You had always been enamored by your best friend's older brother. You just never imagined he might feel the same. When a suitor takes things too far at a ball, it's Benedict who comes to the rescue.
part one part two* part three*
Steve Harrington
i can see you
Working in close proximity to your best friend turned crush? Maybe not such a great idea.
Remus Lupin
What Are We?
You and Remus have always been close, but lately, the lines between friends and more has grown blurred. On a dreary day, you finally find the nerve to ask you best friend what exactly the two of you are to each other.
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After nearly a month of marriage, you discover there is still much to learn after sharing tea with Penelope. Your husband soon regrets ever holding back.
Technically part three in the Interrupted series, but I think you can read it as a stand alone. Find parts one and two below!
part i, part ii
Masterlist here!
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader
Word Count: 4.5k
Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MDNI, oral m!receiving, pnv, biting? (idk it just happened!), pretty explicit, let me know if i missed anything!
A/N: A part three was requested! I took some liberties with the request. I thought it would be a while before I wrote it, but I actually wrote it all today... meaning, this has not been proofread. I got excited! @diagonazguly thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy!
Time passes you by in the blink of an eye. It seems as if you and Benedict had wed only days ago, yet you wake one day, and it has been a month. Still, when you roll over to face him, his arm wrapped around you the whole time, you still feel the familiar butterflies of newness.
“Good morning, wife,” Benedict hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Husband,” you reply, smiling in delight. You aren’t sure the title will ever grow old. You rest your head atop his chest, fingers running up and down his bare torso. It’s a mindless action, one that has grown to be routine in the month you’ve spent waking just like this. “And what are your plans for the day, Mr. Bridgerton?”
Benedict, in turn, rubs his hand over your arm, sending shivers up your spine. His voice holds the evidence of sleep, a rasp that quickly turns your affection to desire when he speaks, “I am afraid I have been postponing lunch with Anthony and Colin for far too long. I suppose I should accompany them to Mondrich’s.”
You let out a dramatic sigh, though a smile threatens the corners of your mouth. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, replying, “Well, I suppose I shall have to occupy myself then.”
“And how ever shall you do that, my love?”
The name brings heat rushing up your neck and to your cheeks even now. Adamant on not being teased for the reaction his words cause, you rise from the bed, wrapping your robe around your shoulders. You move toward your wardrobe, calling over your shoulder teasingly, “Penelope wished to have tea while you men do whatever it is you do. Though, I must call upon Eloise soon as well. It has been a while since we spoke, and I dread to think she would believe I’ve forgotten my favorite Bridgerton.”
Benedict gasps in mock offense, his hand flying to his chest, “You wound me.”
Your laugh fills the room, bringing a smile to your husband’s face as you sort through your various dresses.
“You should wear the cream one,” he suggests from the bed. He’s sat up now, propped against far too many pillows.
Turning to face him, you tilt your head. “Is that so?”
“Indeed,” he nods. “I would not wish for anyone to forget you are a new bride.”
You roll your eyes fondly but take the dress from its hook. Turning back to him, you hold your ring in the air, “Is this not sufficient?”
“Well, I should hope it is, but one can not be too careful with a bride as lovely as you.”
“And now you flatter me!” You grumble, flustered again. He smirks, and you know that had been his goal.
“Never, I merely cannot contain my praises, darling wife.”
You move back toward the bed as if floating on air, sitting on the edge beside him. Benedict grins, far too pleased with himself for bringing you back to him.
“You fluster me,” you complain, feeling completely childish when you hear the words leave your mouth.
Benedict’s grin only grows. “Do I?” He asks innocently, pushing your sleep-mussed hair out of your face gently.
You nod, leaning into his touch.
“My apologies,” he murmurs, leaning in. His eyes flicker to your lips, and only a moment later, they are on yours. Your lips move against his, much more practiced now than when you first wed. You sink into him, his hand on your waist pulling you closer until you’re practically on top of him. His free hand finds your leg and pulls it over his lap, so you straddle him, all without ever breaking the kiss.. Your robe pushes up your thighs, leaving little to the imagination.
You come to your senses suddenly as if waking from a pleasant dream. With your hands on his chest, you push yourself away. Benedict chases your lips, groaning when you move out of reach.
“Benedict, we have duties to attend to today! We cannot spend the day in bed,” you chastise, lowering your voice to add, “again.”
“Darling,” he complains, large hands roaming your body. “We have plenty of time. Besides, I assure you I can be swift.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, torn between the now familiar feeling of desire in your gut and your plans for the day. Benedict’s eyes brighten, seeing your hesitation. He begins to press open mouthed kisses up the slope of your neck, pausing only to add, “Let me show you why I should be your favorite Bridgerton, my wife.”
—
It’s nearly two hours later when Benedict helps you out of the carriage at Penelope and Colin’s home. Your hand wraps around his bicep, letting him lead you up the path to their door where a footman waits. He leads you to the drawing room, each step precise.
“I admit, I already find myself looking forward to this evening,” Benedict leans down to murmur in your ear.
“You are insatiable,” you reply, shaking your head with a smile.
The footman steps into the drawing room first, announcing you both, “Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton.”
Colin and Penelope rise swiftly to greet you both, meeting you half way. Penelope embraces you first, while Colin greets his brother.
“Y/N, I feel as if it has been an age since I’ve seen you!”
You laugh, nodding in agreement when you pull back to look at her, “I know! I feel as if I’ve hardly left the house since we wed.”
Colin pulls you into a hug, “Yes, well, that is to be expected for newlyweds, is it not?” His voice is teasing, looking to his brother next.
Penelope swats at her husband, “Leave them be. Don’t you two have cards to play?”
You all laugh as Colin feigns offense, “Very well. We shall leave you ladies to chat. Anthony will be waiting.”
You interlock your arm with Penelope’s, waving goodbye as the men retreat. Benedict winks in your direction before the men disappear from view. Your friend guides you to the couch, already pouring you a cup of tea. You accept it with thanks. It doesn’t take long for the two of you to begin gossiping just like old times, giggles falling from your lips.
You know you’re in trouble when Pen gets the familiar meddling look in her face. One you’re all too used to after over a decade of friendship. Maybe that’s why you’re only slightly caught off guard when she speaks again.
“I presume you and Benedict have been… getting acquainted with each other,” she smirks.
The tea burns your mouth, at least that is the story you’ll tell, and you splutter, “Penelope!”
She only giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “Forgive me! I admit I am curious.”
“Curious? What precisely do you wish to know?” You furrow your brow, sitting the tea cup down. You look down at your gown, picking at a loose thread mindlessly.
“We needn’t discuss it if you do not wish to. It’s only… Men speak of it, do they not? And it is not as if I can speak to Eloise about it. If not because it would be improper, then because I could not possibly divulge such information about her brother,” Penelope rambles, halting with a breathless laugh. “A problem you share, you see. I merely thought it might be nice.”
You reach out, taking her hand in yours, an amused smile on your face. “Pen, we may discuss it,” you laugh softly. “I simply do not know where to begin.”
“Then, I shall,” Penelope grins.
—
Hours later, Benedict and Colin return, one clearly having more to drink than the other. Benedict has his arm around Colin’s torso, helping him to the chaise. After apologizing to Penelope for returning him in this state, Benedict takes your hand, leading you to the carriage once more.
The whole way home though, all you can consider is everything your sister-in-law had told you. You glance around the carriage, wondering how on earth they had even come up with such things. Benedict takes in your expression, furrowing his brow.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” He asks, placing his hand on your knee. You follow the movement, considering everything else Penelope had told you.
Benedict’s hands are quite large, easily twice the size of your own. The realization makes your head swim. You chew your lip in thought, wondering how it would feel if he-
“Y/N?” Benedict tries again, finally pulling you from your thoughts.
“Hm?” You look up suddenly. Your cheeks heat when you realize you have been lost in thought. “My apologies, I was lost in my own mind.”
“Is something troubling you?” He repeats.
You shake your head quickly, offering a smile. “Nothing at all. Did you and your brothers enjoy yourselves?”
Benedict studies you for a beat longer before accepting your answer. “Yes, it was enjoyable, but they do not entertain me nearly as much as you do.”
He descends into a dramatic retelling of the events from the gentleman’s club, seemingly leaving no stone unturned. As he goes on, you find your thoughts drifting back to all the new possibilities Penelope had revealed. You had no idea lovemaking could take so many forms.
As days go by, you find yourself thinking about it more and more until instead of excitement, you begin to feel uneasy. Why had you never known of the possibilities? Was Benedict easing you into married life as Penelope had suggested, or was he unsatisfied? Did he wish for more?
The thoughts both excite and frighten you. You find yourself even now, in Benedict’s study as he paints, pressing your legs closer together in an effort to ease the near constant ache that has situated itself between your thighs.
Your book sits forgotten in your lap, instead finding the sight of your husband’s hand gripping his paintbrush far more enticing. Several veins bulge along the backside of his hand, and their presence disarms you. You don’t know how long you stay like that, simply staring at your husband with growing lust. It isn’t until he sits the brush down that you realize he is staring back. You sit up straighter, clearing your throat nervously and attempt to appear as if you are reading after all.
“Ah, ah,” Benedict shakes his head, eliminating the distance between you. “You are not fooling me, my love. You are watching me.”
“Can a wife not admire her husband?” You try to appear nonchalant.
He grins, kneeling in front of you. “She may, but you have been doing it for days. I am beginning to believe I have grown a second head.”
You flush, sitting your book to the side. “You have not grown a second head,” you mumble softly.
“Ah, a relief,” he jests. One hand grasps your chin gently, tilting your head up to face him. “Would you care to tell me what is on your mind then? Hm?”
“Nothing,” you answer quickly.
To his credit, Benedict doesn’t laugh or chastise your obvious lie. Instead, his face grows soft, sensing your embarrassment. “Darling, you are forgetting I have known you since you could speak. I am certain I can recognize when you are speaking falsehoods.”
He’s right, you realize. You do not stand a chance of fooling him. Still, you are so used to such topics being out of bounds. You aren’t sure how to speak freely, even to your very handsome husband who only wishes to help.
“You will not laugh?”
Benedict takes your hands in his, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “I will not laugh,” he assures you.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. “When we visited Penelope and Colin, she asked if she could speak freely,” you begin. Benedict’s forehead creases, but he only nods, urging you to continue. “It is only… Well, she told me about certain… interests her and Colin share. Interests I did not know existed.”
“Interests?” Benedict repeats, still brushing over your knuckles gently. It’s clear he has no clue what you mean.
You sigh, looking around as if a servant may be lingering in a corner. Of course, the room is empty besides the two of you. Only after you make certain of this do you try to clarify. “You know,” you lower your voice like you are sharing a secret, “Marital interests.”
Benedict’s face transforms into a wide grin, and he can’t help the loud laugh that escapes him. You glare, pulling your hands from his.
“You said you would not laugh!”
Your husband tries to catch his breath, running a hand through his hair. “I am sorry, my love. It is not funny. It merely surprised me!” He excuses. “I did not expect that to be what is troubling you. Though, I believe I may need more help understanding. Did these ‘interests,’” he teases, “Displease you? It has been nearly a week since we visited with Penelope and Colin, and these thoughts still plague you.”
You hesitate, still embarrassed, before shaking your head slightly. It takes a moment, but once you gain the courage, you begin to ramble, “It is not that they displeased me. It is the opposite! I cannot look at you without imagining all of these newfound possibilities. You did not tell me that a woman could take a man in her mouth!”
Benedict chokes on air, his eyebrows raising nearly to his hairline, but you only continue on.
“Or that the marital act could occur in the carriage!”
He did not even wish to hear how you had discovered that.
“And so every time I look at you, I am considering all of this! But you must have known already! So why did you not tell me? Do you not wish to do that with me?”
Benedict thinks his heart might explode. He had been worrying about how quiet you’ve been for days, but he had never expected this to be the cause. His silence causes you to shrink in on yourself, and he can feel you drawing back. He reaches for your hand again, desperate to calm your racing mind.
“My love, why did you not tell me this was troubling you so? Of course I wish to do everything with you. I merely did not want to rush you. Marriage is a new adventure, one completely foreign to us, but I know that it is an even bigger change for you. I did not wish to move too quickly or- or to overwhelm you.”
Your face softens, the lines of worry dissipating. “That is all?”
“Of course that is all,” he repeats firmly, bringing your hands to his lips again. “If I had known it would have the opposite effect, I would have told you weeks ago. Will you forgive me?”
Feeling suddenly very silly, you nod. Your bottom lip juts out into a pout, and though you’d be embarrassed if you realized, Benedict finds the sight incredibly endearing.
“I am sorry for stewing in silence, Benedict,” you apologize sincerely. “I should have spoken with you, but you are right. It is a rather large adjustment, being able to discuss such things.”
Your husband brushes your hair back with his free hand, assuring you, “Oh, that’s quite alright, sweetheart. I know how you might make it up to me.”
“How is that?”
The fondness in his eyes transforms into lust, a smirk taking over his mouth. “You mentioned taking me in your mouth, I believe?”
Your heart skips a beat, but you nod slowly, even as a blush climbs onto your cheeks. “Should we return to our chambers?”
But Benedict only shakes his head, rising from his knees and offering you his hand. You take it, rising.
“If not our chambers, then-”
To your surprise, Benedict takes your spot in the chair, reaching for a throw pillow. You furrow your brow, opening your mouth to question him, but he interrupts.
“If you wish to know everything, then you must know that the marital act can occur wherever we wish, darling.”
“Here?” You ask in surprise, looking around nervously.
Benedict laughs, situating the pillow on the floor between his feet. “Yes, here. Do you trust me?”
You nod without a second thought, and he smiles.
“Then, I will teach you.”
He gives you his hand, helping you to the ground, directing you to put your knees on the pillow. Only when you’re there does he begin talking you through the process. At first, you run your hand over his breeches, feeling him as you have before, but after a few minutes, he guides your hand to his belt, helping you unclasp each button until you can free him. Eye level with his manhood for the first time, your breath catches, nerves suddenly catching up with you.
“If you wish to stop, you must merely tell me,” he assures you.
You shake your head, looking up to meet his eye. “I wish to. I merely do not wish to disappoint you.”
He shakes his head, running his hands through your hair soothingly. “I do not think you could disappoint me if you tried. Being with you is enough.”
“Do not flatter me,” you grumble sarcastically, “I am serious.”
“As am I.”
“What is next?” You ask, determined.
Benedict releases a slow breath, still tracing through your hair. “Next, you may kiss me. You may do whatever you wish.”
You nod slowly, moving closer. You press a gentle kiss to the tip, your nerves easing as you hear him take a sharp inhale. Encouraged by the sound, you continue pressing kisses down the length of him, watching how he grows in your hand. Tentatively, you stick out your tongue, licking up the side.
“Dammit,” he hisses, and you pull away instantly. Benedict takes in your wide eyes and lets out a breathless laugh. “No, darling, that was exactly right. It felt good.”
“It did?” You ask hopefully, leaning in again. He nods, gripping the hair at the base of your head. He doesn’t pull or tug. He only holds onto you like an anchor, trying not to float away in the sensations.
You continue like that for a few minutes, eventually gaining the confidence to wrap your lips around the tip of him. A low moan spills from Benedict’s lips, and his grip on your hair tightens. The sensation makes you hum around him, creating an endless cycle of pleasure that neither of you are willing to end just yet.
You must pull away eventually though. You release him with a small gasp, your chest rising and falling quickly. When you look up at your husband, his eyes are blown wide, staring down at you in awe.
“I should have taught you that much sooner, wife.”
A laugh escapes you, but you reach for him again. Benedict stops you though, shaking his head.
“Enough, as incredible as it is, I find I still prefer being inside you.”
“Benedict,” you whisper wide-eyed, the lewd words catching you off guard, but he only laughs.
“Darling, you just had me in your mouth. You could not possibly still be scandalized by my vocabulary.”
“I am not scandalized!” You insist.
Benedict chuckles, offering you his hand and rising from the chair. He helps you to your feet, and it’s a conscious effort to look him in the eye. He notices your straying gaze but doesn’t comment. Instead, he lifts you into the air without a sound, crossing the room to place you upon his desk.
“What are you doing?” You gasp.
He reaches for the hem of your dress, lifting each layer above your hips with practiced ease.
“I am showing you the various uses of my study furniture. Surely you do not object?”
You shake your head quickly, and he grins, finding your undergarments.
“My god, wife, you had been thinking of the possibilities, hadn’t you?” He muses, feeling how you’ve soaked through the fabric.
His words cause a whimper to escape you, and you lean forward, burying your face against his shoulder in an effort to hide. He chuckles, pushing them aside.
“It is a good thing, my love. Certainly, I’ve proven that much to you so far, hm?”
You nod, words failing you. You’re already wrecked. That much is clear, and Benedict can feel himself growing addicted to the feeling.
“Shh,” he soothes, positioning himself at your entrance. He falters, growling at the position. He takes hold of your leg, lifting one to wrap around his waist. The other hangs over the edge of the desk. “There we go,” he breathes, sinking into you.
Your mouth falls open into a silent moan, and Benedict wastes no time, setting a steady rhythm that leaves you unable to catch your breath. Up until now, you had only known gentle lovemaking. The kind where Benedict keeps his eyes on yours, whispering soothing words and praise, but now, his pace is harsh and unforgiving. A lifetime’s worth of desire that had been waiting to spill out. Waiting for him to deem you ready, and now that he has, he isn’t sure how he ever held back.
Each thrust hits something that causes your vision to blur. Overwhelmed by the sensation, you bite down on his shoulder, and Benedict groans so loudly you’re certain the whole house must hear. Except you can’t focus long enough to care.
“Dammit,” he huffs, “Do it again.”
