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In celebration of the new The Freak Circus update, I drew my own circus characters interacting with the members of the TFC cast I think they would get along with the most. Was this a thinly veiled excuse to draw both of my current fixations together? Yes, yes it was lmao.
Congratulations to @nekoboydreams!! You've done such an amazing job with TFC, and I cannot wait to see what else you have in store for the future!
Adelina and Ticket Taker would both probably talk about topics that are relatively boring to most over coffee/tea, like taxes or all of the different things that must be done to keep their respective circuses afloat and running smoothly. They also both have some control-related issues, and things like organization and cleanliness are very important to them. As long as Adelina doesn't learn about what exactly The Freak Circus of Horrors does to some humans they come across, I feel like the two of them would get along pretty well. Plus, they both don't really trust most people, and that would be another factor that would get them on equal footing in the other's eyes.
Benedict and Pierrot are both relatively soft emotionally compared to their companions, which sometimes results in them getting hurt. I could totally see the two of them baking together, eating sweets, and gushing about their respective MCs like two lovesick puppies. However, much like Adelina, if Benedict ever found out what happened at The Freak Circus of Horrors, he would probably be the one most appalled, even if he understands why they must do what they have to do. Though, he can't exactly judge them too harshly, especially since he was once in their position before he found a place to call home at Cirque des Débuts. Pierrot also holds his family close/would do anything to keep his family safe, and Benedict knows exactly how that feels, too.
Clementine and Doctor were kind of the two outliers, but I feel as though they would get along somewhat well as soon as Clementine got comfortable with him. They're just kind of awkward and asocial in general, but I feel like Doctor wouldn't necessarily be much of a talker, which Clemeinte would appreciate (they much prefer sitting in silence to incessant or unnecessary small talk). Clementine would also probably take an interest in the Doctor's work/hobbies, not finding it as appalling as Benedict or as shameful as Adelina would. Out of all of their companions, Clementine has the most neutral stance on human life, and I feel that's something Doctor would relate to as well.
Dartois and Harlequin are both the youngest in their respective troupes, and they both have a penchant for stirring up drama or causing trouble, so I feel like they would be an unstoppable and annoying force to be reckoned with. While Dartios doesn't always purposefully try to get under other people's skin, they do, and they do a very good job at it. This is something Harlequin would probably use to his advantage, especially considering that Dartois is a bit naive still/getting used to living as a human (RIP Pierrot lmao). I just think they would be a hilarious duo and would probably accidentally burn down a building or something if left unsupervised.
Finally, Elliott and Jester both have quite a sadistic streak, so that would be a common ground they could stand on together (plus their overall dislike of humans or amusement regarding messing around with humans/treating them as pets is another similarity they have). While they certainly would disagree on some things, like Elliott finding that humans can be interesting to have around every now and again, I don't think it's enough to break the potential bond the two could possibly form. They also take an almost leader-type role within their respective circuses, even though Elliott's kin doesn't really listen to or respect him the way that Jester's kin does.
...Yeah, this was just entirely self-indulgent of me, but it was fun thinking about how my own characters would interact with the TFC cast, especially considering how inspiring I find TFC to be as a solo indie developer myself! I mean, the characters are all non-human entities, they live at a circus, and they all have consumed (or still consume) people every now and again, so they would have a lot in common to talk about. It's a very messy sketch, but I needed to create it before getting back to work on my capstone (I desperately want to graduate and be done with school).
If anyone is interested in learning more about my OCs or the story they're from, you can read more about them on my itch.io page and see how the project progresses there (I have dev logs here on Tumblr, as well)!!
All artwork in this post belongs to me, and reposting my artwork on other sites is prohibited! Thank you very much!
If you enjoy my work or would just like to support me, consider checking out my Ko-fi. Any little bit helps. ♡
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You notice them the moment you step into your sitting room — a bundle of well-worn paintbrushes abandoned on your favorite armchair like they’ve claimed it as their new home. Bristles stained with a dozen shades only Benedict Bridgerton could mix, handles nicked from passion rather than negligence.
He’s always dropping pieces of himself into your life — a forgotten sketch on your kitchen table, flecks of cobalt on your carpets, laughter that still echoes long after he’s gone.
This time? Paintbrushes.
Who even uses brushes anymore when he could have his pick of marble halls and gilded studios? Benedict does. Because he refuses to let the world make him anything other than exactly who he is.
And you love him for it.
You hate that you love him for it.
A knock rattles your door before you can convince yourself to send them back.
There he is — cravat loose, curls everywhere, his waistcoat splattered with fresh paint like he sprinted straight from a studio to you.
“I left them,” he blurts, spotting the brushes instantly. “I… didn’t mean to.” He pauses. “Or maybe I did.”
Your eyebrow arches. “Really? We’re admitting that now?”
He steps inside, gaze flicking to you, genuine worry shining through the chaos. “I keep leaving things here because—” He stops, swallowing. “Every time I walk away from you, I want a reason to come back.”
Your heart stumbles. God, he’s impossible.
“You’re in one of your moods again,” you say gently. “The one where you set fire to your own good fortune just to watch the panic.”
His laugh is humorless. “Self-sabotage. My specialty.”
“Benedict,” you exhale, “you throw spikes on the road and then look surprised when everyone crashes.”
He steps closer — hesitant, not wanting to startle you. “Everyone doesn’t crash. You… you stay.”
You look at the paint on his fingers, wondering how many times you’ve cleaned the same colors off your own skin after he touched you without thinking.
“You make it very hard,” you murmur.
“I know.” His voice cracks. “But when I’m with you, the noise quiets. The doubts fade. You see the parts of me I’m… terrified to show.”
