasking, you check your appearance in the mirror in the little ensuite bathroom as you quickly brush your teeth, using your fingers to style your hair the best you can. When your phone pings that a driver will be with you in less than a minute, you grab your bag and sneak down the staff staircase at the back of the house - seriously, who even has that these days?! -  hoping not to bump into anyone, worried they might somehow guilt you into staying for breakfast or something.

But alas, just as you think you are safe and dry, tiptoeing towards the front door, a noise on the grand staircase makes you startle and whip around. But the sight that greets you has you almost toppling over.

There, a few steps up, holding a big mug of delicious-smelling coffee, is someone you know from a glance can only be two things: 1) troubling to your hormones and, worse, 2) your ‘fiancees’ brother.

Benedict.

Well, shit.

“Hi…” 

His resonant voice slides over your skin like silk, even as his gaze seems to bore into you—a puzzled look, like you are not at all what he was expecting. 

The feeling is mutual, mate.

You swear his pupils dilate a fraction, though.

Perhaps predictably, he is handsome, just like his older brother, but, on first impressions, more down-to-earth. Whereas you’ve only ever seen Anthony in sharp tailoring, he looks like the type to live in jeans. Right now, he is clad in tartan pyjama bottoms, a faded navy sweatshirt with a rowing club logo, and hazy blue eyes he has inherited from Violet.

“Hi… umm… Benedict, right?” you stumble, and he nods just as your phone pings and vibrates in your hand. “Uber…. waiting outside,” you explain, holding it up.

“Just Ben,” he offers, unfurling from his seated position to full height and jogging down the last few stairs.

He is tall, too, maybe even more so than you recall Anthony being. Perchance it's the tendrils of a nascent hangover, but something roils inside you as Benedict - Ben - sweeps past, traces of a delicious woodsy, citrus scent in his wake. 

He yanks open the large door and gestures gentlemanly.

“Well, it was nice to meet you… briefly,” he lilts with a playfully arched brow. 

You can only smile wanly, trying to ignore the little skip in your heart as you skirt around him and slip out the door, the sounds of central London almost an assault on your delicate senses. 

“Y/n,” he calls out a few seconds later, making you spin back around on the path. “Welcome to the family….” he offers enigmatically.

“Err, thank you.” 

The lingering look between you is only broken by your Uber driver’s impatient beeping.

—

“Why do we have to do this?” Benedict sighs, shifting around in the battered leather chair, trying to get comfortable, wishing he had been able to get more than five hours of sleep. He really should have just gone back to his own flat rather than crashing in his old room.

“It's Sunday. Family pub lunch is our tradition, darling,” Violet smiles.

The Bridgerons are indeed gathered at a local pub in a quiet mews a few streets from their home. It’s their usual table, reserved every Sunday for many years…. unless they are out in Kent. Then it’s the country pub in the nearby village. Anyone misses this occasion at their peril; Violet always keen to keep up the tradition, even during the Christmas break. And even with Anthony indisposed.

“Feels off without him…” Benedict mumbles almost rhetorically, staring at the empty chair that is usually Anthony’s.

“We will go and see him later, during visiting hours,” she points out, patting his hand. “He will be so pleased to see you.”

“He’s in a coma, mum…”

You know what I mean,” she waves a dismissive hand as the waiter rolls up with plates of food. “He can hear us, I just know it.”

Benedict decides it's probably best not to disagree with anything like scientific facts and just goes about helping himself to the sharing plate of veggies she hands him.

“So who is this y/n?” he changes tack.

“Anthony’s fiancee.” Violet seems to light up at her name. “Oh, she's just lovely. Shame she slipped out before I was able to invite her to lunch…”

“She dodged a bullet,” Gregory mutters under his breath.

“Take some peas,” Violet chides maternally.

“I hate peas…”

“Gregory Bridgerton, you will eat your vegetables.” 

She raises an eyebrow at her youngest son as Marcus chuckles and helps himself to another Yorkshire pudding from the extra pile they always order in honour of absent Colin.

“They help you see in the dark!” Victor pipes up.

“Granddad, no, that's carrots…” Hyacinth rolls her eyes, looking up finally from her shiny new phone.

“That’s a myth,” Agatha butts in.

“You would think if Anthony were getting hitched, he would have announced it in The Times…” Benedict ponders, poking at his roasties.