You aren’t sure if it’s a plea or an order, but you don’t care either way. You reach for his shirt, thankful he’d only been wearing one layer while he painted. You lift it, but Benedict’s movements don’t falter even as he helps you lift it over his head, tossing it to the ground. When there’s no longer any fabric covering him, you sink your teeth into his skin, relishing in the sounds your husband makes when you do.
“God, I love you,” he pants, gripping your chin with a harshness he’s never used on you. He turns your face towards his, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.
“I love you,” you breathe into the kiss.
Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, pulling away from you. He takes a step back, and you whine. A pathetic sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. Benedict’s eyes trail you up and down, drinking you in. He runs his thumb over his lips, inhaling sharply.
“Why did you stop?” You frown, holding yourself up with palms against the hard wood.
Benedict’s eyes light up when he chuckles, a trait he’d always had, but that causes your breath to catch even now. “I believe I’ve given it to you too easily, sweetheart.”
“I do not understand,” you frown, dropping your skirts and smoothing them out uncomfortably.
He steps closer, following the line of your frown with his thumb. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers, eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes hungrily. “Whatever you wish, you shall have, but you must ask, my love.”
Your mouth opens but clamps shut, not sure what to say. You can feel the preconditioned shame filtering through, but then, you look up at him. Truly look at him. And when you do, you see the hunger in his eyes. Eyes that have seen you through every phase of life. Eyes that have seen you in sleep and freshly awake. Eyes that still look at you as if they are trying to both see and memorize every part of you all at once.
Beyond that though, you see the adoration, the love. You know because it is the same way you look at him. The same way you’ve always looked at him. That realization fills you with a confidence you had never felt before. He loves you.
So when your mouth opens again, all you feel is need.
“I want to feel you.”
You see the way his eyes seemingly light with joy while still darkening with want.
“Hm, is that all?” He breathes against your cheek, kissing you there. One on your cheek, on to your jaw, and then down your neck.
He unlaces the front of your gown, letting it slip down to your hips, while never ceasing to kiss you. When your breasts are bare, he latches onto one, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Benedict, I-” you gasp, back arching, pressing you closer to him.
But even still, your husband doesn’t stop kissing you. He wraps his lips around one peak, his fingers finding the other, but he maintains eye contact, humming around you in response. You keep one hand on the desk to hold you upright, but the other laces through his hair, tugging harsher than you probably should.
You know what he wants you to say. He wants more from you, but you don’t know how he expects you to think with this much pleasure coursing through you. He must come to the same conclusion though because he releases you from his mouth, looking up at you expectantly.
“I want you inside of me again,” you finally admit.
“Was that so hard?” He teases, standing to his full height and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Turn around.”
You do immediately, requiring no further explanation. All you need is him, however he will have you. He lifts your skirts again, pressing a hand between your shoulder blades to guide you lower. You must hesitate, looking over the papers on the desk to ensure there was nothing of importance, because Benedict reaches past you, pushing everything to the floor.
“Benedict!” You gasp, “What if those were important?”
“I cannot think of anything more important than this,” he confesses, gripping your hip. He enters you easily now, and your head bows forward in pleasure.
Moans of his name fall helplessly from your lips, but Benedict is not much better, panting whispered declarations of love in your ear. It only serves to drive you higher and higher.
Lovemaking has always been exactly that. Gentle touches and caresses as Benedict practically worshipped you. You didn’t know it could be different, but now, with your palms digging into the wood of his desk, you realize how wrong you had been.
“Benedict, I think I am going to-”
He wraps his arm around you, finding where you need him most. It is almost instantaneous, the one extra push you needed pushing you over the edge. Benedict swears at the feeling of you clenching around him, fingers digging into your hip as he chases his high. When he finds it, he doesn’t pull away like he usually does. Instead, he uses the hand around your waist to pull your back toward his chest, unable to resist the temptation. He moans lowly against your neck, his movements faltering then slowing to a stop.
He curses, taking a step away and helping you stand. He smooths out your skirts, cupping your face when you turn to face him.
“Are you alright?” Benedict asks, brows drawn in concern.
You nod quickly, eyes fluttering. “I am perfect,” you add, leaning into his embrace. He runs his hand up and down your side, accepting your answer.
“In that case,” he grins, lifting you into his arms once more, “I believe we shall need a bath.”
After nearly a month of marriage, you discover there is still much to learn after sharing tea with Penelope. Your husband soon regrets ever holding back.
Technically part three in the Interrupted series, but I think you can read it as a stand alone. Find parts one and two below!
part i, part ii
Masterlist here!
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader
Word Count: 4.5k
Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MDNI, oral m!receiving, pnv, biting? (idk it just happened!), pretty explicit, let me know if i missed anything!
A/N: A part three was requested! I took some liberties with the request. I thought it would be a while before I wrote it, but I actually wrote it all today... meaning, this has not been proofread. I got excited! @diagonazguly thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy!
Time passes you by in the blink of an eye. It seems as if you and Benedict had wed only days ago, yet you wake one day, and it has been a month. Still, when you roll over to face him, his arm wrapped around you the whole time, you still feel the familiar butterflies of newness.
“Good morning, wife,” Benedict hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Husband,” you reply, smiling in delight. You aren’t sure the title will ever grow old. You rest your head atop his chest, fingers running up and down his bare torso. It’s a mindless action, one that has grown to be routine in the month you’ve spent waking just like this. “And what are your plans for the day, Mr. Bridgerton?”
Benedict, in turn, rubs his hand over your arm, sending shivers up your spine. His voice holds the evidence of sleep, a rasp that quickly turns your affection to desire when he speaks, “I am afraid I have been postponing lunch with Anthony and Colin for far too long. I suppose I should accompany them to Mondrich’s.”
You let out a dramatic sigh, though a smile threatens the corners of your mouth. You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, replying, “Well, I suppose I shall have to occupy myself then.”
“And how ever shall you do that, my love?”
The name brings heat rushing up your neck and to your cheeks even now. Adamant on not being teased for the reaction his words cause, you rise from the bed, wrapping your robe around your shoulders. You move toward your wardrobe, calling over your shoulder teasingly, “Penelope wished to have tea while you men do whatever it is you do. Though, I must call upon Eloise soon as well. It has been a while since we spoke, and I dread to think she would believe I’ve forgotten my favorite Bridgerton.”
Benedict gasps in mock offense, his hand flying to his chest, “You wound me.”
Your laugh fills the room, bringing a smile to your husband’s face as you sort through your various dresses.
“You should wear the cream one,” he suggests from the bed. He’s sat up now, propped against far too many pillows.
Turning to face him, you tilt your head. “Is that so?”
“Indeed,” he nods. “I would not wish for anyone to forget you are a new bride.”
You roll your eyes fondly but take the dress from its hook. Turning back to him, you hold your ring in the air, “Is this not sufficient?”
“Well, I should hope it is, but one can not be too careful with a bride as lovely as you.”
“And now you flatter me!” You grumble, flustered again. He smirks, and you know that had been his goal.
“Never, I merely cannot contain my praises, darling wife.”
You move back toward the bed as if floating on air, sitting on the edge beside him. Benedict grins, far too pleased with himself for bringing you back to him.
“You fluster me,” you complain, feeling completely childish when you hear the words leave your mouth.
Benedict’s grin only grows. “Do I?” He asks innocently, pushing your sleep-mussed hair out of your face gently.
You nod, leaning into his touch.
“My apologies,” he murmurs, leaning in. His eyes flicker to your lips, and only a moment later, they are on yours. Your lips move against his, much more practiced now than when you first wed. You sink into him, his hand on your waist pulling you closer until you’re practically on top of him. His free hand finds your leg and pulls it over his lap, so you straddle him, all without ever breaking the kiss.. Your robe pushes up your thighs, leaving little to the imagination.
You come to your senses suddenly as if waking from a pleasant dream. With your hands on his chest, you push yourself away. Benedict chases your lips, groaning when you move out of reach.
“Benedict, we have duties to attend to today! We cannot spend the day in bed,” you chastise, lowering your voice to add, “again.”
“Darling,” he complains, large hands roaming your body. “We have plenty of time. Besides, I assure you I can be swift.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, torn between the now familiar feeling of desire in your gut and your plans for the day. Benedict’s eyes brighten, seeing your hesitation. He begins to press open mouthed kisses up the slope of your neck, pausing only to add, “Let me show you why I should be your favorite Bridgerton, my wife.”
—
It’s nearly two hours later when Benedict helps you out of the carriage at Penelope and Colin’s home. Your hand wraps around his bicep, letting him lead you up the path to their door where a footman waits. He leads you to the drawing room, each step precise.
“I admit, I already find myself looking forward to this evening,” Benedict leans down to murmur in your ear.
“You are insatiable,” you reply, shaking your head with a smile.
The footman steps into the drawing room first, announcing you both, “Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton.”
Colin and Penelope rise swiftly to greet you both, meeting you half way. Penelope embraces you first, while Colin greets his brother.
“Y/N, I feel as if it has been an age since I’ve seen you!”
You laugh, nodding in agreement when you pull back to look at her, “I know! I feel as if I’ve hardly left the house since we wed.”
Colin pulls you into a hug, “Yes, well, that is to be expected for newlyweds, is it not?” His voice is teasing, looking to his brother next.
Penelope swats at her husband, “Leave them be. Don’t you two have cards to play?”
You all laugh as Colin feigns offense, “Very well. We shall leave you ladies to chat. Anthony will be waiting.”
You interlock your arm with Penelope’s, waving goodbye as the men retreat. Benedict winks in your direction before the men disappear from view. Your friend guides you to the couch, already pouring you a cup of tea. You accept it with thanks. It doesn’t take long for the two of you to begin gossiping just like old times, giggles falling from your lips.
You know you’re in trouble when Pen gets the familiar meddling look in her face. One you’re all too used to after over a decade of friendship. Maybe that’s why you’re only slightly caught off guard when she speaks again.
“I presume you and Benedict have been… getting acquainted with each other,” she smirks.
The tea burns your mouth, at least that is the story you’ll tell, and you splutter, “Penelope!”
She only giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. “Forgive me! I admit I am curious.”
“Curious? What precisely do you wish to know?” You furrow your brow, sitting the tea cup down. You look down at your gown, picking at a loose thread mindlessly.
“We needn’t discuss it if you do not wish to. It’s only… Men speak of it, do they not? And it is not as if I can speak to Eloise about it. If not because it would be improper, then because I could not possibly divulge such information about her brother,” Penelope rambles, halting with a breathless laugh. “A problem you share, you see. I merely thought it might be nice.”
You reach out, taking her hand in yours, an amused smile on your face. “Pen, we may discuss it,” you laugh softly. “I simply do not know where to begin.”
“Then, I shall,” Penelope grins.
—
Hours later, Benedict and Colin return, one clearly having more to drink than the other. Benedict has his arm around Colin’s torso, helping him to the chaise. After apologizing to Penelope for returning him in this state, Benedict takes your hand, leading you to the carriage once more.
The whole way home though, all you can consider is everything your sister-in-law had told you. You glance around the carriage, wondering how on earth they had even come up with such things. Benedict takes in your expression, furrowing his brow.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” He asks, placing his hand on your knee. You follow the movement, considering everything else Penelope had told you.
Benedict’s hands are quite large, easily twice the size of your own. The realization makes your head swim. You chew your lip in thought, wondering how it would feel if he-
“Y/N?” Benedict tries again, finally pulling you from your thoughts.
“Hm?” You look up suddenly. Your cheeks heat when you realize you have been lost in thought. “My apologies, I was lost in my own mind.”
“Is something troubling you?” He repeats.
You shake your head quickly, offering a smile. “Nothing at all. Did you and your brothers enjoy yourselves?”
Benedict studies you for a beat longer before accepting your answer. “Yes, it was enjoyable, but they do not entertain me nearly as much as you do.”
He descends into a dramatic retelling of the events from the gentleman’s club, seemingly leaving no stone unturned. As he goes on, you find your thoughts drifting back to all the new possibilities Penelope had revealed. You had no idea lovemaking could take so many forms.
As days go by, you find yourself thinking about it more and more until instead of excitement, you begin to feel uneasy. Why had you never known of the possibilities? Was Benedict easing you into married life as Penelope had suggested, or was he unsatisfied? Did he wish for more?
The thoughts both excite and frighten you. You find yourself even now, in Benedict’s study as he paints, pressing your legs closer together in an effort to ease the near constant ache that has situated itself between your thighs.
Your book sits forgotten in your lap, instead finding the sight of your husband’s hand gripping his paintbrush far more enticing. Several veins bulge along the backside of his hand, and their presence disarms you. You don’t know how long you stay like that, simply staring at your husband with growing lust. It isn’t until he sits the brush down that you realize he is staring back. You sit up straighter, clearing your throat nervously and attempt to appear as if you are reading after all.
“Ah, ah,” Benedict shakes his head, eliminating the distance between you. “You are not fooling me, my love. You are watching me.”
“Can a wife not admire her husband?” You try to appear nonchalant.
He grins, kneeling in front of you. “She may, but you have been doing it for days. I am beginning to believe I have grown a second head.”
You flush, sitting your book to the side. “You have not grown a second head,” you mumble softly.
“Ah, a relief,” he jests. One hand grasps your chin gently, tilting your head up to face him. “Would you care to tell me what is on your mind then? Hm?”
“Nothing,” you answer quickly.
To his credit, Benedict doesn’t laugh or chastise your obvious lie. Instead, his face grows soft, sensing your embarrassment. “Darling, you are forgetting I have known you since you could speak. I am certain I can recognize when you are speaking falsehoods.”
He’s right, you realize. You do not stand a chance of fooling him. Still, you are so used to such topics being out of bounds. You aren’t sure how to speak freely, even to your very handsome husband who only wishes to help.
“You will not laugh?”
Benedict takes your hands in his, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “I will not laugh,” he assures you.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. “When we visited Penelope and Colin, she asked if she could speak freely,” you begin. Benedict’s forehead creases, but he only nods, urging you to continue. “It is only… Well, she told me about certain… interests her and Colin share. Interests I did not know existed.”
“Interests?” Benedict repeats, still brushing over your knuckles gently. It’s clear he has no clue what you mean.
You sigh, looking around as if a servant may be lingering in a corner. Of course, the room is empty besides the two of you. Only after you make certain of this do you try to clarify. “You know,” you lower your voice like you are sharing a secret, “Marital interests.”
Benedict’s face transforms into a wide grin, and he can’t help the loud laugh that escapes him. You glare, pulling your hands from his.
“You said you would not laugh!”
Your husband tries to catch his breath, running a hand through his hair. “I am sorry, my love. It is not funny. It merely surprised me!” He excuses. “I did not expect that to be what is troubling you. Though, I believe I may need more help understanding. Did these ‘interests,’” he teases, “Displease you? It has been nearly a week since we visited with Penelope and Colin, and these thoughts still plague you.”
You hesitate, still embarrassed, before shaking your head slightly. It takes a moment, but once you gain the courage, you begin to ramble, “It is not that they displeased me. It is the opposite! I cannot look at you without imagining all of these newfound possibilities. You did not tell me that a woman could take a man in her mouth!”
Benedict chokes on air, his eyebrows raising nearly to his hairline, but you only continue on.
“Or that the marital act could occur in the carriage!”
He did not even wish to hear how you had discovered that.
“And so every time I look at you, I am considering all of this! But you must have known already! So why did you not tell me? Do you not wish to do that with me?”
Benedict thinks his heart might explode. He had been worrying about how quiet you’ve been for days, but he had never expected this to be the cause. His silence causes you to shrink in on yourself, and he can feel you drawing back. He reaches for your hand again, desperate to calm your racing mind.
“My love, why did you not tell me this was troubling you so? Of course I wish to do everything with you. I merely did not want to rush you. Marriage is a new adventure, one completely foreign to us, but I know that it is an even bigger change for you. I did not wish to move too quickly or- or to overwhelm you.”
Your face softens, the lines of worry dissipating. “That is all?”
“Of course that is all,” he repeats firmly, bringing your hands to his lips again. “If I had known it would have the opposite effect, I would have told you weeks ago. Will you forgive me?”
Feeling suddenly very silly, you nod. Your bottom lip juts out into a pout, and though you’d be embarrassed if you realized, Benedict finds the sight incredibly endearing.
“I am sorry for stewing in silence, Benedict,” you apologize sincerely. “I should have spoken with you, but you are right. It is a rather large adjustment, being able to discuss such things.”
Your husband brushes your hair back with his free hand, assuring you, “Oh, that’s quite alright, sweetheart. I know how you might make it up to me.”
“How is that?”
The fondness in his eyes transforms into lust, a smirk taking over his mouth. “You mentioned taking me in your mouth, I believe?”
Your heart skips a beat, but you nod slowly, even as a blush climbs onto your cheeks. “Should we return to our chambers?”
But Benedict only shakes his head, rising from his knees and offering you his hand. You take it, rising.
“If not our chambers, then-”
To your surprise, Benedict takes your spot in the chair, reaching for a throw pillow. You furrow your brow, opening your mouth to question him, but he interrupts.
“If you wish to know everything, then you must know that the marital act can occur wherever we wish, darling.”
“Here?” You ask in surprise, looking around nervously.
Benedict laughs, situating the pillow on the floor between his feet. “Yes, here. Do you trust me?”
You nod without a second thought, and he smiles.
“Then, I will teach you.”
He gives you his hand, helping you to the ground, directing you to put your knees on the pillow. Only when you’re there does he begin talking you through the process. At first, you run your hand over his breeches, feeling him as you have before, but after a few minutes, he guides your hand to his belt, helping you unclasp each button until you can free him. Eye level with his manhood for the first time, your breath catches, nerves suddenly catching up with you.
“If you wish to stop, you must merely tell me,” he assures you.
You shake your head, looking up to meet his eye. “I wish to. I merely do not wish to disappoint you.”
