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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

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Portrait: V

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The final portrait session is heated and emotional

Warnings: mild dom/sub tones in places, masturbation, dirty talk, vaginal sex, woman on top. All sorts of emotions and a proposal for the future.

Word Count: 3.7 k

Authors Note: Well, these two idiots just can't resist each other, and yes, I'm as surprised by the emotions, particularly the ending, as you are <3 And thanks to @colettebronte who waded thru a messy draft of this.

The following morning you practically skip down the street to Benedict’s home, barely able to contain your excitement to reunite with this man who gave you the world yesterday—steadfastly refusing to dwell on the fact that this might be the last time you spend together privately. You just want to live in the moment for the next hour or so. Whatever lies beyond that, you will face when the time comes.

When you arrive, he is at the door, letting you in with a gracious nod - a perfectly acceptable greeting for any prying eyes. But the minute the door shuts, he crowds you against it, hoisting you up, kissing you as your spine presses into the wooden panels.

“I fear an hour will definitely not be enough again, my sweet,” he breathes into your kiss.

“Mmm, I tend to concur. Perhaps we should send word back to my family?” you suggest, raising an eyebrow. “They did not appreciate it yesterday. So perhaps forewarning would be prudent?”

He lets you back to your feet and calls out for his valet. However, as the man appears, he does not release his hold on you.

“Ah, Mr Smith. Please send a messenger to the y/l/n household with a note saying that I am running very late for my portrait session yet again and Miss y/l/n will need to stay longer. Please include humblest apologies, but state she is safe and waiting with my sister.”

Mr Smith raises an eyebrow as you attempt to muffle your giggle into Benedict’s shoulder and look the other way.

“Certainly, sir”, the valet replies dryly, “and will that be all?”

“Some wine, perhaps? You can leave it outside the door of my studio. It may be best that our painting not be disturbed,” his barely contained smirk makes it obvious that is not what will be transpiring shortly.

“As you wish,” is the seasoned reply as he leaves the hallway.

“That poor man,” you chuckle.

“Oh please,” Benedict dismisses, “Smith used to work for my brother Anthony; he has seen it all.”

Then he grabs both of your hands in his, walking backwards and smiling, leading you to the studio.

“Today, my sweet, I want to paint your other portrait,” he rumbles as he closes the door behind you.

You smirk, and your hands go to the bow at your side. You undo it as he stares at you covetously, whipping open your dress and dropping it to the floor. Completely nude beneath it.

“I am ready, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease and squeal in delight as he advances on you and picks you up effortlessly.

“Call me Benedict,” he smiles into a kiss.

“But I like calling you Mr Bridgerton sometimes. It seems so commanding somehow,” you sigh, feeling so at home in his arms.

“Would you like me to be commanding? Telling you what to do?” His ask is dusky.

“Maybe,” you volley back playfully, “try it.” Even though it was only yesterday that this man took your innocence, you trust him implicitly to lead you into new experiences and adventures.

He places you back on your feet and grabs your chin.

“Go lay on that chaise. Right now.” His tone suddenly clipped and utterly authoritative.

You scurry to obey, your skin prickling hot. As you do so, he sits in a nearby leather armchair, a sketchpad already there. You meet his gaze and then lay as you did the night you first stripped for him, with your left arm behind your head.

“Good girl.”

His dulcet voice is dark and sonorous, and the praise makes you inhale sharply, instantly aroused to a painful degree. God, you will do anything for him if he calls you that.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” he murmurs, eyes glittering.

“Yes,” you stutter.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and your mouth falls open in surprise. “Go ahead,” he adds and begins sketching.

You let your right hand fall to your stomach, and with a nod from him, you allow your fingers to sink lower, slipping between your legs.

“That’s it,” he encourages, “give yourself pleasure. I want to sketch your face in the throes of ecstasy.”

“Benedict,” you gasp as you feel your body stirring, “instruct me.” You know what to do, but you want to hear him talking to you as you touch yourself, knowing it will make you burn so much hotter.

“Little circles with your finger,” he lectures, “right on that little button. Play with it until you feel it grow under your fingers. It should swell a little more. Although it doesn’t take much with you, does it? You were so aroused yesterday, your nub swollen and pulsing with need before I even so much as had it under my tongue. Does it feel swollen now?”

You are panting at the words he uses, speaking so matter-of-fact about something so private. It’s captivating. And indeed, he is right. Even as he talks, your clit engorges and feels harder under your touch.