“We read the Guardian,” Agatha responds airily.

“Why did she sneak out this morning?” Benedict queries. 

Mostly, he’s still mystified as to who the pretty woman he saw scurrying out of the house this morning was - certainly not anyone Anthony has mentioned to him lately. They haven't met up for drinks as much as they used to lately; art has kept him busy, but still, it seems odd he would get engaged without telling the family first. Plus, she’s definitely not Anthony’s usual type.

“She has a job. And a cat,” Hyacinth smirks, watching him closely “You seem awfully interested in knowing more about her, Ben…”

“I'm just confused, it all seems so sudden, that’s all,” Benedict shrugs, realising perhaps he should back off as Hy raises a pointed eyebrow; the youngest does always so love to stir the pot. 

—

You get home to an indignant Chairman Meow. It’s only after a handful of treats and lots of attention that he partially forgives you, curling up next to you on the sofa as you sip a cup of tea when your eyes fall upon the bag the orderly at the hospital gave you. 

Anthony’s belongings.

You thought about just taking them to the Bridgerton Boxing Day dinner yesterday but then realised that would likely prompt more questions than anything. To them, you are his fiancee. 

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you open it. Anthony’s beautiful dark grey wool coat takes up most of the bag. It still has traces of that enticing amber cologne you have caught whiffs of when he breezes into the coffee shop. Before you even know it, you have stood up and wrapped yourself in it—the lining’s pure silk is so soft against your bare forearms. 

You reach into the deep pockets, and there you find a leather wallet. Pulling it out, you run your fingers over the buttery soft hide and note that it’s embossed with his initials: AB. And you can't help but be nosey, fishing out his driver's license. You are almost annoyed he manages to look dashing even in this photograph. Your eyes fall to the address and can tell it’s one of those swish Thameside developments just around the corner from the coffee shop. No wonder he is such a regular. 

In the other pocket, you find a key ring with some sleek-looking entry fob. Probably to said fancy flat. Then, digging further, you find what feels like a tin can. It's a small tin of that expensive cat food you could never afford to even try Chairman Meow on… you’d be bankrupt within a month.

Wait, cat food?!?! 

Before you know it, you are bundling up all his stuff back into the large plastic bag and grabbing your handbag. If he has a cat, the poor lamb hasn't eaten in almost two days. You are just hoping these keys let you into his building….

….Entirely forgetting you are still wearing Anthony’s coat.

—

“Did you get the chance to visit Castle Craig?” Violet asks as she finishes her plate.

“Yep…” Benedict confirms, wishing his mother wouldn't talk about work on a Sunday.

“What did you think of the new wing?”

“It's fine,” he shrugs, unsure what else to say. 

“Darling, you are running the foundation now. Perhaps a little more enthusiasm for all the good work we are supporting?” She replies pointedly but lovingly.

“That is something I would like to talk about…” Benedict begins, a touch sheepish.

“Perhaps later,” she deflected crisply.

Marcus leans in. “Talk about it now. She can't kill you with this many witnesses,” he jests, waving his fork around to signify the other tables.

“Can we just have lunch quietly? Like a normal family?” Gregory bemoans, being in that eternally embarrassed-by-your-family phase of teenagedom.

“Normal?! Have you met us?!” Hyacinth mocks, tossing a Yorkshire pud at him… that misses entirely and winds up sailing over his head and landing on the table behind, startling the elderly couple sitting there.

“You are disrupting the other patrons, dears…” Violet soothes, as Marcus wisely moves the remainder out of their reach, and Agatha offers apologies to the couple.

Just then, a waiter materialises.  “Can I get you anything else?” he asks brightly in that manner that suggests it may be time for them to wrap up their visit.

“I like opera better when it's in Italian,” Victor pronounces loudly, seemingly apropos of nothing. Everyone turns to look at him, including the waiter. “It's nicer when you don't know what they are saying.”

“Yeah, such a normal family….” Hyacinth mutters sarcastically as Gregory flips her the finger. 

—

Benedict pulls up at the address his sister texted and is instantly confused.

This doesn't look like the sort of place someone Anthony dates would live. 

He has only ever known his brother to be with models and influencers. The types who wouldn’t dare stray beyond the bounds of Zone Two, even though they would never be seen dead using the Tube.