He shakes his head, running his hands through your hair soothingly. “I do not think you could disappoint me if you tried. Being with you is enough.”
“Do not flatter me,” you grumble sarcastically, “I am serious.”
“As am I.”
“What is next?” You ask, determined.
Benedict releases a slow breath, still tracing through your hair. “Next, you may kiss me. You may do whatever you wish.”
You nod slowly, moving closer. You press a gentle kiss to the tip, your nerves easing as you hear him take a sharp inhale. Encouraged by the sound, you continue pressing kisses down the length of him, watching how he grows in your hand. Tentatively, you stick out your tongue, licking up the side.
“Dammit,” he hisses, and you pull away instantly. Benedict takes in your wide eyes and lets out a breathless laugh. “No, darling, that was exactly right. It felt good.”
“It did?” You ask hopefully, leaning in again. He nods, gripping the hair at the base of your head. He doesn’t pull or tug. He only holds onto you like an anchor, trying not to float away in the sensations.
You continue like that for a few minutes, eventually gaining the confidence to wrap your lips around the tip of him. A low moan spills from Benedict’s lips, and his grip on your hair tightens. The sensation makes you hum around him, creating an endless cycle of pleasure that neither of you are willing to end just yet.
You must pull away eventually though. You release him with a small gasp, your chest rising and falling quickly. When you look up at your husband, his eyes are blown wide, staring down at you in awe.
“I should have taught you that much sooner, wife.”
A laugh escapes you, but you reach for him again. Benedict stops you though, shaking his head.
“Enough, as incredible as it is, I find I still prefer being inside you.”
“Benedict,” you whisper wide-eyed, the lewd words catching you off guard, but he only laughs.
“Darling, you just had me in your mouth. You could not possibly still be scandalized by my vocabulary.”
“I am not scandalized!” You insist.
Benedict chuckles, offering you his hand and rising from the chair. He helps you to your feet, and it’s a conscious effort to look him in the eye. He notices your straying gaze but doesn’t comment. Instead, he lifts you into the air without a sound, crossing the room to place you upon his desk.
“What are you doing?” You gasp.
He reaches for the hem of your dress, lifting each layer above your hips with practiced ease.
“I am showing you the various uses of my study furniture. Surely you do not object?”
You shake your head quickly, and he grins, finding your undergarments.
“My god, wife, you had been thinking of the possibilities, hadn’t you?” He muses, feeling how you’ve soaked through the fabric.
His words cause a whimper to escape you, and you lean forward, burying your face against his shoulder in an effort to hide. He chuckles, pushing them aside.
“It is a good thing, my love. Certainly, I’ve proven that much to you so far, hm?”
You nod, words failing you. You’re already wrecked. That much is clear, and Benedict can feel himself growing addicted to the feeling.
“Shh,” he soothes, positioning himself at your entrance. He falters, growling at the position. He takes hold of your leg, lifting one to wrap around his waist. The other hangs over the edge of the desk. “There we go,” he breathes, sinking into you.
Your mouth falls open into a silent moan, and Benedict wastes no time, setting a steady rhythm that leaves you unable to catch your breath. Up until now, you had only known gentle lovemaking. The kind where Benedict keeps his eyes on yours, whispering soothing words and praise, but now, his pace is harsh and unforgiving. A lifetime’s worth of desire that had been waiting to spill out. Waiting for him to deem you ready, and now that he has, he isn’t sure how he ever held back.
Each thrust hits something that causes your vision to blur. Overwhelmed by the sensation, you bite down on his shoulder, and Benedict groans so loudly you’re certain the whole house must hear. Except you can’t focus long enough to care.
“Dammit,” he huffs, “Do it again.”
You aren’t sure if it’s a plea or an order, but you don’t care either way. You reach for his shirt, thankful he’d only been wearing one layer while he painted. You lift it, but Benedict’s movements don’t falter even as he helps you lift it over his head, tossing it to the ground. When there’s no longer any fabric covering him, you sink your teeth into his skin, relishing in the sounds your husband makes when you do.
“God, I love you,” he pants, gripping your chin with a harshness he’s never used on you. He turns your face towards his, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.
“I love you,” you breathe into the kiss.
Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, pulling away from you. He takes a step back, and you whine. A pathetic sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. Benedict’s eyes trail you up and down, drinking you in. He runs his thumb over his lips, inhaling sharply.
“Why did you stop?” You frown, holding yourself up with palms against the hard wood.
Benedict’s eyes light up when he chuckles, a trait he’d always had, but that causes your breath to catch even now. “I believe I’ve given it to you too easily, sweetheart.”
“I do not understand,” you frown, dropping your skirts and smoothing them out uncomfortably.
He steps closer, following the line of your frown with his thumb. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers, eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes hungrily. “Whatever you wish, you shall have, but you must ask, my love.”
Your mouth opens but clamps shut, not sure what to say. You can feel the preconditioned shame filtering through, but then, you look up at him. Truly look at him. And when you do, you see the hunger in his eyes. Eyes that have seen you through every phase of life. Eyes that have seen you in sleep and freshly awake. Eyes that still look at you as if they are trying to both see and memorize every part of you all at once.
Beyond that though, you see the adoration, the love. You know because it is the same way you look at him. The same way you’ve always looked at him. That realization fills you with a confidence you had never felt before. He loves you.
So when your mouth opens again, all you feel is need.
“I want to feel you.”
You see the way his eyes seemingly light with joy while still darkening with want.
“Hm, is that all?” He breathes against your cheek, kissing you there. One on your cheek, on to your jaw, and then down your neck.
He unlaces the front of your gown, letting it slip down to your hips, while never ceasing to kiss you. When your breasts are bare, he latches onto one, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Benedict, I-” you gasp, back arching, pressing you closer to him.
But even still, your husband doesn’t stop kissing you. He wraps his lips around one peak, his fingers finding the other, but he maintains eye contact, humming around you in response. You keep one hand on the desk to hold you upright, but the other laces through his hair, tugging harsher than you probably should.
You know what he wants you to say. He wants more from you, but you don’t know how he expects you to think with this much pleasure coursing through you. He must come to the same conclusion though because he releases you from his mouth, looking up at you expectantly.
“I want you inside of me again,” you finally admit.
“Was that so hard?” He teases, standing to his full height and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Turn around.”
You do immediately, requiring no further explanation. All you need is him, however he will have you. He lifts your skirts again, pressing a hand between your shoulder blades to guide you lower. You must hesitate, looking over the papers on the desk to ensure there was nothing of importance, because Benedict reaches past you, pushing everything to the floor.
“Benedict!” You gasp, “What if those were important?”
“I cannot think of anything more important than this,” he confesses, gripping your hip. He enters you easily now, and your head bows forward in pleasure.
Moans of his name fall helplessly from your lips, but Benedict is not much better, panting whispered declarations of love in your ear. It only serves to drive you higher and higher.
Lovemaking has always been exactly that. Gentle touches and caresses as Benedict practically worshipped you. You didn’t know it could be different, but now, with your palms digging into the wood of his desk, you realize how wrong you had been.
“Benedict, I think I am going to-”
He wraps his arm around you, finding where you need him most. It is almost instantaneous, the one extra push you needed pushing you over the edge. Benedict swears at the feeling of you clenching around him, fingers digging into your hip as he chases his high. When he finds it, he doesn’t pull away like he usually does. Instead, he uses the hand around your waist to pull your back toward his chest, unable to resist the temptation. He moans lowly against your neck, his movements faltering then slowing to a stop.
He curses, taking a step away and helping you stand. He smooths out your skirts, cupping your face when you turn to face him.
“Are you alright?” Benedict asks, brows drawn in concern.
You nod quickly, eyes fluttering. “I am perfect,” you add, leaning into his embrace. He runs his hand up and down your side, accepting your answer.
“In that case,” he grins, lifting you into his arms once more, “I believe we shall need a bath.”
Perhaps got interrupted 3 we can have the freshly wedded couple adjusting to the married life (still breathless when waking up together, when cuddling, positive nervous when eating together, decorating the house, walking in public, visiting the fam etc)
And then, after having the soft, cautious vanilla love making like in part 2, reader learns through Francesca and Pen what else is possible? (Maybe like Eloise interrogating pen/ Francesca what THE TALK was about, and now having to talk to smbd about it = reader!)
So reader starts overthinking with this new information, her imagination getting the better of her (especially after watching Benedict move e.g. when drawing/ eating so basically his hands).
And the imaginations come more often, dostracting her when they spend time together. Benedict notices, confronts her and she has to spill the beans. Leading to some handsy new experiences, letting herself shyly ask for more until Benedict shows her what love making to his wife without constraints can mean?
Omg. That I can do… it’s the end of the semester right now so bear with me while I try to get this written. Thank you for this!
Would love a continuation of your Benedict bridgerton interrupted story. It’s honestly the best Benedict story I’ve read and I think you nailed the tone and conversation. Wondering if there’s more to come?
Oh my gosh. This is the sweetest🥺🥺 Finals are coming up, so I haven’t written much… but I’m always open to requests!!! I haven’t thought much about another part to interrupted, but I’ll give it some thought. Is there anything you’d like to see in a part three?
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You and Remus have been getting closer, and the lines between friends and more has grown blurred. On a dreary day, you finally find the nerve to ask your best friend what exactly the two of you are to each other.
Pairing: Marauders Era!Remus Lupin x reader
Word count: 1033
Warnings: cheesy, reader may have some feminine characteristics- tried to keep it pretty neutral, making out?, awkwardly defining a relationship
A/N: Just a little something something until i get the inspo or motivation to write something longer. I wrote this years ago and just cleaned it up a little bit. Let's pretend 10 Things I Hate About You was out when Remus was a teenager!
Masterlist here!
What Are We?
The moment you woke up, you knew today would be one of those dready days reserved for rotting in bed all day You weren't feeling too well, to begin with. Physically, you were fine, besides a dull ache in behind your eyes. Mentally, you never wanted to leave the safety and comfort of your four poster bed. Your best friend, Cherry, had offered to go get some snacks from the kitchen and meet you back in your dorm for a movie. Meanwhile, you are lying in bed in an old sweater of Remus' and looking through movie options to play on your projector when the door opens. You look up from the stack of movies to see Cherry walk in with all your favorite snacks.
"So, umm, I know I said we were gonna watch movies, but ya see, I ran into James in the common room. He kinda invited me to the room of requirement," she trails off. You shoot her a look, causing her to lose her nerve. Still, she continues on, "But! A certain someone is on his way to hang out with you," she sings.
"Remus?" you ask, feeling the closest to excitement that you can get.
"The one and only," he greets from the doorway. He looks cozy in Gryffindor pajama pants and a sweater. His hair is as messy as ever, but in the cute way you find hard to resist. You just admire him for a minute until Cherry cuts you off.
"Well, uhhh, I'll just be going to meet James and away from whatever this is," Cherry motions to the two of you before sliding out the door.
You and Remus look at each other in confusion before he joins you on the bed. You raise the covers for him, to which he smiles gratefully. He snuggles closer, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you toward him. You rest your head on his shoulder with a grateful sigh.
"You look cute, lovey," he points out with a small smile.
Heat climbs up your neck and floods your cheeks. You twist your head, hoping to hide the unbearable way you handle a simple pet name. Shaking your head, you a murmur a thanks, reaching for the remote.
"What do you want to watch?" he asks, chuckling at your reaction.
"I dunno. Maybe 10 Things I Hate About You?" you suggest.
He playfully groans, even though you both know he'll watch whatever you want, and nods, cuddling closer to you as the movie begins.
"Cherry said you weren't feeling well. What's wrong?"
You shrug with an awkward smile, murmuring, "I'm just feeling down, I guess.”
"I'm sorry, love," he hums, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You blush while he plays with your hair softly. You continue watching the movie as your anxiety starts to build up. You have no idea what's going on between you and Remus. You both act like a couple, and he talks to you like you're a couple. He's never asked you out, though. Things kinda just shifted when you learned of your shared feelings, but you'd never discussed your relationship status.
"Hey, Rem?" you speak up, not looking away from the screen.
You feel him glance at you, looking away from the screen. "Yes, love?"
"I just... Well, I guess I've been wondering what we are?" you ask nervously, still not meeting his gaze.
Remus looks at you with furrowed brows, in both surprise and confusion. He sits up against the headboard and shifts to face you. He moves his hands away from you and begins fidgeting with his fingers. Suddenly, he's the nervous one as he begins wondering if he's made a fool of himself, being so clingy, if you didn't like him. Maybe he had overdone it and driven you away.
"What do you mean? I thought, I mean, I thought we were going steady? Unless, do you not want that?" he asks with a bit of hurt in his eyes.
"No, no, no! It's just, well, you never asked. I thought maybe you didn't want to," you mutter shyly.
"Oh, I'm a tosser. Of course, I want that! I thought since we both liked each other- I'm sorry. I should have known better," he rambles.
You smile sheepishly, taking his hand in yours. You finally meet his gaze, still feeling a warmth in your cheeks. You finally meet his gaze, cutting him off softly, "Think we're both fools."
He chuckles, repeating, "I should have known better. Since I didn't, though, Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?" he grins, lips curling into a nervous smile, like he's still afraid you'll say no.
You roll your eyes fondly, leaning closer, "In case it wasn't obvious, I'd love that."
Remus grins at you happily before cupping your cheek and kissing you. Suddenly, the door opens, causing the two of you to break apart.
"Whoa, okay!” Cherry laughs, interrupting the moment.
You and Remus look up to see Cherry standing in the doorway with James' hands over her eyes, jokingly.
"We'll just be going now," James says lowly and backing away as Cherry shuts the door with his hands still covering her eyes.
You and Remus look at each other before bursting into laughter.
"They're ones to talk! They came from the room of requirement!" You joke.
Remus laughs before settling back into the bed to finish the movie. "C'mere, wanna cuddle," he practically whines, reaching out for you. You laugh, leaning into him.
"You're not nearly as scary as you think you are," you tease, looking up at him with your head on his chest.
His expression softens, his next words quiet, "I'm not, am I?"
You hum, wrapping your arm around his torso. "Not at all."
You fall into silence at that, but you notice the gentle squeeze that follows. The way he pulls you impossibly closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Remus hadn't realized how desperately he needed to hear that, and now that he had? Well, he lets himself relax into your bed and forget about the upcoming full moon, even if it's only until the credits roll.
You're starting to wonder if you're too needy for Steve.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 2.5k
contains: angst, hurt/comfort, eventual (tooth rooting) fluff, established relationship, toxic ex, mention of a previous age gap relationship, steve harrington loves hard, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: requested by anon | i really loved this request! as someone who has felt too clingy in the past, it got me right in the feels 🥹🥹 this was meant to be much shorter but couldn't stop
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
The first time someone had called you clingy, it had been your best friend. You were seven years old and hadn’t really understood what it meant. All you knew was that she stopped being your best friend shortly after that.
The next time—it was a boyfriend who had called you needy. He had said it affectionately. You were fifteen and he was older. Much older. You hadn’t questioned it. Just smiled and clung to him a little tighter. But over time needy became clingy and clingy became suffocating.
Suffocating. That was what he had called you once. It had been during an argument but you knew he meant it. You had noticed when he had started to recoil at your touch. How he would roll his eyes when you would try to hold his hand in public. How he turned his head when you leaned in for a kiss.
You stopped reaching for him after that.
He stopped trying entirely.
Needy. Clingy. Suffocating.
Those words had lived under your skin for four years now. They had buried themselves in your veins and refused to leave.You had built walls up in every relationship since—something to protect yourself from falling hard again. You had stopped yourself from clinging onto someone who would inevitably despise you for it.
But then Steve Harrington came along like a damn wrecking ball and tore down those walls that you had built.
You had met through your cousin Robin—after multiple attempts on her part to set you guys up. You had finally given in after she had promised you that he wasn’t the guy you had known in high school. That he was—in her words—a great guy. It was a mark of how much you trusted Robin that you had finally agreed.
You were annoyed to find out that she had been right. Steve had taken you to Enzo’s and you had laughed over his terrible pronunciations of Italian food. He had laughed when you pointed out that the waiter seemed to be wearing a fake moustache. Steve had asked you questions—a lot of questions in fact and seemed genuinely interested in your answers. In every way, it had been a perfect date. Steve had been perfect.
He didn’t kiss you that night—just a simple kiss to your cheek after he drove you back home and left you with a promise of a second date. The fact you had wanted him to kiss you told you that you were in deep already.
You considered cancelling the second date. You had considered telling Steve you had changed your mind—that you wanted to remain friends. That he was nice but not your type. Not because you truly meant it but because the thought of another guy one day finding you suffocating made you want to run for the hills.
But you didn’t. You decided to go on the second date. You decided to see where things went.
Four months and numerous dates later and it was undeniable now—you were in deep. You were fully in love with Steve Harrington.
The realisation that you loved him had hit you out of seemingly nowhere two weeks ago. You had been his plus one to his cousin’s wedding. He had looked ridiculously handsome in a suit and tie—a tie that perfectly matched your sage green dress. Which had felt like a statement of unity that told everyone that Steve Harrington was yours and you were his. Over the course of the evening, you found yourself staring at him. Not only because he looked so handsome (though, in fairness, it did contribute) but because being at a wedding with Steve, it had made you think about your own wedding one day.
You found yourself wanting to ask him if he wanted to get married. Whether he wanted a big church wedding or a small, intimate wedding. If he wanted to elope, even. You wanted to ask him if he wanted kids—how many he wanted. If he wanted to get a dog or cat or both. You wanted to ask him about the future and it was that moment—as you watched as he twirled one of his little cousins around the dancefloor—that you realised you loved him. You really fucking loved him.