“Yessss,” you respond, fingers slipping over it easily.

“Mmm, good. Don’t stop. Curl your fingers up and under it…” he pauses to ensure you are doing as he says. “Good girl. Feel around for a motion that is good for you. Usually, one side is more sensitive than the other, although no one quite knows why,” he chuckles, his eyes pinging between his sketchpad and your hand.

You hit a very sensitive spot, your leg kicks out, and your body convulses, eyes fluttering shut as you push up off the chaise, your head bumping the cushioned sloped end.

“Oh yes, that’s it, isn’t it?” he practically purrs, “now you’ve got it.”

You cry his name again, arching your back, writhing, longing for his large hands on your body.

“I need you,” you call out breathily.

“I’m right here.”

“I need you to touch me, Benedict,” you implore, your eyes blinking open to look over at him.

“That’s it! That’s the look,” he says triumphantly, “don’t you dare look away from me,” he orders.

And you do as bidden, staring him down, biting your lip, writhing on your own fingers as your body notches higher and higher. So very desperate for his touch.

“You can do this, my good girl,” he encourages. “This is what you will do every night when you are married. I want you to touch yourself and think of me, telling you what to do.”

You groan loudly and move faster, honeying over your own hand. “May I think of you fucking me?” you ask.

He growls. “Yes, do that. Think of me inside you, above you, making you feel like you need to scream. Do you need to scream right now, my good girl?” His voice is ragged, and his knuckles are white, gripping his sketchpad as he watches you.

You nod vigorously, biting your lip so hard, pleading silently with your eyes for him to give you that push you need. Skating the edge of a precipice, every inch of your body tense like it’s waiting to snap, blood boiling in your veins.

“Do it. Let go. Scream for me,” he commands gruffly, and you do.

Throwing your head back and vocalising loudly, uncaring who may hear as your body spasms, your pussy quivering, wishing he was inside you, bliss flooding your senses as you tense and release, your mind wiping out in sheer pleasure.

You slump back, breathing hard, eyes screwed shut, a dew over your body from the exertion.

“Oh my sweet, that was a masterpiece,” he says softly as you recover, back to his usual self.

“I… I can’t believe I did that,” you confess, still winded but sated.

“It makes the most arresting picture,” he assures. “One I will treasure forever.” He looks down again, concentrating on completing a few lines on his sketch.

You look over at him as he works and want to crawl to him and make him feel as good as you do. Before you know it, you are climbing to your feet, your legs a little unsteady as you first stand, and you go to him.

He seems to startle when you are right before him naked, the apex of your thighs in his eye line. His eyes trail up your body to your face, and with an insolent raise of an eyebrow, you pluck the sketchpad and charcoal from him and drop it aside. Climbing into his lap wordlessly but with a confident smile. He looks spellbound by your sudden boldness and groans when you reach down and rub a hand harshly over the bulge in his trousers.

“What are you…?” He begins, but you hush him with a bruising kiss.

While you tease him with your tongue lathing his, you wrench open the buttons of his trousers, not stopping until you can roughly pull down the front. And then your fingers are questing to his cock as it springs free. His moan is so loud as you fist him, as you learned yesterday, and move your hand up and down over his shaft, slowly teasing at first and then becoming more insistent.

He breaks the kiss and stares up at you wildly.

“Innocent no more, my sweet,” he pants, impressed.

You feel powerful and alluring, your smile victorious as you experiment with new angles and pressure with your hand, using his wonderfully expressive face as your guide. He moans as you find a slight twisting rhythm. You breathe his name, goading him to push up into your grip.

You have an all-consuming need to shuffle forward from where you sit perched on his thighs and take him into your body. You have no idea if the act can be done in this position, but you can see yourself perhaps bouncing in his lap. So you do so. Shuffling forward and his face is a picture as he realises what you are doing, lining up his cock and sinking so his tip is captured by your body.

He sounds wrecked, babbling words like my sweet and my darling girl while his hands grasp the arms of the chair, almost as if he is afraid to touch you as if it would break the spell.

The invasion is just as overwhelming as yesterday, but with no sense of apprehension or fear of discomfort—just sheer pleasure. You move to grasp his shoulders as you slowly reach your hilt, him feeling so deep inside you.