This looks like a place normal people might rent—a converted Victorian in a typical London neighbourhood.

A few moments later, he is ringing the doorbell, mostly intrigued as to who this woman is. Also to return the jumper she apparently left behind after the party. Why Hyacinth insisted he be the one to return it is a bit of a mystery… but then maybe it's because he's the only family member who actually enjoys driving around London.

There is no answer, but just as he is about to give up, the door swings open, and a youngish man appears, seemingly distracted by the contents of his pockets, startling when he looks up to see Benedict there.

“Oh, hello. Sorry. Didn't see you there… Can I help you?” 

“Hi, I'm, um, looking for the woman who lives in Flat 2…?” Benedict hedges, not wanting to offer her name to a possible stranger.

“Y/n?” the man instantly reels off. 

“Yes, yes! You know her?”

The man laughs. “She lives in my flat, of course I know her!”

“You live together?” Benedict buffers. 

“Well, her and her sweet kitty cat,” the man winks, seemingly conspiratorily. “I’m Alby, by the way, Albion Finch. And you are…?”

But Benedict doesn't reply, too stunned to respond, backing away and fleeing back to his car without another word—leaving Alby puzzled and standing there clutching his Tesco Bag For Life.

As he starts up the engine and drives off, a million thoughts tumble in Benedict’s head:

Anthony’s fiancee is living with another man?! And they have a cat together? Or, even worse, he talks about his girlfriend VERY inappropriately…. Either way, how the hell can this beautiful (wait…what?!) woman be engaged to his brother?! Nothing makes sense.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

[bethsvrse]

me when writing

[love-at-first-sight-23]

Welcome to the world of “Being in love with a person who doesn’t exist in real life but you pretend they do anyway because you’re obsessed” ✧˖*°࿐

[realangelahernandez]

I’m so sad… time for an x reader fan fiction

[leviathanspain]

selfish

anthony bridgerton x reader

synopsis: it’s your first morning at home in bridgerton house as the viscountess- only thing is, your husband’s selfish

you trembled under his grip, his mouth was still working hard, your orgasm coming over you in waves as you tried to escape his grip. you shivered with pleasure, thighs squeezing his head between them. “oh my-“ you cried, struggling to keep quiet.

the honeymoon was over, no longer could you scream your viscount’s name all over the room, until your throat grew raw of it. you had a bustling family under the same roof, even so, his mother.

you shuddered slowly and anthony let go of your legs. he smiled proudly as he leaned to kiss you. you melted into his kiss, grasping at his hair.

anthony bit your lip as he tossed himself next to you. you were sitting up, and still reeling from the pleasure, “i have been trying to get up and ready for the day for what feels like forever now, and you do not let me.” you looked at your husband, his smile not going away, only as he shrugged, “i want you all to myself. my siblings will just talk your ear off and i will be drowning in paperwork.” which you knew was true. anthony was the most reluctant to get back to his viscount duties.

you on the other hand, still marveled at the idea of having to run the household, but felt immense pressure to live up to the dowager bridgerton. violet was everything you admired in a mother, present and kind, wanting her children’s happiness before all else.

anthony had told you that there was no legacy to live up to, but he did not see things the way you did.

he pulled you in close, “my mother is still here. let her run the household, even if it is for a little bit longer.” he kissed your cheek, still trying to keep you in bed. you sighed, “all you want to do is stay in bed, lord bridgerton. you need to get out of this bed, and be productive with me.” the paperwork stack was to the ceiling at this point, and he could not avoid it much longer.

anthony looked at you, “we can do many things within this room that are productive.” you shrugged at him, “the thought is lost on me, what do you suggest?”

anthony grabbed your hand gently, holding it in his, “such as making an heir, as married people do.” the thought had not even occurred to you, especially so early in the morning. you looked at your husband, smiling at that thought. you blushed as anthony chuckled, “do not tell me that did not cross your mind?” he cocked his head and you shyed away, “i have been stressed all night about the viscountess duties, forgive me if it slipped my mind.” you rolled over, legs now entangled in his and you on his chest.

you kissed him, and anthony smirked, “it is a viscountess duty.”

giving up, you decided to extend the honeymoon with anthony, not yet ready to take up the full responsibility, anthony could be selfish.

[colmiillo]

me acting like I just didn't read the most filthy nasty hot smut fic of my life