It had scared you so much that you had found yourself wanting to pull away. You felt the need to cling to Steve after that. You felt as though you wouldn’t be content until you were able to crawl into his skin and live inside of it. Steve never seemed to mind—he always smiled when you would reach out to hold his hand during dinners. He didn’t seem to mind when you would cuddle up to him during a movie. How you always greeted him with a hug. But there was that little voice in the back of your head—the one that sounded suspiciously like your ex-boyfriend—that told you to stop being clingy. A voice that told you that if you wanted Steve to not grow tired and annoyed at your need to touch him every five seconds, then you needed to pull back.
And so—you did.
Steve Harrington was starting to wonder if he had done something wrong.
He had noticed how you were beginning to pull away from him. He noticed how when he had picked you up from work the other day that you didn’t hug him. How you didn’t even lean over the centre console to kiss his cheek the way you usually did. How the last time you went out for dinner you didn’t hold his hand beneath the table. How you didn’t reach for his hand as you walked down the street together. How you seemed to stop reaching from him entirely.
Steve felt it—especially now when you were sitting on the other side of the couch instead of curled up next to him, your head resting against his chest as one of your hands slipped beneath his shirt to trace patterns on his skin. Run your fingers through the hair on his chest.
But instead, your hands were tucked beneath your thighs—a respectable gap between the two of you. One that felt more like a chasm than just the space between you. It makes Steve feel on edge. Makes him think about Nancy—how she had pulled away from him. How he didn’t even realise it was happening until it was too late. The thought makes Steve look over at you—makes him think about everything he could have done wrong over the past two weeks.
Was it that time he had forgotten to get the chocolate you wanted from Bradley’s? Was it that he hadn’t taken you to see the fifth Friday the 13th movie before had stopped showing at the movie theatres? Was it that he hadn’t noticed your new haircut the other day?
“You okay?” Steve finally asks you—trying to sound normal, like he wasn’t spiralling on the other side of the couch. Like he wasn’t losing his damn mind because you weren’t touching him.
You turn to look at Steve, your eyes softening slightly when you look at him because all you wanted to do was curl up on his lap. Kiss his stupidly handsome face. Tell him that you loved him.
But the thought of Steve growing tired of you—of thinking you needy, or clingy or suffocating—it kept you rooted to the spot.
“Yeah,” you say finally, looking away from him and back at the movie you were watching. “I’m okay.”
You don’t elaborate. You don’t trust yourself. Don’t trust that you won’t drop the L bomb if you look at those big brown eyes of his for a second longer.
Steve nods—his throat feeling tight as he watches your expression carefully. He notices how you tense your jaw, how your eyes are a little glassy. Part of Steve—the part of him that remembered how Nancy had pushed away his affection—told him not to press you. To just let things be. You’d talk to him when you were ready.
But the other part of him—the part that knew he loved you—told him not to do that. Told him to not let you dwell on whatever it was bothering you.
Steve finds the remote behind one of the sofa cushions between you and he turns off the TV before he could second guess himself.
You blink—looking over at Steve in confusion.
“Why did you—”
“—I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me,” Steve interjects, setting down the remote on the coffee table before he turns his body to face you fully. His hands twitch as though itching to reach for you.
You swallow, looking at him properly now and seeing how his face twists with worry and concern and you feel something that feels an awful lot like guilt settling in your gut. Because he was right—you weren’t being honest with him.
So you say nothing, you look at him as you wait for the inevitable—for him to tell you that you were too much. That you were too needy. Too clingy. Too suffocating.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead—he leans over to you, wraps his fingers around both your wrists to pull your hands out from under your thighs. Then—he laces his fingers through yours without breaking eye contact. It does funny things to your heart. Makes your stomach feel fluttery.
“Something’s up,” he murmurs, lifting your hand so he could kiss the knuckles on your right hand. Then, he does the same with your left. Eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me. Please. Whatever it is—I promise you, it’s okay.”
His voice is so soft, so tender, so loving that you want to be wrapped up in it. You wanted to be cocooned by his gentle words and velvety voice until you felt okay again.
“It’s silly,” you whisper finally, so quietly that Steve has to scoot closer to you on the couch—that carefully constructed space between the two of you lessening.
“Baby, if something is bothering you—it’s not silly,” he says, so matter of factly it makes your face warm. “Especially if it’s something that I’ve done.”
You look at Steve, brows furrowed in utter confusion. “Something you’ve done?”
Steve nods, squeezing your hands gently. “Yeah. I mean—I must have done something wrong. You’ve been so distant lately. You don’t touch me the way you usually do.”
Your breath hitches, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth as your fingers twitch against his.
“I just—” you begin, trying to find the words but struggling as your fear of rejection comes bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “—I just didn’t want you to think I was too needy or clingy. I don’t want you getting sick of me.”
Steve looks at you for a long, long moment before his face breaks out into a smile. For one horrifying moment, you think that he’s going to laugh at you. But then, he gently lifts one hand to cup your cheek. Holding your face as though you were made of something precious.
“Sick of you?” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently rubbing over your cheek as his eyes danced over your face. “Baby—I can’t get enough of you.”
“You say that now but—”
But Steve is already shaking his head, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your nose. He then places one on your forehead. Another to your left cheek—then your right. Before he finally places a gentle but firm kiss to your lips. One that takes your breath away. One that you lean into and kiss him back before you could let doubt seep in.
Just as your hands reach up to grip the front of his shirt, he pulls away and you let out a small whine at the loss of his lips. Steve smiles at that but looks at you with an almost stern gaze.
“But nothing,” Steve says finally. “I don’t know who the hell has made you think that you could ever be too much but they were wrong. They were so fucking wrong. I love that you want to touch me all the time. I love knowing that you want me—I love that you make it known that you want me—that you can’t go five minutes without a kiss.”
The concerns of your mouth twitch, looking back at him as his thumb continues to gently caress your cheek. “I think five minutes is a stretch,” you mumble.
Steve smiles, rolling his eyes before he places a chaste kiss to your lips that you find yourself wanting to melt into.
“I think it’s accurate,” he murmurs against your lips before he pulls away to look at you carefully.
It’s quiet then for a few moments, him just looking at you and you leaning into his touch like it was all you ever needed.
“I need you to know something,” Steve says, breaking the almost silence between you. “I need you to know that—that you could never be too much for me. Never. You are—fuck, baby—you’re my favourite person. I could never get tired of my favourite person. I want to be near you all the fucking time. I’m like the most pathetic guy because of you—Robin and Dustin tell me that all the time—how much I talk about you. How many times I have this stupid smile on my face when I’m thinking about you.”
You bite back a smile, your chest feeling warm and eyes beginning to sting a little because you had never been wanted like this. Steve notices and wipes your tears away before they could fall.
“You—are never going to be too much for me,” Steve tells you. “Never, baby. I mean that.”
You’re speechless—genuiely speechless.
And the only thing you can think to say is—
“I love you.”
Steve’s thumb stops brushing over your skin. His eyes widened. His heart might have even stopped beating.
For a split second, he says nothing. You think the worst. That you had said it too soon, that you misunderstood his speech as something more—
But then Steve is kissing you and all you can think about is him. About Steve and his hands that still held you as though you were made of gold. Steve and his ridiculously perfect hair that only you were allowed to mess up.
He pulls away—though it’s clear he doesn’t want to from the way his breathing is erratic. The way his forehead presses against yours.
“I wanted to say it first,” Steve whispers.
“Too slow,” you say quietly with a small smile.
He laughs and then—he’s kissing you all over again. The space between you is nonexistent as he pulls you onto his lap. As his hands find your waist and yours find their way into his hair.
“For the record,” Steve says as he pulls away for a moment to catch his breath. “I love you too. More than you love me.”
You laugh and it’s a sound Steve hopes to never forget. And you? Well—you don’t question whether Steve Harrington thought that you were too much ever again.
Working in close proximity to your best friend turned crush? Maybe not such a great idea.
This one was not written to be published so... bear with me.... very vaguely inspired by i can see you by taylor swift. basically just in vibes
Content warnings: just good ole fashioned making out, mentions of a hickey, allusions to sex, Murray being a freak (let me know if I missed anything)
Masterlist here!
You thought working at the radio station would be fun. Okay, well, maybe not exactly fun, but you figured it'd be as close to fun as you could get when your town was under lock down. Besides, you needed something to do with yourself, considering you couldn't leave Hawkins. It was an added bonus that you got to work with Robin and Steve.
You and Robin had graduated from Hawkins High together, but more importantly, you had worked with her and Steve at Scoops Ahoy. At first, it had been you and Robin versus the former King of Hawkins High. Over time, though, you had become something of a trio.
It was an interesting dynamic. Robin and Steve bickered. You chimed in, usually to help her bully him. You hyped each other up. Steve gave horrible dating advice to Robin, and you intervened. Steve talked about his escapades, Robin groaned, and you internalized your growing crush on him.
You were oblivious, of course, to Steve's own infatuation with you. For every glance in his direction, you missed how he turned his head quickly to avoid being caught staring at you. Robin was over it, but Steve had begged her to keep her mouth shut. So, despite the way your heart beat sped up every time you caught a whiff of his signature cologne, you ignored it.
That didn't mean it was easy. Today, for instance, you had already been caught staring at him twice, meaning you'd already been elbowed by Robin twice.
Needless to say, you were exhausted already. That's why you now find yourself in the kitchen area, elbow on the counter, and chin in hand, watching the coffee drip into the pot. You hear his footsteps first, then smell him.
"You know it's 7 pm, don't you? You're never going to fall asleep." His voice is raspy, clearly tired too.
You straighten up, turning to face him. Your back presses into the counter when you realize he's much closer than you'd thought. There are bags under his eyes, proof that he hasn't been sleeping either, but the sight of him still causes your breath to catch.
You huff, "Don't think any of us are getting any sleep tonight anyway."
Steve raises an eyebrow, "What, you got a hot date tonight?" You don't notice it, but his jaw tightens as he says it.
You nearly choke on your own spit, feeling your cheeks heat. Spluttering, you answer, "No! Because Murray should be here with a delivery."
He groans, running a hand through his hair, “I completely forgot. I was already dreaming about my bed.”
You snort, turning back to the coffee machine. It had finally finished brewing, so you pour yourself a mug, watching the steam rise. Steve’s already opening the fridge, but he lets out a low whistle, turning to you sheepishly.
“What?” You ask immediately. You hated that look. It was the ‘I have bad news’ look he always got.
“We’re out of milk,” he admits, scratching his jaw.
“Perfect,” you sigh, “Black coffee it is.”
You start blowing on the coffee, trying to cool it off. The steam rises, hitting your face. You don’t notice how Steve’s eyes remain locked on you, even as he reaches back into the fridge. There’s movement out of the corner of your eye, then a thump. One of Steve’s precious Gatorade's sits on the counter next to you.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs, “Drink it. It’s better than black coffee, at least.”
You shake your head, a fond smile tugging at your face, “I’m not taking your Gatorade, Steve.”
“I insist.”
The two of you just stare for a moment, but it’s clear he isn’t going to break. Sighing, you dump your coffee and open the Gatorade instead. Steve watches with a smug smirk, glad to be of service. He can’t help but look at the way your lips wrap around the bottle, feeling that familiar stirring in his guts. He clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Good, huh?”
You nod, wiping your mouth, “Really good.” You hold the bottle out to him, “At least share it with me.”
He hesitates, but eventually gives in, taking the bottle from you with a murmured thanks. It’s your turn to watch the way his hand makes the bottle look so much smaller in his grasp. You look away quickly, rinsing your coffee mug out.
—
You almost forget about that encounter. You’re sure you would’ve, had Murray not been the menace he always is. It’s dark out when he finally arrives with a truck full of supplies. You all crowd around the truck, waiting for your requests to be passed out. When the back of the truck opens, you pass boxes along a makeshift assembly line to get them into the radio building as quickly as possible. You’ve just finished passing the last box when you feel Steve’s hand on your back.
“Here,” he passes the now almost empty bottle of Gatorade. “Have the last drink.”
“You sure?” You furrow your brow, looking between him and the bottle.
Steve scoffs, “Take it before I change my mind.”
With a grin, you take the drink, finishing it off. That may have been the last of it, but not if Murray had a say in it. The strange man gasps loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Did Harrington just give away the last sip of his precious Gatorade? What sorcery do you possess?” Murray pokes fun, an excited look on his face. “Ah, young love! The sacrifices we make in pursuit of it.”
Your face must be on fire in the wake of that, feeling everyone’s eyes on the two of you. Steve’s brows are furrowed, looking around as if he’s trying to figure out who Murray is talking about.
“I’m… just gonna go see if the kids need help organizing…” You trail off, walking away as quickly as possible.
Steve glowers at Murray, “What the hell was that?”
Murray shrugs, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I just call it like I see it, Harrington. No shame in finding some comfort in these trying times.”
“We aren’t sleeping together!” Steve’s voice comes out high-pitched, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Not yet.”
“I hate you.”
—
You avoid Steve after that, brushing past him in the hallways and rushing to get home. He notices. Of course, he does. So you shouldn’t be surprised when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you into a supply closet. A scream is on the tip of your tongue, but it dies when you see Steve’s brown eyes peering into yours. You can see the pout on his lips even in the darkness of the enclosed space.
“What are you doing?” You breathe heavily, suddenly realizing how close he is. His body presses against yours, holding you against the wall.
“You’re avoiding me,” he whispers back, his breath hitting your face. You can smell the mint of his favorite gum on his breath, prompting you to glance down at his lips. As soon as you realize what you’re doing, you look back up at him, hoping he hasn’t noticed. Judging by the look on his face, though, he definitely has.
“I’m not,” you deny. “Why are we in the closet?”
He nods, “You are. You have been since Murray ran his mouth.”
The space between you seems to be shrinking now, almost imperceptibly. His chest presses against yours, and his hand comes up to press into the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in. You sigh, your pulse quickening.
“Steve,” you repeat softly, pleading with him not to make you say it.
When his eyes meet yours, you feel like he can see right through you. “Did it really gross you out that much? The thought of… you and me, I mean.”
You stare up at him dumbfounded, “You think it grossed me out?”
Steve nods stubbornly, “Yeah, I do.”
“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”
His brow furrows at that, hurt and confusion on his face. “If it didn’t gross you out, then why the hell are you avoiding me?”
“Because,” you hiss, “Murray put the idea in my head, and now, I can’t stop thinking about it, and I can’t be around you when all I can think about is kissing your stupid face.” Your eyes widen once you finally stop rambling, realizing you’ve revealed too much. “Shit, Steve, just let me go home, and we can pretend this never-”
Steve cuts you off, murmuring, “Think you’re the idiot this time, Y/N.”
You draw your brow, tilting your head, “What are you talking about?”
“You think it’s easy? Walking around pretending I don’t want you? Hearing Murray say shit like that, knowing he’s read me like a book?” He shakes his head, running his hand through his hair again.
Your mouth opens and shuts, trying to construct a reply. “What are you talking about, Steve?”
He sighs, “I’m talking about how I can’t look at you without thinking about what your lips would taste like.”
The two of you stare for a moment. Neither of you speaking. Gathering your thoughts, you feign confidence, but your voice wavers.
“Want to find out?”
Steve doesn’t waste time answering that question. Instead, he cups your face in his hands, leaning in. You catch a glimpse of the grin on his face right before your eyes flutter shut, and his lips are on yours.
The kiss is hungry, months of pining leading up to this one moment. You smile into it, though, wondering if you’re dreaming. One of Steve’s hands falls to your hip and squeezes. A small gasp leaves you, and he uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.
You loop your hands behind his neck, one trailing up to run through his hair. He groans into your mouth at that, tugging you impossibly closer. Your whole body feels as if it’s on fire. You had dreamed of this so many times, usually shaming yourself after, but you hadn’t imagined it could feel like this.
You part for air, but even then, Steve keeps his forehead pressed against yours, panting. He runs his hand up your waist, already leaning in again. This time, you laugh at his eagerness, meeting him halfway.
Neither of you pull away until you hear voices in the hallway. You push at Steve’s shoulders, listening intently. He huffs at the separation, mouth already open to complain, but you clamp your hand over it. You can see the offense on his face before he must hear the others outside the door. His expression calms, and the two of you remain still.
“Where the hell did they go?” Dustin is complaining, his voice muffled by the door between the two of you.
Robin laughs in response, and you can picture the amusement on her face. “Steve was pouting because he thought Y/N was avoiding him.”
“Well, was she?” It’s Will who speaks this time.
“Probably. I swear if the two of them don’t figure it out soon, I’m going to just lock them in a room together.”
“All in favor?” Dustin jokes.
Embarrassed, you glance over at Steve to see his reaction to your friends making fun of the two of you for being so oblivious. That’s when you realize you still had your hand over his mouth. You drop it sheepishly, but Steve only raises a teasing brow at you.
When the group seems to move on from that hallway, Steve doesn’t waste a second, already leaning in again. You can’t help but giggle, holding him back with a hand on his chest. You tilt your head, so his lips land on your cheek dramatically.
“So you were pouting, huh?” You tease.
Steve rolls his eyes, gripping your chin between his forefinger and thumb to tilt your face back towards his. You can’t help your grin as your gaze flickers between his eyes and his lips.
“Shut up,” he murmurs. “You were ignoring me; I was deeply hurt. Now, let me kiss you some more.”
“You’re so whiny,” you laugh. “Besides, they’re already looking for us.”
“So?”
He doesn’t look the least bit concerned that you could be caught here. He just studies your face calmly, a smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“So, we’re gonna get caught,” you point out, your lips already swollen.
“I don’t care.”
“So, it makes it a whole lot harder to sneak off if everyone is expecting us to sneak off,” you logic.
Steve stares at you plainly before realization dawns on him. “Ohhhh,” he breathes, his face transforming into a smirk. He squeezes your hip again, his thumb rubbing over the exposed skin. “Good thinking.”