“Look at you climbing in my lap and crawling onto my cock like this. My god, you are a wonder,” he sounds utterly enthralled, awed even. “You insatiable little sweet wonder, I took your innocence only yesterday and here you are now, sitting speared open on me. What is next, my sweet? Will you ride me? Take what you want from me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, loving how he is so complimentary about your actions, not shaming you for following your instincts, urging you to take pleasure from him. “Show me how Benedict?” you ask.

Large hands crest your hipbones. “Rise up, my sweet,” he lilts against your temple. You do so, feeling him withdraw from your body; just as his tip is nearly out of your body, he speaks again. “Now sink back down,” and you follow his teaching.

Both of you groan at the feel as he surges back into you so very deep. Glancing over a spot that makes you gyrate your hips as you are fully seated on him, addicted to the spike of pleasure it causes.

“Perfect,” he praises through slightly clenched teeth, obviously holding back from taking control and pushing up into you. “Now, keep doing just that.”

So you do. Begin a rhythm of rising using your thighs as leverage and sinking back down. You grab his face and draw him into a sloppy, almost artless breathy kiss as you adjust to the motions and the feeling in your body. Still a little mindblown from your orgasm, you feel so decadent and powerful as you grip his shoulders and ride him in his oversized chair, sunlight dancing warmly on your skin from the window behind you.

His hands sweep up over your back and encourage you to lean away a little, and when you do, curving backwards over his legs, he buries his face into your chest, his lips finding your nipple and biting down gently. It makes your whole body pulse, and you cry out his name. He growls encouragements, telling you not to stop; that you are a goddess, a wonder; teeming words of praise that make you move faster, ride him harder as he pushes his hips up to meet you now, breathing rapidly, muscles aching from the exertion, body slick with sweat and arousal.

As you move together, so much of the world makes sense; why people say intimate relations are a bedrock of marriage. You feel a bittersweet wave at the injustice that this man, who feels so right when inside you, is not the one you will get to spend your future with. It seems so unfair. You bite your lip and press your cheek to his, burying your hands into his hair as you both climb higher, the poignancy lending an air of desperation to your movements, chasing the most sublime feeling you have ever had.

He pulls back slightly and touches your face reverentially as if needing a moment of connection where your gaze locks. You are certain your eyes are glassy, but his seem the same, a sheen over them that dances in the sunlight, the intense rays catching the warm chestnut tint in his hair and reflecting the lightness of his teeth as he smiles up at you. You are smiling back, and your hand slips from his hair to cup his jaw. This doesn’t feel like something only physical, a means to an end; it feels like a connection, a meeting of kindred spirits.

“You are a work of art,” he murmurs, his tone worshipful.

It feels dangerously close to something so fundamental. To what you can only describe as love… love like you have read about in books. All that elegant prose and poetry making so much more profound sense now you feel it, see it mirrored in his face. Even though you have only spent a few hours in his company, you can see your future with this man as clearly as day. Watching him paint, standing proudly by his side as his work fills galleries, bearing his children, a loving family in a little cottage out in the peace and quiet of the country. Tending a garden of flowers and foods, reading books, educating your children. And every night, laying by his side, talking, laughing together, making love and growing old together. Always together. Tears prickle hot in the corner of your eyes at the thought that this vision, so clear, so utterly beguiling, will not be your future.

“Come for me, my sweet, my beautiful muse,” he appeals, sotto voce, as if intuiting you need a physical release to soothe your turbulent mind.

You wrap yourself around him tightly, his heated forehead pressed into your throat as you do just as he asked. Press your pelvis hard into him, tilting your hips so you catch your clit on his body as you rise and fall, pushing yourself towards completion. Every fibre of your being alive with light and exhilaration. His name trembles across your lips as you start to fracture around him, feeling so filled as you convulse deep inside. He is moaning, his hands seemingly everywhere, mapping your body with his touch, passion in his movements, as if he cannot hold enough of you at once. You float far away as your senses blot out, riding a wave so strong, so utterly singular, it feels like you have died a little and come back resurrected, rearranged, altered in some elemental way by this interlude you have shared.

As you go pliant in his arms, you feel him forcibly withdraw, and a warmth splashes on your inner thigh as he reaches his peak too. And yet you do not want to move; you want to stay with him, surrounded by him. He also senses it, wrapping his arms tighter around your body, pulling you closer into him, your tacky skin melding together as you recover, resting upon his shoulder. A silence that feels at once evocative and comforting, only punctured by your joined ragged breathing. His lips drop delicate kisses along your shoulder as you curl tighter, not wanting this moment to be over.