You roll your eyes fondly, nodding, “Now, wait here, and I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Before you can leave, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you. You look back, raising an eyebrow, but he only tugs you back toward him, desperate for another kiss.
This kiss is different. Where the other kisses were hungry, this one is gentle, both of you trying to memorize the feel of the other.
“You taste like Gatorade,” he hums, licking his lips. “For the record.”
You scoff, turning back to the door in hopes he hasn’t seen the flush of your cheeks. With one last look over your shoulder, you exit the closet, re-entering the sound booth.
If the others know of your escapade with Steve, they don’t show it. You slip into the room, looking for your bag. Robin glances over at you, taking her headset off.
“You guys ready to go?”
Her question catches you off guard, your face heating as you wonder if she knows. Clearing your throat, you answer,
“Um, yeah, I mean, I am. Not sure about Steve, though.”
Robin raises an eyebrow, smiling cheekily, “Are you still avoiding him?”
You almost laugh, knowing it’s the opposite. You manage to hold it in, though, just barely. “I am not avoiding him.”
“You so are.”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“I am not!”
“You’re not what?” Steve interrupts, suddenly entering the room.
Robin smile mischeiviously, “Oh, nothing. Ready to go? I am dead on my feet.”
“Preach it, sister,” you agree, your complaint clear.
Steve drops Robin off at home first, waiting at the curb until she’s safely inside like the gentleman he is. Even if he may or may not have flipped her off as he did. In his defense, she had done it first!
He doesn’t pull away from the curb at first, taking a moment to glance over at you. You can feel his eyes on you, your pulse quickening.
“You’re staring,” you accuse quietly.
Your accusation doesn’t faze Steve. He just smirks, shifting the car into drive and pulling back onto the road.
“Admiring, it’s different.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” You snort sarcastically.
Steve tears his gaze from the road, looking at you with pure admiration. His voice is softer when he talks again.
“Y/N/N.”
You look away from the window at the sound of your nickname, glancing over at him.
“Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t want to…” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Never mind.”
“Are you nervous, Steve?” You giggle, genuinely surprised to see him so flustered.
“No! Absolutely not, I was just…” he sighs, parking in front of your house. Finally, he’s able to turn and face you without the risk of crashing into a tree. “Do you want to go out tomorrow? I mean, I know there’s not a whole lotta options right now with the state of Hawkins, but maybe we could just get milkshakes at Melvald’s and drive around?”
Your smile softens, less teasing and more surprised by his thoughtfulness.
“I’d like that,” you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod happily. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
You reach for the door handle, but Steve lets out a sound of protest.
“What do you think you’re doing? No!”
Before you can question him, he’s slipping out of the driver’s side, rushing around to the passenger door and opening it for you. He does so with a flourish, offering you his hand to help you out.
You raise an eyebrow but take his hand, letting him lead you up the sidewalk to the door. It’s strange, being on the receiving end of Steve’s gentlemanly side. You’d heard the stories. How could you not? Steve Harrington was the thing of legends in high school. Everyone knew his name, and everyone wished he knew theirs.
It had taken a while to warm up to him. To get to know him as something other than “King Steve.” When you did, you could see the insecurity he hid with sarcastic remarks and obnoxious flirtation. You could see how much he cared about everyone around and how desperate he was to meet “The One,” even if he let others believe his Playboy reputation.
The thought brings a fresh wave of nerves. What if he was as disappointed by a date with you as he had been by all the others? What if this didn’t work out? What if he wasn’t even looking for anything serious? Just an easy hookup?
You take a deep breath, leading him to your door. You have to stop thinking like this, but the thought of losing him completely was terrifying. The two of you come to a stop under the porch light, and you remind yourself to breathe.
“You look nervous,” Steve observes, squeezing your hand in his. It’s a small gesture, but it reminds him that you’re real. That this is real.
Your mind blanks, not expecting him to read you so clearly. You guess you should’ve expected it after being his friend for so long.
“I’m not nervous,” you deny, but one look from Steve, and you’re sighing as you admit, “Fine, I’m a little nervous.”
Steve looks at you like he’s trying to untangle the webs of self-doubt threaded through your head. He reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“It’s just me.”
“That’s why I’m nervous.”
Steve’s eyebrows draw in confusion, “What?”
You pop your knuckles, an anxious habit, and Steve takes your hands in his, preventing you from continuing.
“Is this- I don’t know, Steve,” you release a long breath, taking your hands from his grasp to run them down your face.
Something akin to hurt flickers over his face. “Do you regret it?”
You shake your head instantly, “No! I just- wait, do you?”
He shakes his head this time, taking your hands in his again. “Of course not,” he exhales. “I’ve had a crush on you for like ever. How could I regret it?”
You smile besides yourself, looking down at your scuffed up converse.
“How long?” You ask playfully, but the waver in your voice betrays your still lingering doubts.
Steve only smiles, though, tracing your knuckles with his thumb.
“Are you kidding?” He laughs, running a hand through his hair. You look up at him expectantly, and he can’t help but give in to you. “Remember the day that Dustin got home from his summer camp, and he came straight to Scoops?”
You laugh at the memory, nodding. A curly-haired teenager had burst into the ice cream parlor, asking for “him.” You’d never seen the kid before, but you watched in pure confusion as Steve jumped up and down at the sight of him.
“I told him that night that I’d get you to fall in love with me.”
Your eyes widen at the admission, and you can feel heat rising in your cheeks. Still, you laugh in surprise, always up for teasing Steve. “That was bold of you.”
“Nah, I think it’s going pretty well, actually,” he responds, full of overdramatic confidence.
“Oh, is it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Sure you aren’t projecting?”
“Oh, most definitely,” he agrees.
Your lips quirk into a surprised smile. Steve only grins at the realization on your face.
“What? You think I’m too proud to admit it?”
“Admit what?”
It’s a challenge, and Steve knows it. If you want to hear him say it, though, he has no objections. He grins, and you know he’s up to no good. He turns away from you, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“What are you doing?” You ask, confusion clear on your face. He only winks at you. Then, shouts,
“I’m in love with Y/N Y/L/N!”
A horrified laugh escapes you, and you clasp your hand over your mouth. He opens his mouth to yell again, and you grab his arm, attempting to stop him.
“Steve!” You laugh. “Everyone is sleeping, shut up!” But your heart is pounding out of your chest, and you don’t want him to stop. You want to hear him say it again. And again and again and again.
Steve takes your protest in stride, and he drops his hands. You think that’s the end of it, but he wraps you in his arms, his grip tight enough to restrict your movement.
“I love her!” He yells again, his chin resting on your head.
You’re breathless from laughing, slapping at his arm, “Shut up!”
He finally stops yelling, loosening his grip as he pulls back to look down at you with a cheeky smile. “That cover it?”
“You’re an idiot,” You grin, kissing him.
He smiles against your lips, a hand on the small of your back.
“I love you too,” he says as an answer.
“I didn’t say-”
He cuts you off with only a raise of his brow.
“That’s okay. I’ve waited this long.”
And that’s that. He doesn’t pressure you or guilt you for not saying it back. He just presses another kiss to your lips, smiling down at you like you’d lifted an invisible weight off his shoulders. Then, he’s taking a step back, moving toward his car.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder.
You’re still beaming when you crawl into bed that night.
—
“Steve!” You scold in a whisper when he pulls you into a familiar closet weeks later. “We can’t keep sneaking off.”
He’s already kissing down your neck, his breath against your skin sending a shiver down your spine.
“It’s not my fault, baby. I just can’t keep my hands off of you.”
You roll your eyes, but he notices how you tilt your head, giving him better access.
“You’re dramatic,” you huff.
He smirks against your neck, “Wanna come over tonight?”
Exhaling lowly, you answer, “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek.
He fist pumps the air, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Sweet.”
Your mind races, already considering what might occur at Steve’s house tonight. You’d hung out alone at his house plenty of times, but not since the newest development in your relationship. Your stomach flutters at the thought. The two of you had done nothing but make out so far. Granted, you’d made out a lot. At The Squawk, in his car, in the Squawk van, in dark supply rooms… The list goes on.
“Now, come on, before you blow our cover,” you drag him back out of the dark room.
In your haste to get back to everyone else, neither of you think to check if the coast is clear like you usually do. Maybe if you had, you would’ve seen that the coast was, in fact, not clear. Robin and Vickie are giggling at the end of the hall, clearly having a romantic moment, but their heads snap to the sound of your footsteps leaving the closet.
Robin doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed to have been caught by the two of you. Her face lights up, knowing she’d just caught you and Steve in your own moment. She has a familiar look of pure satisfaction on her face. She crosses her arms over her chest, raising her brow.
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
You look to Steve, pure panic in his eyes, but he’s the picture of calm, looking far too smug.
“We were just looking for some soundboard tapes,” you stammer at the same time that Steve throws his arm over your shoulder, shrugging casually.
You glare in his direction, not wanting this to be how Robin found out about your relationship.
“Mhm, very convincing. So Steve wasn’t in there sucking that hickey onto your neck?”
Your mouth falls open, turning to Steve.
“You seriously left a mark? Are you kidding me?”
Steve raises his hands in surrender, but there’s not an ounce of remorse on his face. “I did not! You walked right into that!”
Seriously… you’d let Robin trick you, and now it was your fault for the untimely reveal. You groan, hiding your face in your hands.
“Oh my God,” Robin giggles, smacking Vickie over and over. “I told you! I knew it!”
Vickie rolls her eyes fondly, but nods reluctantly, “It’s true. She did.”
Steve squeezes your shoulder, chuckling, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don’t get too excited, Buckley.”
“Ohhh, I’m not excited. I’m fully prepared for you to be even more unbearable about your pining now that it’s out in the open.”
Steve scoffs, placing his hand on his hip. “Yeah, well,” he splutters, “Shut up!”
“Real original, dingus,” you chime in.
“Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side now. That’s like in the rulebook of dating!” Steve exclaims, feigning hurt.
You, Robin, and Vickie exchange glances. Then, the three of you burst into laughter.
“Okay, ouch," he grumbles.
This was good, you think to yourself. Maybe keeping it a secret wasn’t for the better. You glance up at Steve, watching him bicker with Robin and Vickie, and you smile to yourself. Yeah, working at the radio station was pretty fun, it turns out.
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Steady or Wobbling (Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader)
Part two in the Interrupted series! MDNI! 18+
The aftermath of your encounter with Benedict Bridgerton.
Content warnings: brief smut, pnv, loss of virginity, regency stereotypes, reader is described as having feminine features, drinking, MDNI
part one here
Masterlist here!
You wake slowly. Sunlight filters through the curtains, and for a brief moment, you forget everything. Then you feel it. His absence. Your hand rests atop the coverlet, empty, and when you sit up, the chair near the hearth is vacant. His coat is gone, but upon the bedside table rests a folded piece of parchment.
Your name is written in his hand. You open it with trembling fingers.
Y/N,
Forgive my early departure. I find myself unwilling to risk facing you again this morning without first securing what should have been secured years ago.
You deserve a ring that has witnessed devotion and endured it.
Remain patient. I shall return to you before the day is out. Properly.
Yours, entirely,
Benedict
Benedict does not bother with subtlety. He strides directly into Violet Bridgerton's sitting room, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep but eyes blazing with purpose. His mother looks up from her tea, assessing.
"Well," she says mildly. "You appear as though you have either committed a crime or fallen in love."
He does not hesitate, "The latter."
Her teacup pauses mid-air. "With whom?" she asks, though her eyes already gleam.
"With Y/N Y/L/N."
"Oh," Violet breathes, setting her cup down slowly. Lady Bridgerton's face betrays her surprise, but it is soon filled with excitement as she declares, "It is about time."
He tilts his head, a sheepish, but undeniably fond, smile appearing on his face, "You knew?"
"My dear boy," she says gently, "you have always reserved your fondest smiles for Miss Y/N."
His composure cracks slightly at that. "I nearly lost her last night," he says quietly.
Violet's expression sharpens instantly, opening her mouth to ask questions.
"But she is safe," he adds quickly. "And she has agreed to marry me."
For a moment, his mother simply stares. Then she rises and crosses the room, taking his face in both hands as she did when he was a child.
"You love her?" she asks softly.
"With everything I have."
She studies him, and when she finds no hesitation, she decides, "Then you shall have your grandmother's ring."
His breath catches. Violet moves to a small wooden box upon her writing desk. Inside lies a delicate gold band set with a modest pearl surrounded by tiny diamonds. It is elegant, timeless.
"This was my mother's," she says. "She wore it through joy and through grief. It has known endurance." She places it in his palm, "May it know nothing but happiness with you."
He bends to kiss his mother's cheek, "I intend nothing less."
---
Your mother receives him in the drawing room before breakfast. She eyes him carefully. A Bridgerton calling alone at such an hour is no small matter.
"Mr. Bridgerton," she says evenly. "To what do I owe this visit?"
He stands straight, unflinching, "I have come to request your daughter's hand in marriage."
Her brows lift, "Have you indeed?"
"I love her," he says plainly. "Not from impulse, nor from obligation. I have loved her quietly for years. I would never dishonor her. I intend to court her properly and marry her with your blessing."
Your mother studies him for a long, assessing moment.
"She has adored you since she was a child," your mother says. His heart stumbles. "If you break her heart, Benedict Bridgerton, I will never forgive you."
"I would sooner break my own," he replies.
A long pause, then your mother smiles, "You have my permission. Though I trust this sudden proposal has nothing to do with my daughter’s impromptu stay at Bridgerton House last night?" She raises a brow.
Benedict bows his head, swearing, “You have my word, Lady Y/L/N.”
—
You descend to breakfast with a strange fluttering in your stomach. The entire Bridgerton family is present. Eloise looks concerned. Colin looks suspicious, but Violet Bridgerton looks serene. Hyacinth and Gregory exchange glances, clearly unaware that you had slept over.
"Y/N, I did not know you were here!" Hyacinth greets excitedly. You don't miss the way Violet lays her hand on her youngest daughter's arm, silencing her quietly.
Benedict stands the moment you enter. Your breath catches. He crosses the room and stops before you, taking your hand gently.
"Miss Y/N," he says formally, though his eyes sparkle, "May I present you with something?"
You can feel everyone watching, but you nod slowly, a furrow between your brow. He drops to one knee, and gasps erupt around the table.
He withdraws the pearl ring. "Your mother has granted her permission," he murmurs to only you, "And mine has entrusted me with this."
Your eyes fill.
"I asked you once already," he continues softly. "But I would ask you again, properly. Before those who love us." He looks up at you, "Will you marry me?"
"Yes," you breathe, though the room already knows the answer.
He slides the ring onto your finger. The Bridgerton family descends into chaos. Eloise gasps. Hyacinth squeals. Colin claps Benedict hard on the back. Violet presses a hand to her heart, openly emotional.
Benedict rises and draws you close, his forehead brushing yours. "Good morning, fiancée," he murmurs. For the first time since the terror of the terrace, the world feels entirely, beautifully right.
—
The air inside the club is thick with smoke and laughter. Candles burn low in silver sconces. Cards slap against polished wood. Crystal glasses clink in a steady rhythm. The card table is abandoned almost immediately because tormenting Benedict is far more entertaining.
Anthony Bridgerton is slouched in a chair, nursing a glass of brandy. Colin, meanwhile, looks as though Christmas has come early, already on his third ale. Benedict should have known better than to accept their invitation.
Colin swirls his drink lazily. "Let us begin with the obvious."
Anthony nods. "You are marrying the only woman in London who has ever successfully silenced you mid-sentence."
Benedict’s mouth falls open, playful offense on his face, "You speak as if I am incorrigible.”
Colin grins. "You once lectured an earl for forty minutes about the emotional symbolism of clouds."
"They were misinterpreting Turner!” Benedict accuses, to which the brothers chuckle.
Colin leans forward, asking, "Do you recall the masquerade ball? When Miss Y/N danced with Lord Pembroke?"
Anthony smirks faintly, remembering, "Ah, yes! The night you nearly went mad."
"I did no such thing!" Benedict scoffs.
"You cracked a champagne flute," Colin says cheerfully.
"That was an accident."
"You were gripping it as though it had personally offended you!"
Benedict mutters something under his breath.
Colin continues mercilessly. "Or the Smith-Smythe musicale. When she laughed at someone else's joke, and you stared at the poor man as though calculating his life expectancy."
Anthony adds, "You are not subtle."
"I was subtle!" Benedict protests pointlessly.
"You followed her into the garden three times in one evening," Colin reminds.
"To ensure she was not cold!"
"It was June, and you brought her your coat the second time!"
"It was breezy," your fiance grumbles under his breath to no avail.
Anthony leans back, satisfied. "You have been courting her for years without admitting it."
Benedict glares at both of them. "I was not prepared."
"For what?" Colin presses.
"For her."
That quiets them, and Anthony studies him carefully before speaking, "You love her deeply."
"Yes."
"More than your art?" Colin asks lightly.
Benedict does not hesitate, rolling his eyes as if he had never been asked such a ridiculous question, "Of course." That lands heavier than any of the teasing. Anthony's expression shifts to one of approval. He is satisfied to see his brother finally settling down.
Colin softens only slightly before recovering his mischief, "Tomorrow, she becomes your family. Which means we are her brothers now."
Benedict groans softly, sensing where this is going.
Anthony's voice lowers slightly, "If you ever cause her distress—"
"I won't."
"We will know," Colin finishes.
Benedict's expression sobers. He sits up straighter, "I would sooner set myself on fire."
Anthony studies him, searching for doubt, hesitation, immaturity. He finds none. A slow nod, "Good."
Colin raises his glass again. "To Benedict Bridgerton," he declares. "The most hopeless romantic among us."
The teasing escalates with each additional drink. Benedict is two glasses past dignified, not drunk, but warm. Relaxed and perhaps dangerously honest.
Colin leans across the table, "Let us discuss the wedding night."
Benedict chokes on his drink, shaking his head, "Must we?"
"Yes," Colin says brightly. "For educational purposes."
"I do not require education from you," Benedict mutters.
Colin grins. "Oh, I think you do." He leans back smugly. "How many times have you kissed her?"
Silence. Anthony slowly turns his head. Benedict does not answer.
Colin grins wider. "Ah. Fewer than we imagined."
"That is none of your concern."
Anthony's voice turns smooth and mildly threatening. "If you have compromised her—"
"I have not," Benedict says sharply. The sharpness is immediate and protective.
"So," Colin says lightly, teasingly, "you are waiting."
Benedict takes another drink, "Yes."
Colin cannot help himself. "But tomorrow," he continues, wickedly delighted, "you will not be waiting."
Benedict nearly stands again, but Anthony gives in to the teasing, "You have been in love with her for years and done nothing. Forgive us if we find your restraint amusing."
Benedict exhales slowly, "I did not think she would have me."
Anthony's expression shifts, less teasing now, and Colin's grin falters.
"You?" Colin says incredulously. "You did not think she would choose you?"
Benedict shrugs, slightly loose from drink, "She has always been... luminous."
Anthony leans back. "You are insufferable when sentimental."
Colin clutches his chest dramatically, repeating, "Luminous."
Benedict points at him, "You will not mock me!"
"I absolutely will."
Anthony watches Benedict carefully. "You are nervous," he says.
"I am not!"
"You are," Colin insists.
"I am not nervous," Benedict says, rising abruptly. "I am—" He pauses. Both brothers stare.
"I am impatient."
Colin smirks. "To marry her?"
"Yes."
Anthony's eyes sharpen knowingly, "Or to see her."
Benedict hesitates half a second too long. That's all his brothers need.
Colin slams a hand on the table, grinning, "There it is."
Anthony checks his pocket watch lazily, "You have been without her for approximately three hours."
Benedict grabs his coat, and Colin squints at him, "Where are you going?"
"I require air."
Anthony lowers his eyebrows, "Through the direction of her house?"
Benedict buttons his coat with deliberate dignity, huffing, "I am perfectly capable of returning home like a rational man."
"Do try not to serenade her," Colin calls after his older brother as he exits the club.
—
The night air hits Benedict immediately. The cool wind whips across his face, but even that does absolutely nothing to calm him. He walks quickly, telling himself he is merely strolling. He turns onto your street entirely by accident, of course. He pauses across from your house and stares at your window. One candle still lit. He exhales slowly, crossing the street like a moth to the flame.
"This is madness," he mutters.
Then he bends and picks up a pebble. He looks around the garden, ensuring the coast is clear. Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the pebble upward. It taps lightly against the glass. He waits. Nothing. He throws another and waits. Finally, your curtains begin to shift.
When you appear at the window, candlelight behind you, he nearly forgets how to breathe. The candle illuminates your hair, and he knows he will be up half the night trying to match the shade with his paints.
You push the window up just enough to lean out. "Benedict?" you whisper sharply. "What are you doing?"
He squints up at you, slightly flushed from drink and cold air. "Testing gravity?” Your fiancé suggests.
You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed, "With stones."
"Yes."
"You are insufferable."
He smiles faintly, "You are awake."
"That is because you are assaulting my window."
He steps closer, lowering his voice, but he is drunk, and even with his attempt, far too loud. "Come down!”
You stare at him as though he has suggested treason, "It is the night before our wedding."
"Yes, that is why I am here."
"That is precisely why you should not be here."
"And yet," he says softly, "I am."
You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. He sees it, that tiny crack in your resolve, and presses his advantage.
"I will behave," he promises, a grin on his face.
You actually tilt your head back and laugh, "You never behave!”
"Tonight I shall," he promises. A beat. Then, "Please."
That seems to do the trick because you slip out through the back door minutes later, shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders. He is waiting beneath the willow tree. When you approach, he does not immediately tease you. He just looks at you like he is memorizing something.
"You should not have come," you murmur, stopping a foot away.
"I know."
"You have been drinking."
"A little."
"How much is a little?"
He considers, looking you over fondly. When his eyes meet yours, he answers, "Enough to be honest."
Your breath falters slightly at that. He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint warmth of whiskey on him.
"I tried not to come," he admits.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I walked halfway home."
"And then?"
"And then I imagined sleeping tonight without seeing you." His jaw tightens slightly, "And I found I could not endure it."
The air shifts. He is not playful now. He reaches for you, slowly, as if giving you time to retreat. You do not, so his fingers brush your waist. You inhale sharply, and he notices. He notices everything about you.
His thumb presses lightly into the fabric of your gown, grounding himself while also pulling you closer. "You are trembling," he murmurs.
"So are you."
He exhales a quiet laugh, "Yes." A beat of silence. Then he confesses, "I am terrified."
Your brows knit, concern taking over you. “Of marrying me?” You ask, slightly fearful.
He shakes his head quickly, pulling you in, “What? Of course not. I am terrified that tomorrow you will stand before me and realize you deserve a steadier man."
Your heart aches. You raise your hand to his cheek, tracing over each freckle. "I do not want a steadier man," you whisper like a confession.
His eyes lift to yours, "You do not?"
"No! I want you, steady or wobbling," you tease, making fun of his drunken state.
Something inside him breaks open at that. He steps closer, closer than propriety allows. Though propriety would most certainly forbid him from being with you in the garden at all.
"You look at me," he says, voice lower now, warmed by drink and feeling, "as though I am extraordinary."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are to me."
His composure wavers. He lifts a hand to your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate. "I have imagined tomorrow," he confesses. "Far more than I should."
Your pulse quickens. Looking up at him with flushed cheeks, you ask, "Imagined what?"
His gaze drops to your mouth, and his voice is lower when he speaks, "Closing the distance without restraint."
Your breath catches, murmuring, "Benedict."
"I know," he says, but he does not step back. His thumb traces lightly along your jaw. "I have been very disciplined."
"Yes."
"Tomorrow, it shall all be worth it." Your face warms. He leans in slightly, not kissing you yet. "Do you know how difficult it has been," he murmurs, "to kiss you gently?"
Your hands grip his coat instinctively, teasing breathlessly, "You do not kiss me gently."
"I exercise monumental restraint."
You laugh softly, and the sound undoes him. His forehead rests against yours.
"I do not wish to wait until tomorrow," he admits quietly.
The confession hangs between you. You feel it too. The pull. The wanting. But you also feel the weight of tomorrow.
"I know, but we will," you whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly, answering, "Yes."
He steadies himself, but instead of stepping away, he presses a kiss to your lips, and it is not reckless. It is not hurried, but it is deeper, hungrier. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. You feel the restraint in him, the effort not to pull you closer. When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven.
"If I remain," he says roughly, "I will begin making very poor decisions."
You swallow, "Then you should go."
He doesn't move immediately, admiring the way you look in the moonlight. "I adore you," he says suddenly.
You blink, your heart seeming to flutter in your chest. "You have never said that," You breathe.
"I know," he agrees, twirling the ends of your hair in his fingers as he repeats, "I adore you."
Your eyes sting slightly. "I love you," you answer.
Your words nearly destroy him. He exhales like he has been struck. "Say that again."
"I love you."
He kisses you once more, reverently. When he forces himself to step back, his eyes remain closed for an extra moment as he catches his breath. He backs toward the gate, never taking his eyes off of you. "Tomorrow," he says.
"Tomorrow," you echo.
He's almost to the gate when you call his name. His face lights up in expectation, and you can't help but lift your nightdress over your ankles. Then, you're running across the field, closing the distance between you.
He's grinning in delight by the time you reach him, and your breath is coming out rapidly. Benedict scans you again, taking note of your bare feet and the goosebumps up and down your arm.
"You are mad, my love," He chuckles, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm you.
You laugh, nodding, "Perhaps, but I suddenly could not bear you leaving without one more kiss."
Benedict's face softens, enamored by you. Someone so full of unadulterated joy, and you still wanted him.
"Only one?" he murmurs, leaning in.
You giggle against his lips, meeting him halfway. He hesitates once more when he pulls away, just long enough to look at you like he is about to step into something sacred. Then he disappears into the night, and you stand there, breathless, knowing that tomorrow he will walk toward you. Not because he must, but because he burns to.
—
The church is quieter than it will be in an hour. Sunlight spills through stained glass in muted blues and golds. Footmen move in hushed efficiency. Flowers are adjusted. Programs are placed neatly along polished pews.
Benedict stands near the front, staring at absolutely nothing. His cravat is perfect. His coat is immaculate. His posture is composed, but his mind is in chaos. He flexes his fingers again, then stops when he notices he is doing it, exhaling slowly.
"You will crease your gloves."
He turns. Violet Bridgerton stands a few paces behind him, gaze soft, but knowing.
"Good morning, Mother," he says, attempting lightness.
The two of them just stand together for a few minutes, the silence steadying Benedict. Finally, Violet begins to speak, "I have watched you these past years… The way your voice changes when you say her name. The way you stand differently when she enters a room. As though bracing for impact."
He almost laughs. "It does feel rather like impact."
"Yes," Violet smiles gently. "Love does have that effect."
"I worry," he admits finally, voice low, stripped of bravado, "that one day she will see through me."
Violet's brow furrows slightly. "See what?"
"That I am not as certain as I pretend. That I... waver."
She steps closer, resting her gloved hand over his heart. "Do you know what I saw when your father wavered?"
Benedict stills.
"Devotion," she says. "Your father was not a perfect man. He doubted. He worried. He failed in small ways," she laughs softly. "We both did, but he loved me without hesitation." Her eyes glisten faintly at the memory. "And I never once questioned whether I was cherished."
Benedict's expression softens.
"You do not need to be unshakeable," Violet continues. "You need to be honest and willing to devote yourselves to each other through everything life throws at you.”
"I am willing," he says immediately.
"I know."
She reaches up, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead like she has done since he was a boy. "You think too much," she murmurs fondly.
"It is a burden."
"It is self-inflicted."
He huffs a small laugh. Violet's tone shifts slightly, then becomes more serious.
"Marriage is not sustained by grand declarations, Benedict. It is sustained by small choices. Daily ones. To remain. To listen. To forgive. To reach for one another even when one's pride suggests otherwise."
He nods slowly, listening to every word carefully.
"You adore her," she says plainly.
His eyes flicker. "Yes."
"Then show her. Not just today. Not just when the world is watching. Show her when she is tired. When she doubts herself. When you doubt yourself."
He exhales, "I do not wish to fail her."
"You will," Violet says gently.
He blinks, brow furrowing.
"In small ways," she clarifies. "And she will fail you. That is not the tragedy you imagine." Her thumb presses lightly against his lapel. "The tragedy would be withholding your heart out of fear."
Footsteps echo faintly in the distance, the first guests beginning to arrive. Violet straightens, regaining her composed elegance.
She presses a kiss to his cheek. "My beautiful, complicated boy," she murmurs. "Go and be happy."
—
The room smells faintly of lavender and starch. Your gloves are already on. Your veil rests in your lap, but your pulse will not slow. Outside, you can hear the faint murmur of arriving guests. The distant swell of strings tuning. The day has begun, whether you are ready or not.
You stare at your reflection, twisting your hands together. You cannot help but run through every possibility in your mind. The knock is soft but impatient. Before you can answer, the door opens, and Eloise Bridgerton steps inside like she owns the air itself. She takes one look at you and stops.
"Oh," she says flatly. "You're spiraling."
"I am not spiraling."
"You are twisting your gloves as though they have personally insulted you."
You immediately stop. Eloise shuts the door behind her and leans against it, arms crossed. "Well?" she demands.
"Well, what?"
"What catastrophic scenario have you invented?"
You hesitate. She narrows her eyes, raising an eyebrow, "Y/N."
You sigh, asking quietly, "What if I am not... what he expects?"
Eloise blinks once. Then twice. A laugh escapes her, "That is the concern?"
Your mouth falls open in offense, "Yes!"
She pushes off the door and crosses the room, stopping in front of you. "You believe my brother is standing in that church thinking, 'I hope she is more impressive than advertised'?"
"I do not know what he is thinking."
"I do," Eloise says firmly.
You look up.
"He is likely attempting not to faint," she continues. "Anthony is pretending not to notice. Colin is making it worse. Mama is misty. It is chaos."
Despite yourself, you smile faintly. Eloise stops in front of you, taking your hands in hers so you cannot avoid her gaze. "You are worried you will disappoint him?"
You nod. She exhales sharply, almost offended on your behalf.
"You do not see yourself the way he does," she says more quietly.
"How does he see me?"
She studies you, waving her arms about as she searches for the words. Eventually, she decides, "As inevitable."
That stills you; you look up at her, listening more openly.
"As though the world makes more sense when you are in it," she continues. "As though he is still kicking himself!" She exclaims, and the two of you giggle. She smiles, knowing she's getting through to you. "Truly, as though he is still in disbelief that you have chosen him."
Your throat tightens.
"He does not love you because you are flawless," Eloise says. "He loves you because you are you. You laugh at him. You challenge him. You look at his ridiculous paintings like they are masterpieces."
"They are masterpieces," you protest softly, a smile tugging at your lips.
The music begins faintly in the distance, the first signal that guests are arriving. Your breath catches. Eloise stands quickly and adjusts your veil with surprising gentleness.
"For what it is worth," she adds, voice softer now, "I am very glad it is you."
You feel tears fill your eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude. You had been so worried that Eloise would disapprove of the match. That she would be angry with you for marrying her brother, but it is clear that you could not have been more wrong.
"You make him better," she says plainly. "And you make this family louder in the best way."
Emotion spills over. Before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around her. She stiffens for half a second but softens into your hug, returning it tightly. After a moment, she pulls back and wipes under your eyes carefully.
"Do not smudge."
"I am trying not to!"
Your heart steadies. It is time. The doors open slowly, deliberately, and the sound of them seems louder than the music. Light spills down the aisle in warm, fractured colors through stained glass, pooling at your feet like something sacred waiting to be stepped into. Benedict is standing at the front, immaculate yet entirely unraveled.
He had prepared himself for this moment. Composed his breathing. Practiced stillness. Even listened to Anthony's quiet instructions on dignity. It has all deserted him. The instant his eyes find you, the careful mask slips. His expression shifts not into awe exactly but into something deeper. Relief, as though he had been bracing for years and had only just now allowed himself to exhale.
You begin to walk. The church fades at the edges. The guests blur into color and shape. The only thing that sharpens is the look in his eyes. You do not look away. You do not lower your gaze. Each step feels like a choice, and you are making it again and again.
When your hand is placed into Benedict's, his fingers close around yours instantly. Your racing heart slows, comforted immediately by his touch. Up close, Benedict looks almost breathless.
"You are..." he begins softly, then stops. His voice lowers, "You are everything."
"You are staring," you murmur, though your own pulse is racing.
"I cannot seem to help it."
The officiant begins the ceremony, his voice steady and measured, filling the space with ancient words about devotion and constancy and shared burdens. You hear them, but they pass through you like wind through open windows. What anchors you is the feel of Benedict's thumb brushing absently over your knuckles as if reassuring himself that you are solid, that this is real.
The rings are brought forward. Anthony steps up briefly, offering Benedict the band. Benedict's hands are steady now. He slides the ring onto your finger slowly, reverently, as though marking something permanent not only in gold but in memory. You do the same, your fingers brushing his skin in a way that feels grounding rather than terrifying.
The officiant smiles, announcing, "By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." There is a suspended heartbeat. A single moment where the world seems to inhale. "You may kiss your bride."
Benedict does not hesitate. He lifts his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as it has before — beneath moonlight, beneath willow branches — but this time there is no fear of departure afterward. No looming restraint. He kisses you slowly, deeply, not in spectacle but in certainty. Your hands curl into his lapels. His arm tightens at your waist. When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
"You are my wife," he whispers, as though still astonished.
"Yes," you breathe.
The church erupts, applause breaking like a wave. Colin cheers without shame. Violet presses a trembling hand to her lips. Anthony's clap is firm, measured, deeply satisfied. Eloise is furiously wiping away tears. Benedict turns with you to face the congregation, his arm secure around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Proud.
As you walk back down the aisle together, petals scatter across the stone floor. The music swells. Light floods around you, but this time, there is no tremor in your step. Because you are not walking alone.
—
That night, the door closed. The latch clicks softly into place, echoing louder than it should. You stand very still in the center of the room, hands clasped tightly in front of you. All day, you have smiled. Walked. Curtsied. Accepted congratulations. Now the silence presses in.
Benedict turns toward you. You are his wife, and suddenly you are acutely aware that you are alone together, truly alone, for the first time without supervision, without propriety hovering like a watchful aunt. Your pulse flutters wildly. He notices immediately. He steps closer, but not too close.
"You look frightened," he says gently.
"I am not frightened," you insist quickly. He tilts his head slightly.
You falter. "...I am simply unsure."
That softens him. "Unsure of what?"
You hesitate, embarrassed, heat rising to your cheeks. "I do not entirely know what is meant to happen now."
There, it is spoken.
He goes very still, not shocked, not amused. Just attentive. "What do you believe is meant to happen?" he asks carefully.
You swallow, "I know that... that married couples..." You trail off helplessly, waving your hands. "And that children eventually... but I do not know precisely how one arrives there."
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he steps close, slowly, and takes your hands. "You may ask me anything," he says quietly.
Your eyes lift to his. "Will it hurt?" The vulnerability in your voice nearly undoes him.
"It may," he answers gently. "Butif it does at first, only briefly. I will be careful."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
His thumb rubs small circles against your knuckles. "We do nothing you do not wish," he continues. "And nothing you do not understand."
You nod slowly. That steadies you.
He lifts a hand toward your cheek but pauses, "May I?"
You nod again. His palm cups your face, warm and grounding.