The faint chime of the hour on the mantel clock pulls you from your trance.

“Oh gosh! What of my official portrait?” you suddenly sit up in his lap, startled. “This is supposed to be our last session! Benedict, we are already overtime!”

“Calm down, my sweet,” he pulls you back into his arms and nuzzles your cheek. “I finished it last night if you must know, from memory.”

“You did what?” you gasp, moving to observe his face.

“I did not need you here, my muse, to complete your portrait. You are clear as day in my mind. As if you are always with me.” he smiles softly.

“Benedict… I….” Words fail as you fall forward and claim his lips briefly. “Show me?” your ask is timid.

“You wish to see?”

“Of course I do! If you will allow me.”

With a grin, he helps you out of his lap and hands you your chemise, which you throw on as he climbs back into his trousers, then walks to the other side of the room. It’s only now you notice his easel is draped in fabric, concealing what is on it. He turns the structure to face you and then slowly pulls off the cloth.

You are speechless.

Utterly speechless.

It is the most exquisitely rendered version of you that you have ever seen and better than you could possibly have imagined. Your skin glows, and your expression looks alive and filled with wonder. This painting, and there is no other expression you can think of, feels like a love letter—to you. And you don't want anyone else to own it but him.

“Oh, Benedict….,” tears prickle the corner of your eyes yet again, emotion bubbling over with every second that ticks away. “It's… it's wonderful.”

“I just paint what I see,” he shrugs, a modest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “With you, all I see is beauty, goodness and light.” Poetic words just fall out of him as easily as breathing.

You can't help it; you run to him, throwing yourself into his arms. He laughs happily and hauls you up, your chemise riding up around your hips as you twine your limbs around him like a vine, chanting thank yous into his neck and squeezing him with all your might.

“Benedict I… I love you,” you confess into his ear, unable to stop your mouth from running away with itself or to hide your true feelings.

“Oh my sweet, my love,” he pulls you away to look into your eyes, his face a picture of surprise and devotion. “I love you too.”

You are soaring at his declaration and trembling as he places you gently onto your feet and sinks to his knees before you, clutching your waist.

“It has only taken five hours to know you are the only person in this world for me,” he admits, and you start to cry before he continues. “Please, do not marry that other man. I know he is your intended. But he is not worthy of you. I’m not sure anyone is, including me. But, please, just do not.….”

“I could not… not now,” you vow, grabbing his face, blurred through your tears, his hands moving to encircle your forearms tenderly as your thumbs swipe his cheeks.

“...would you do me one last favour instead?” he asks, his voice tremulant.

“Anything, I would do anything for you, Benedict,” you whisper fervently, honestly.

The moment seems both teeming with desperation and sentiment but also something light, like hope, even though these are to be your last private minutes together. He takes your hands from cupping his jaw and holds both of them in his, looking up at you with adoration in his glassy eyes.

“Would you please do me the honour of being my wife?”

His proposal is simple, heartfelt, improvised, a total surprise, but everything you could hope for. It makes your heart leap; leap out of your chest, into your throat, and then beyond, flying to him.

“Yes, oh god, yes, yes, yes!!!!” you squeal and haul him back up to his feet so you can be in his arms again—melting into his lips.

You stand for what seems like ages, wrapped together, coiled around each other—a little cocoon of soft teary smiles and endless kisses. Your heart singing with the idea that all those visions of a future with this man could perhaps come true.

“I…. I have a ring,” he admits as your mouths part.

“You do?” You grin in surprise.

“I saw it in the window of a little jeweller the day we met, and it made me think of you. So I went back yesterday after we, well….” You smile at his sudden modesty. “I heard you yesterday. After I closed the front door, I heard what you said. And I had to buy it. Even if you had said no, it would have been my parting gift to you, a reminder of what we shared, even if only for a few days. But I always held out hope it could be a betrothal ring.”

You are teary again as he reaches for the shelf of the easel and, right there, is a tiny navy blue box. He flicks it open to reveal the most exquisite small sapphire stone surrounded by a halo of tiny pearls.

“Oh, it is beautiful,” you gasp and hold out your hand shakily as he delicately pushes it onto your ring finger.

It's a perfect fit for you—just as he is.

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

Portrait-only taglist: @mysticwitchcraftco

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