"You are safe with me," he murmurs. The tightness in your chest loosens.
"I trust you," you whisper.
He exhales slowly, as though that trust is something precious and fragile in his hands.
"Then we shall go slowly," he says.
He kisses you, not with hunger, not with urgency, but with patience. You feel the difference immediately. This is not like the kisses stolen in gardens. This one lingers, teaches. His lips move carefully, giving you time to respond. You hesitate at first, then soften. Your hands rise uncertainly to his chest. He smiles faintly against your mouth.
"Like that," he murmurs.
When he draws back, your breathing has changed. "Is this..." you begin shyly. "Is this how it begins?"
"Yes," he says. He guides you toward the bed, not lifting you, not overwhelming you. Just leading. When you sit, he kneels before you. The shift startles you.
"Benedict—"
"I am only removing your shoes," he says gently, and you feel almost foolish for your alarm.
"Oh," you murmur, flushing.
Rubbing over your ankle with his thumb, he asks softly, "Is that alright?"
You nod, swallowing nervously. He unties the ribbons carefully. Each touch is deliberate.
"You may stop me at any time," he reminds you.
You nod once more. When he reaches the corset at the back of your gown, he pauses again. "May I?"
Your hands tremble slightly as you nod. The first lace slips free. Then the next. Your breath grows shallow, not from desire yet, but from vulnerability. He senses it.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. His expression is not greedy, not impatient. Only warm. Proud, almost. The gown loosens and falls away. You instinctively cross your arms over yourself. He gently lowers them.
"You need not hide from me."
"I feel... exposed."
"You are," he says honestly. "And that is a brave thing." His praise steadies you. He removes his own coat and waistcoat more quickly, perhaps so you do not feel alone in your vulnerability. When he stands before you without the layers of formality, you blink in surprise.
"You are staring," he says softly.
"I did not realize..."
"What?"
"That you would..." You falter, eyes darting away.
He smiles faintly. "Be a man?"
You nod, mortified. He crouches slightly so he is level with you. Heat spreads across your cheek, and he smiles at the sight, running his finger over its path. He climbs onto the bed beside you, not over you, drawing you into his arms slowly.
"Nothing happens all at once," he explains softly. You look up at him, relaxing into his grasp. Benedict runs his nose up your jaw to your ear, pressing a feather-light kiss to your skin that sends tingles down your spine. "We begin as we have always begun."
"With kissing?" you whisper.
"Yes." So he kisses you again, longer now. Your body begins to respond in ways you did not anticipate. Warmth pools low in your stomach, a strange ache that is not unpleasant.
You pull back slightly. "What is that?" you ask quietly.
He brushes his thumb along your jaw. "That is your body understanding before your mind does."
You flush deeply. "Is that improper?"
He laughs softly. "No, my love. It is natural."
His hand drifts slowly along your arm, your waist, watching your face carefully for discomfort. When you tense, he pauses. When you relax, he continues. Every new sensation makes you inhale sharply. He murmurs reassurance against your skin.
"Still well?"
"Yes."
"Still certain?"
"Yes."
When he finally explains what must happen next, you listen intently, brow furrowed in concentration. "That is... rather close," you finally breathe.
"Yes."
"And you will not hurt me?"
"I will try very hard not to."
You nod, drawing him down toward you. “I trust you.”
He kisses you deeply then, not driven by impatience, but by emotion. When he joins with you, it is careful. Slow. You gasp, mostly in surprise, though you're certainly aware of a small amount of pain.
He stills instantly, his forehead pressing against yours, "Are you hurt?"
"No," you breathe. "Only... aware."
He exhales shakily, a crease of concentration between his brows. "You are doing beautifully," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck. "You feel better than I ever dreamed."
You clutch at his shoulders, adjusting slowly, allowing your body to learn. He does not rush you, peppering you with kisses. He tucks a stray strand of hair away from your face, admiring you like this. He does not move until you nod faintly. When he does, it is gradual, guided by your reactions. It is not overwhelming nor frightening. It is a discovery.
You've never experienced anything like it. The pain had faded, and now, all you felt was an overwhelming desire for more, more, more. Benedict studies your face as he must memorize it. Growing shy, you turn your head to the side, squeezing your eyes shut.
Benedict doesn't scold, only kisses your cheek. His lips move to your neck, then your shoulder, before he murmurs, "Please, do not hide yourself from me."
You hesitate, but turn your gaze back to him with wide eyes, overwhelmed by indescribable pleasure.
"You are doing so well, my love," he breathes, nothing but adoration and desire in his eyes.
A noise of pleasure escapes you, your body tensing at his words. He hisses, his eyes squeezing shut. He didn't want this to end.
When pleasure builds, you look at him in startled wonder. He smiles softly. "Yes," he whispers. "That. It's alright, darling. You must merely feel now."
When it crests, you bury your face against his shoulder, breathless and astonished. The sight of your pinnacle causes his breath to catch, and his movements falter. A gruff moan falls from him, panting against your neck. The pleasure begins to overwhelm you, and he shushes you with another kiss.
"So well," he repeats against your lips, his words broken. As his pleasure comes to a peak, he withdraws suddenly. An action you protest with a tired whine, reaching for him.
He laughs breathlessly, still panting through his release. Benedict doesn't need to see you to know you're pouting. He returns quickly with a soft rag from the wash basin. He raises a playful eyebrow at your expression.
"Do not tell me you are already cross with me," he muses with a teasing grin.
You crack a smile, shaking your head.
"No, but I am rather cold," you remark playfully.
A bark of laughter echoes through the bed chamber, "Well, I cannot have my wife catch a chill on our wedding night, now can I?"
He settles onto the bed beside you, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Let me clean you up, then I shall endeavor to keep you warm, hm?"
You cover your face as it turns red, suddenly embarrassed. Benedict laughs again, boyish and amused. He doesn't tease, though, just wipes you down gently, pressing a kiss over each inch of skin afterwards. Afterward, he does not roll away. He gathers you close.
"Are you well?" he asks again.
"Yes," you say softly. "I think... I understand now."
He laughs gently against your hair. "I should hope so."
—
You wake slowly, as though rising through warm water. At first, there is only comfort. A pleasant heaviness, the faint scent of linen, and something distinctly him. As you wake up, awareness sharpens, and you realize you are not lying in your childhood bed, nor in the carefully prepared bridal chamber alone.
You are wrapped, completely. Your cheek rests against bare skin, warm and solid beneath you. An arm is draped securely around your waist, the weight of it possessive even in sleep. One of your legs is tangled loosely with his beneath the sheets, anchoring you so thoroughly that retreat would require negotiation. You go very still.
Memory returns all at once. Candlelight flickering low, his voice steady and gentle, your own uncertainty dissolving into trust. Heat rushes to your face, and you instinctively try to draw back, just slightly, to collect yourself.
The arm tightens immediately. A low, rough murmur brushes against your hair, "I felt that."
You freeze, whispering, "You were asleep."
"I was," Benedict replies, his voice thick with morning. "Until my wife began attempting an escape."
"I was not attempting escape," you protest softly. You can’t help but smile, hearing Benedict refer to you as his wife in his morning voice.
"You were shifting with suspicious intent,” He brings his hand up, squeezing your face.
"I was adjusting,” you argue, giggling against his arm.
"Adjusting away from me."
His hand slides slightly lower along your back, as if to prevent further adjustments. You dare to tilt your head up. His eyes are still half closed, lashes heavy, hair thoroughly disordered. Without the careful polish of society, he looks younger. Softer. Entirely unguarded.
"You look different," you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He opens one eye. "Different how? Ruined?"
"Peaceful."
That fully wakes him. He studies you more carefully now, his gaze searching your face. "Are you well?"
The question is quiet, but there is real concern beneath it. You take a moment to answer honestly. There is soreness, a reminder of newness, but no fear. No regret. Only the strange, tender ache of having crossed a threshold.
"Yes," you say. "I am well."
Relief eases his shoulders. His thumb traces a slow, absent path along your spine beneath the sheet. "I scarcely slept," he admits.
"You did not?"
"I kept checking that you were breathing."
You let out a breath of surprised laughter, "Benedict."
"I was not certain whether that was romantic or deeply unsettling," he adds thoughtfully.
You cannot help it. You laugh again, the sound muffled against his chest. "You are absurd."
"I was cautious," he corrects. "There is a difference."
You shift again, this time not to escape but to look at him properly. The sheet slips slightly, and you clutch it instinctively. He notices.
"You need not guard yourself from me," he says gently.
"I know," you answer, though your cheeks still burn. "It is only... strange. Yesterday, I was not permitted to be alone with you without supervision. Today, I have woken in your arms."
His mouth curves faintly. "An improvement, I hope."
You hesitate, then nod. "Yes."
He relaxes fully at that. His hand moves to brush a stray curl from your temple, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin. Silence settles between you again, but it feels different now, fuller. You trace a cautious line across his chest with your fingertip, exploring without thinking. The muscle beneath your touch shifts.
"You are studying me again," he observes.
"I did not realize you would feel so solid," you confess.
He huffs a faint laugh. "You seem disappointed."
"I am not disappointed," you say quickly. "Only surprised."
"At what?"
"That you are... real." You frown slightly, trying to articulate it. "For so long, you were something I admired from across a room. Now you are here. Tangled in sheets. Complaining about being adjusted away from."
He smiles more openly at that. "You preferred me from across the room?"
"No," you admit. "I prefer this."
His expression shifts, something warm and proud flickering in his eyes. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Then he tilts his face down and kisses you again, slower this time, brushing his lips over yours in a way that is far less overwhelming than the night before. Morning light spills faintly through the curtains, illuminating the quiet intimacy of the moment.
When he draws back, he rests his forehead against yours. "If you require rest, we shall remain here all day. I will instruct the household that I have taken ill."
You smile faintly. "I understand now why everyone in the ton disappears after their wedding."
Benedict grins, "Do you, now?"
You shift closer instead of away this time, sliding your arm tentatively around his waist. He inhales softly at the contact but does not tease you. You smile, and that seems to ease the last of the tension from him. He rolls slightly, easing you more comfortably against him, drawing the sheets up around you both. The morning feels unhurried, suspended from the rest of the world. You rest your head back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, absent but affectionate.
After a moment, he says softly, "Mrs. Bridgerton."
The title sends a small thrill through you. You look up at him, your cheek pressing against his chest, "Yes?"
This is my first published fanfic! Please be kind <3 There is more to this story if anyone is interested... Hope you enjoy!
Edit to add: Masterlist is now here!
Interrupted (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
You have pined over Benedict Bridgerton for as long as you can remember. You never imagined he may return your feelings. When he saves you from ruin, he realizes there's more than just history between you.
Content warnings: attempted SA by 3rd party, regency stereotypes, jealousy, reader is described as having feminine features and follows regency era standards for women. (Please let me know if I've missed anything!)
Benedict Bridgerton stands at the very edge of the ballroom, hiding from eligible young ladies and their mothers alike. Candlelight catches in his dark curls; the gold of the chandeliers highlights his cheeks. He lingers near a marble pillar, a glass in hand, politely evading society with the ease of long practice. You can’t help the quiet snort of amusement that escapes you.
Your best friend’s elder brother has been the bane of your composure for as long as you can remember. You have adored him from the first moment you’d arrived at Bridgerton House in crooked ribbons and scuffed slippers. You had been old enough then to no longer require assistance climbing the steps, but he had offered you his hand as though it were nothing. That memory has lodged itself stubbornly in your heart; time has only sharpened it.
It is difficult not to follow him with your eyes now. If Benedict returns even a fraction of your affection, though, he has never allowed it to show. You pray he never discovers the truth of your childish, hopeless infatuation. Eloise teases you enough as it is, and lately, even Colin has taken to smirking whenever your gaze strays at tea time.
“Y/N? Are you even listening?” Eloise’s voice snaps you back to the present. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you turn toward her.
“My apologies,” you flush. “I seem to have misplaced my focus, but I assure you, I am listening now.”
Her eyes follow the path your own had taken. When she spots her brother stationed against the wall, she rolls her eyes dramatically. “You are utterly hopeless.”
“I know not of what you speak,” you reply primly, refusing to glance back toward him. “As I said, I lost focus.”
Eloise huffs, though amusement tugs at the corners of her lips. “Shall we fetch a drink? I have been meaning to tell you about the book Colin brought me from Greece.”
You link arms with her at once, grateful for the diversion. “Lemonade sounds lovely.”
The crowd near the refreshment table is thick with perfume and murmured gossip. You've just reached for a glass when a gentleman materializes beside you with uncanny timing.
"Miss Y/N." You turn, and he bows with practiced elegance. "Lord Thomas Jameson," he introduces himself, extending his hand. "I have been admiring you all evening."
You smile politely and place your gloved fingers in his. His lips brush your knuckles in a gesture just a touch too lingering, and Eloise catches your eye, the two of you exchanging a look edged with barely concealed amusement.
"You are most kind, my lord."
"Nonsense. I merely state what all must be thinking." His gaze flicks to Eloise. "Miss Bridgerton. A pleasure."
"Charmed," Eloise returns, though her smile was tight.
Jameson's attention settles fully upon you once more. "Might I be so fortunate as to secure a place upon your dance card?"
He is handsome, charming in the superficial way that often impresses a ballroom. Besides, you could not refuse a dance simply because your heart belongs, quite foolishly, to another.
"Of course," you agree, managing a polite smile. He offers his arm, and you take it, allowing yourself to be led onto the polished floor, your untouched lemonade forgotten.
From across the room, Benedict's jaw tightens. He has never liked Jameson. The man wears civility like a coat, well-tailored and carefully displayed, but beneath it lay something grasping and entitled. Benedict knows enough of London clubs and whispered stories to distrust him thoroughly. Watching Jameson's hand settle at your waist stirs something sharp and unwelcome inside him. A jab to his ribs brings him back to the present.
"Say, brother," Colin drawls, "are you bored with us? You appear rather absorbed by Miss Y/N's dance."
Benedict crosses his arms. "I am no such thing."
"For my part," Mr. Adams adds with a laugh, "I would not blame him. Miss Y/N is quite the vision tonight. Perhaps I shall inquire after her card myself."
The remark strikes like flint to tinder.
"Indeed," Colin says lightly, though his eyes are anything but, "she has bloomed since her debut."
Benedict sets his empty glass down with more force than necessary, announcing to the group, "I require another drink."
He does not look back as he strides away. By the time Eloise joins him at the sideboard, Benedict is halfway through a glass of whiskey.
"Y/N has abandoned me," she announces dramatically. "Lord Jameson. Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"Well?" she presses, "Is he kind? I dread the notion of her marrying some dreadful creature."
Benedict nearly chokes, "Eloise."
"It is an honest concern."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "He is wealthy. He holds a proper title. He is not... particularly kind."
Her eyes sharpen, "How unkind?"
"They are merely dancing," he insists, brow furrowing. "There is no cause for alarm."
Eloise lifts one brow. "Then why is he leading her to the terrace?"
Benedict's head snaps toward the doors.
Eloise gasps triumphantly. "See! You are worried."
He mutters a curse under his breath and sets his glass aside. "Remain here."
"Benedict—"
"Please," he says more softly, squeezing her arm. "Trust me."
She huffs but relents, "I expect a full report.”
"Would not dream of denying you." He calls across his shoulder, already halfway across the ballroom.
You had not thought it so terribly bold to accept Lord Jameson's request for air. It is your first season; you tell yourself you must not appear skittish. The terrace doors close behind you with a soft click. Moonlight bathes the gardens in silver. You rest your hands upon the stone banister, drawing in a steadying breath as memories of childhood games among the hedges drift through your mind.
You do not hear him approach until he stands far too close. His hands come down on either side of you, boxing you in. "My lord—?"
"Shh." His breath brushes your ear. "I told you I had been watching you. I made you desirable tonight. It is only fair you return the favor."
Your stomach drops. You try to turn, but he catches your wrist, his fingers tightening painfully. "I should return to the ballroom," you say, striving for calm. "My chaperone—"
"Nonsense." His grip tightens, "I shall have what I seek."
Terror blooms in your chest. You struggle in his grasp, thrashing and squirming, but he's stronger. His hand drags at your gown, tugging at the hem. The terrace door opens. A tear falls down your cheek, knowing your honor shall soon be ruined. Even worse, what if you are forced to wed the man who has put you in such a compromising state? Just as you begin to despair, though, Benedict Bridgerton steps into view.
You nearly sink to the ground in relief. Benedict takes in the scene, his eyes flicking between you and Lord Jameson. His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it when he speaks, "Unhand her, Jameson."
The lord straightens up, but his grip on you does not relinquish. Clearly, he had not heard Benedict enter. He turns his head to the second Bridgerton sibling, raising an eyebrow, "Ah, Bridgerton. Miss Y/L/N and I were merely getting acquainted with each other. Isn't that right?" He squeezes your wrist tighter.
A whimper is all you can manage, and you watch as Benedict seethes. It's like watching lightning strike in the distance. One minute, Benedict is in the doorway; the next, he is pulling Lord Jameson off of you, pushing him to the ground. His arm rears back and delivers a harsh blow to the side of Thomas's face.
You back up, the railing digging into your back. A startled gasp leaves you, and the sound is enough for Benedict to take pause. He looks over at you, scared and shaking, and his expression softens.
Then, his mask falls back into place, and he turns back to the bleeding Lord. "If I see you near her again, I will ensure you never set foot in good society again. Am I clear?" Benedict growls.
Groaning, the lord nods slowly, clearly knowing he stands no chance against a Bridgerton. "You will not speak a word of this to anyone," he adds, and the man nods once more.
"Good," Benedict grunts. "Now, apologize to her." You're shaking, watching the scene like one watches a fire. You're unable to tear your gaze away even as everything is consumed, and your whole body burns red-hot. Thomas is angry, angrier than you've ever seen a gentleman, but Benedict shakes him by his collar, repeating, "Apologize to her!"
"I'm sorry," he gasps out, "Sorry."
Benedict huffs, pulling him up by his cravat. "Go," he says simply. The man looks between the two of you, hesitating, but one more look from Benedict, and he's gone. You're frozen in surprise, hands shaking beneath the gloves.
Benedict moves closer. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder, and you flinch. Guilt washes over you immediately, but Benedict only smiles softly. It's a smile you've seen before. The same one he'd given when you were both children, and you scraped your knee. Pity, concern, but there's something more there now.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, rubbing your sore wrist. Your eyes are locked on your white glove, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Y/N," Benedict speaks softly, taking another step toward you. "You have nothing to apologize for."
God, why did you have to cry? Tears spill down your face, and you wipe at them uselessly. You must look a fool, akin to a crying toddler, but Benedict doesn't mock or run away. He wipes your tears with his thumb, and you finally bring yourself to look up at him. He softens even more when he sees your face.
"Did he..." he begins, cupping your face in his hand. He swallows, clearly debating how to word his question. "Did he hurt you?"
You shake your head, feeling the warmth of his palms on your cheeks. "No," you sniffle, still squeezing your own wrist. "He grabbed me, and he-" your voice cracks.
Benedict shakes his head, pulling you into a hug. If anyone were to see, the sight would be scandalous, but you can't bring yourself to care. You allow him to hold you, crying into his chest.
"It is alright. We needn't speak of it tonight. All that matters is you are well." He glances down at where you hold your wrist. When you've stopped crying, Benedict takes hold of your hand, his voice barely a whisper, "May I?"
You hesitate, but when you meet his gaze, you know it will all be alright. Finally, you nod silently. He smiles reassuringly, fingers dancing up your arm to the top of your glove. He pulls the dainty thing off like he's done it millions of times before, and likely, he has. A bruise is forming on your wrist. It's faint and will likely only take a couple of days to fade, but Benedict's jaw clenches at the sight. His fingers trace it, his touch feather-light. Your breath catches in your throat, his touch feeling reverent.
Benedict's eyes flicker up to yours, "I apologize, Y/N."
You can only furrow your brow at first, "You apologize? Whatever for?"
“If I had intervened sooner, I-" he sighs, shaking his head. "I should have intervened the moment I saw the two of you together on the dance floor."
It's your turn to shake your head, reaching out to grab his hand. He winces when you do, and that's when you finally look down at his own injury. His knuckles are bloody and bruised, evidence of the punches he had used to defend your honor.
You gasp, lifting it closer into view, "You are hurt!"
He waves you off, "Oh nonsense," he scoffs. "I would've continued had a lady not been present."
You laugh through your drying tears, "I hardly feel like a lady." You're examining the injury curiously when an idea occurs to you. "My glove," you murmur to yourself, looking to Benedict's other hand that still holds your white glove. You take it from his grasp, tying it around his knuckles securely.
"Ah! You've ruined your glove!" Benedict protests, "As I told you, I am quite well, Y/N."
"I assure you, I have more gloves than I know what to do with," you reply.
Benedict eyes you, a fond smile pulling at his lips. How is it that you still make his heart stutter after the events of the night? You look breathtaking, even with dried tears running streaks down your face.
"Y/N," he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. You ignore him at first, fussing with the glove to avoid meeting his blue eyes. He tilts your face towards his with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. "You are in shock. We should get you to a guest room."
"Nonsense," you argue. "I am well enough to return home."
"For my own peace of mind, then," he insists. You hesitate, and he adds a smooth, "Please." His hand is warm on your face, and all you can think about is how badly you've wanted him this close for so long.
"Benedict, I-" Your eyes flicker to his lips, an indescribable feeling of desire coursing through you.
He follows your gaze, looking at your lips. He wants to hear more. He wants you to say the words he's longed for you to say for so long, but he can't let you. Not right now. Not after everything that's happened to you tonight.
So as much as he loathes to, he clears his throat, "Come, Y/N. Let us get you comfortable." He offers you his hand. Your face falls, and it takes everything in him not to say to hell with propriety and kiss you senseless. Against all odds, he stays strong, even when your bare hand slips into his.
"What about my mother? I- I do not wish to tell her," you admit.
Benedict pauses, looking at you tenderly. He squeezes your hand, speaking lowly, "We needn't tell anyone if you do not wish, but Y/N," he begins, holding your gaze. "You must know you did nothing wrong. You have no reason for shame; you do know that, don't you?"
You hesitate, blaming yourself. "I should not have accepted his invitation to the terrace. It was not ladylike of me. I should have known better, and I must have done something. Otherwise, he would not have thought me the sort of lady who-."
"Enough, Y/N," he pulls you closer, holding up your wrist. "You did nothing to deserve this. Thomas Jameson is a cad and a fool, and it pains me to think you believe you could have earned this."
Seeing your upset expression, he switches gear, "In fact, perhaps I shall go find him and challenge him to a duel, hm?"
You can tell by the look on his face that he is merely trying to put a smile on your face. A breathless laugh escapes you, and he grins.
"How dare you laugh! Do you not have confidence in my dueling abilities? Because I assure you, I am quite the marksman!"
You laugh again, and he wipes your tears with a pleased smile. "There's that smile. Now, dry your eyes, and I shall grace you with my plan."
When you nod, he continues with a flourish, "We shall travel through the servants' hall out of sight. Then, I will track Eloise down and ensure she convinces your mother to allow you to sleep over with her. Ladies have sleepovers, do they not?"
You roll your eyes, nodding, "Yes, I suppose they do."
"Ah, so I thought. Very well then, will you allow me to escort you to a guest room now, or do you intend to continue arguing with me?" Sighing, you take his hand and follow him as he leads you through the dimly lit service halls. It's strange being here with him. He walks in front of you, tugging you down the long hallways. You stare at the back of his head, allowing yourself to imagine him as your suitor.
The two of you emerge in the upstairs east wing after Benedict peeks through the hallway door dramatically. "We must make haste about it," he teases, pulling you as he bursts into a jog.
You laugh in surprise, trying to remain quiet, "Benedict! I can hardly run in this gown!"
"Well, that simply won't do!"
He scoops you into his arms. You practically squeal, covering your mouth quickly.
"Shhh!" He hisses, but there's a wide grin on his face.
"You must put me down, Benedict! This is ridiculous!" you exclaim through your giggles.
"Nonsense!" He chuckles, finally coming to a stop in front of a door. "Besides, we are here," he explains, opening the door. "You are injured. You must let me take care of you."
"It is my wrist, and it will be faded by the morning," you argue, but he only scoffs, sitting you on the edge of the bed.
"Nonsense, you mean you are not writhing in pain?" He teases, examining your wrist dramatically.
"Do I appear to be writhing in pain?" You're wracked with giggles, his touch ticklish on your wrist.
Benedict lit up. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself this much fun. He couldn't remember the last time he'd joked and teased a lady just to see her smile. Usually, it was all means to an end, but this time, he wasn't considering how quickly he could get beneath your skirts.
"No, I suppose you do not appear to be writhing," he agrees, smirking. "Though you do appear to be quite ticklish, it seems."
There's a mischievous glint in his eye, and you glare, scooting back towards the pillows on the bed. Shaking your head, you point with your still bare hand, "You would not dare, Benedict Bridgerton."
Leaning closer, he raises an eyebrow, "Would I not?"
He steps closer, and you gasp, exclaiming, "Do not!" But this time around, there is delighted amusement on your face.
The guest room door swings open, and a worried Colin Bridgerton is in the doorway. He looks between the two of you, the way you're backed against the pillows, and Benedict looms over you. At first, he assumes the obvious and begins to back out of the room, but then he recalls the reason he had entered the room in the first place.
He'd heard your exclamation, concerned by your words, paired now with the sight of a fresh bruise on your wrist. Benedict must realize how the scene looks because his face falls immediately, seeing Colin's worried, and now angry, expression.
He holds his hand out to Colin, "Brother, it is not what it looks like."
Colin ignores Benedict, looking at you, "Y/N, are you alright?" Your cheeks must be pinker than Lady Featherington's atrocious gown.
You nod your head quickly, "Yes, Colin. It is as he says. It-" you look at Benedict worriedly, "It is not what it looks like."
Colin studies your face, intent on knowing if you are truthful. He motions to your wrist, "You are hurt."
You look at your own wrist as if suddenly remembering your earlier encounter with Lord Jameson. Your eyebrows raise practically to your hairline, "Goodness, Colin. Of course, Benedict did not hurt me."
Colin looks between the two of you again, noting the protective look on Benedict's face. The flash of anger. He crosses his arms instantly, "Someone else did then?"
Benedict sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Colin, it is none of your concern!" He scolds, knowing the shame you felt despite his earlier words.
"Benedict, it is alright," you say softly. "I do not wish for your brother to think you cruel."
The older Bridgerton steps between you and Colin, his expression shifting to one of reassurance. "Do not worry on my account. I hardly worry myself on Colin's opinion," his tone is humorous, not wanting to stress you.
You crack a small smile, "You are quite right. It is only Colin. I trust he will not report to Lady Whistledown."
Colin takes a slow step forward, still concerned, "Y/N, if something has happened, I would not tell a soul."
You roll your eyes, "Well, I know that of course, but," you look back to Benedict sheepishly. "Truthfully, I would prefer not to tell the story. Besides, you needn't babysit me all night, Benedict. I am quite well. You may take your leave of me, I assure you."
He furrows his brow, beginning to argue, but you glower, crossing your arms. "Truly, I am quite sick of your face," you insist.
Benedict ducks his head, hiding his amusement, "Very well then." He rises, motioning for Colin to lead the way toward the door. "I will send Eloise in with some gowns."
He's halfway out the door when he turns back, his eyes crinkled. "I do not believe you, though, for the record."
Your arms cross against your chest, asking with a furrowed brow, "About what?"
Benedict's dimple appears on his cheek, "I believe you are quite fond of my face."
And with that, he shuts the door, leaving you in disbelief. You pace the room after that, until your ball slippers have rubbed blisters on your heel. You collapse onto the bed with a huff.
The ceiling in the guest room is rather plain, but you stare for what feels like forever, replaying the events of the night. So much had happened in only one night. The thought of that wicked man's grasp on your wrist sends shivers up your spine. You remember the fear you had felt when the door swung open, and the instant relief when Benedict had appeared. He had arrived just in time. It's an effort not to wonder what would have happened had he not been there.
Later, once Eloise had come and gone, you are left alone. Or so you think.
Sleep will not come. The bruise on your wrist throbs faintly; the memory of Jameson's grasp is worse still. You slip from bed and opened the door-
—and nearly stumble over Benedict Bridgerton sitting on the floor outside your chamber, sketchbook in hand.
"What on earth are you doing?" you whisper, looking up and down the hall.
He rises swiftly, flushed. He straightens his waist coast, attempting to sound nonchalant, "Ensuring you were not disturbed."
"You meant to sit here all night?"
He hesitates before answering truthfully, "Yes."
The weight of it steals your breath. Ensuring the hall is empty once more, you pull Benedict inside, shutting the door gently.
"You need not act from duty," you say softly.
He gives a short, incredulous laugh. "Duty?" He steps closer, candlelight gilding the earnestness in his expression. "You believe this is duty?" His hand finds yours, searching your expression.
The candlelight trembles between you, throwing shifting gold across his face. His eyes drop, not to your lips this time, but to your wrist. To the faint bruise darkening beneath your skin.
His jaw tightens, "When I opened that terrace door," he says at last, voice rougher than before, "and saw him with you..."
He stops, swallows, "For a moment, only a moment, I believed I had failed you."
The air feels thinner. He takes a moment to sit his sketchbook to the side, tossing it onto your vanity as if it was nothing. Then, he looks back to you.
"I thought I was too late." His hand curls slightly at his side, as though remembering the feel of Jameson's collar in his grip. "And in that instant, I saw the rest of your life unfold without me in it. I saw you standing beside a man who would cage you. Touch you." His voice drops, almost shaking now. "I saw you looking at him the way you look at me."
The confession lands between you like a spark.
"And I realized," he continues, stepping closer, "that the pain of that vision was not honorable. It was not noble. It was not friendly affection." He lets out a short, humorless breath.
"It was jealousy. It was terror. It was love."
Your heart stumbles in your chest.
"You were a child with ribbons perpetually slipping from your hair," he says more softly. "You followed us into the gardens and demanded inclusion in our games. I told myself I watched you because you were Eloise's friend. Because you were small. Because someone had to."
A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, "But you were not small forever."
He reaches up, hesitates, then cups your cheek as though it is something precious.
"One day, you laughed at something I said, truly laughed, and I felt something shift inside me. I ignored it. I told myself it was habit. Familiarity."
His thumb brushes just beneath your eye.
"But habit does not make a man search every room for one face. Habit does not make him count the hands that dare touch her waist during a dance."
His other hand lifts, hovering at your hip without quite settling there.
"I have tried to draw everything," he murmurs. "Landscapes. Light. Strangers in passing carriages. Yet every sketch becomes you. The curve of a cheek becomes yours. The tilt of a chin. The fall of hair."
His voice grows quieter, "You have become the measure by which I recognize beauty in this world."
He exhales, forehead nearly brushing yours now, "And when I thought I might lose you tonight... I understood that a world in which you do not belong beside me is not one I care to inhabit."
The space between you has vanished. Your night robe brushes his coat. You can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric. His hand finally settles at your waist — tentative, as though awaiting permission.
"I ought to court you properly," he says, drawing himself up slightly, though his hand does not leave you. "I ought to call upon your mother. Bring flowers. Stand in your drawing room like a respectable gentleman."
A flicker of warmth softens his mouth.
"I will do all of it. Gladly."
His eyes lock with yours — open, unguarded.
"But I have had a lifetime to consider my heart. In every season of my life, the answer has been you."
He takes your hand, pressing it firmly against his chest. His heart is racing beneath your palm.
"If you will have me — not because I saved you, not because you feel indebted, not because of what nearly happened tonight — but because you choose me..." His voice steadies. "Then allow me to spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of that choice."
A breath. A final step forward.
"Y/N. Will you marry me?"
You cannot speak at first. Your entire life seems to unspool behind your eyes — gardens, laughter, teasing glances across ballrooms, years of quiet longing you thought foolish and solitary.
"You thought you alone carried this?" you whisper finally. Your hand trembles where it rests over his heart. "I have loved you since I did not understand what love was," you confess, voice unsteady. "I followed you into those gardens not because I wished to join the game — but because you were there."
His breath stutters.
"I watched you dance with other women and told myself I did not mind. I told myself I was a child. That I would outgrow it." You shake your head faintly. "I never did."
Your fingers tighten in his coat. "When he took me onto that terrace, I was afraid," you admit. "But when the door opened, and it was you..." Your voice breaks softly. "I have never felt such relief in my life."
His hand slides fully around your waist now, firm, grounding.
"I do not choose you from gratitude," you continue. "I choose you because you are the first person I search for in every room. Because my heart quiets when you are near. Because I cannot imagine my future without you in it."
Tears gather in your lashes, but they are not born of fear.
"Yes," you breathe.
His entire body stills.
"Yes," you repeat, louder now, surer. "I will marry you. I have been yours in my heart for years."
Something in him breaks open. He gathers you up as though you weigh nothing, lifting you clean from the floor. A breathless laugh escapes you as your arms wind around his neck. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed.
"You are certain?" he murmurs, almost disbelieving.
"Quite certain," you reply, smiling against his mouth.
This time, when he kisses you, it is not tentative. It is full.
His lips claim yours with warmth and certainty, not desperation. His hand cradles the back of your head, careful even in passion. You melt into him, your fingers sliding into his hair, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against yours.
When he pulls back, your foreheads remain touching.
"We shall do this properly," he says softly. "I will ask your mother. I will endure whatever scrutiny awaits me."
You smile.
"And if she refuses?"
His dimple appears.
"Then I shall simply charm her. I have had years of practice. Besides, your mother loves me."
You laugh, and the sound feels lighter than anything you have known all evening. "Yes, I suppose that's true."
Outside, the last of the candles flickers. The house is quiet. The terror of the terrace feels distant now, replaced by something steadier. Warmer.
He sets you gently back upon your feet but does not let go of your hand.
"Get some rest," he murmurs. "Tomorrow begins the rest of our lives."
"And you?" you ask softly.
He brushes his thumb across your knuckles.
"I shall be right outside your door," he says with a faint smile.
You squeeze his hand, whispering, "Stay,”
Benedict stills. Every inch of him goes rigid with restraint.
"Y/N," he says carefully, the gentleman warring visibly with the man who has just asked for your hand. "If I remain... it would not be proper."
Your fingers tighten around his. "I do not mean—" You swallow, steadying yourself. "I do not wish to be alone."
His expression changes immediately. The fire in his eyes gentles into something fiercely protective. "You are afraid," he says quietly.
"I am not," you insist automatically, then falter. "Not of you. Only... when I close my eyes, I see it again."
His jaw sets. That decides it. He steps toward the hearth and drags a chair closer to your bed. Not beside you. Not beneath the covers. Close enough to see him.
"I shall remain," he says firmly. "But here."
You blink. "On a chair?"
He arches a brow, "You did not think I would take advantage of my fiancée's vulnerable state, did you?"
The word fiancée sends a warmth through you that eases the lingering chill in your bones. You climb back beneath the covers. He removes his coat and folds it neatly over the chair, sleeves rolled slightly as he settles. The candlelight casts him in gold and shadow.
"You need not sit upright all night," you murmur.
"I have done more uncomfortable things for less worthy causes," he replies lightly.
Silence settles. After a moment, you reach your hand out from beneath the covers. He looks at it. Then, without hesitation, he takes it. Your fingers lace together, your hand warm in his.