You try to joke — because vulnerability is too much. “So you leave evidence in my furniture?”
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“It’s you,” you whisper. “And I keep choosing you.”
He breathes like that’s the first air he’s ever taken in.
“If you want me to leave these walls and never return,” he says slowly, “tell me now. Because if I stay—” His hand lifts, trembling, cupping your cheek like you’re made of fragile gold. “I will love you the way I paint. All-consuming. Reckless. Forever.”
You don’t hesitate.
“Stay,” you whisper.
The word doesn’t just land — it roots him to you.
He kisses you like he’s been starving for weeks, like your lips are color and he’s been trapped in grayscale. Paint transfers from his fingers to your skin, marking you as something sacred, claimed.
When he finally pulls back, he’s breathless and smiling that crooked, beautiful smile.
“I suppose my brushes will have to stay here now,” he teases, voice still shaky.
You grin. “Oh, I’m quite sure they already live here.”
He presses his forehead to yours, eyes softening into something like awe.
“And perhaps I do too.”
Night settles around you both like a secret.
Benedict stayed — really stayed — not halfway, not hovering, not with one hand on the door. He’s sitting on your sofa now, long legs stretched out, coat discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up, paint still clinging stubbornly to his knuckles. His heartbeat hasn’t quite caught up with the decision he made earlier.
You sit beside him, knee to knee, breath to breath, and he keeps looking at you like he still can’t believe you said stay.
“How long,” you ask softly, “have you been running from this?”
He doesn’t pretend not to understand. His eyes flick down, lashes lowering like a shield that doesn’t quite work anymore.
“Longer than I’m proud of.”
Silence settles. Thick. Heavy. Hopeful.
He tries to speak — fails — then tries again.
“Every time I look at you,” he says quietly, “I feel like someone has finally cracked me open and started reading aloud.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m not easy to love,” he continues, fingers twisting together like he needs something to anchor him. “I’m reckless and impulsive and I fall apart more often than I stand. And yet you—”
He looks at you then, really looks, like you’re both the problem and the cure.
“You hold the pieces like they’re art.”
You reach for his hand. His breath stutters.
“Benedict,” you whisper, “I don’t want your perfect. I want you.”
His voice breaks — you hear it, subtle but real.
“And who is going to know me if not you?” he asks, barely more than a breath. “Who else will see the mess and call it beautiful?”
“No one,” you answer instantly.
His eyes widen — vulnerable, frightened, almost boyish. He leans forward, forehead nearly touching yours.
“And who is going to hold me like you do?” His words tremble, ragged with truth. “Who is going to pull me back from myself? Who else is going to make me believe I deserve to be loved?”
“No-fucking-body,” you breathe. The vow slips out before you can stop it. “Nobody.”
His hand cups your face — urgent, desperate — and he kisses you again. Not like before, not hungry or impatient. This kiss is slow. Reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of finally being understood.
When his lips part from yours, he stays close — noses brushing, breaths shared — and you can feel the fear he’s still fighting. It’s there between every heartbeat.
“I don’t ever want to lose this,” he admits, voice small. “I don’t ever want to lose you.”
You hold his jaw gently, fingers brushing the curl at his temple.
“Then don’t.”
He exhales like he’s letting go of years of doubt.
“I choose you,” he whispers. “Not art. Not escape. You.”
And then he pulls you into his chest — arms wrapped tight, like he’s learned exactly where you belong.
You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steadying for the first time in a long time.
He’s not running anymore.
Not from you. Not from love.
Sunlight finds you first.
A soft, lazy glow rolls across tangled sheets and bare limbs. Benedict is wrapped around you like an overgrown, affectionate cat — one arm snug under your waist, the other slung over your stomach, hand splayed protectively like he’s afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip.
His curls tickle your cheek. He looks peaceful, younger somehow, like sleep grants him a freedom waking never does.
You stroke your fingers slowly through his hair — gentle scratches behind his ear, nails skimming his scalp — and he practically melts into you with a content little sigh.
“Hopeless,” you whisper fondly.
Your tortured, golden retriever of a man.
He nuzzles closer, still half-dreaming, and you swear your ribcage expands just to fit the affection swelling in your chest.
But the peace doesn’t last.
You feel it the moment he wakes fully — the way his body stiffens, breath faltering. Panic slinks in like a shadow. His hand curls into a fist against your skin. He pulls back slightly, not enough to leave you, but enough that the warmth changes.
Like he’s bracing for the mistake he believes he already is.
“Benedict?” you murmur.
His eyes remain closed, expression tightening with a dread you know too well.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers — automatic, practiced.
Your heart cracks. “For what?”
“For…” He swallows hard. “For making last night mean something it shouldn’t.”
You turn to face him, refusing to let him retreat into the storm in his head.
“It meant exactly what it should.”
He shakes his head, breath sharp. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you insist. “Because I’ve read this one. I know how you come undone — every spiral, every fear.”
His breath shatters. “Then you should run.”
“No.”
His eyes open at that — vulnerable, frantic blue searching for an exit that doesn’t hurt. You cup his cheeks gently, forcing him to stay with you.
“I didn’t stumble into this,” you tell him, voice steady. “I chose this cyclone. I chose you.”
He blinks rapidly, like the weight of that choice terrifies him. Like he’s waiting for you to realize he’s a disaster.
“But what if—”
“You break? Then I’ll help you rebuild.”
“You fall apart? I’ll hold the pieces.”
“You run? I’ll come find you.”
His lip trembles. “Why?”
“Because you’re worth the storm,” you breathe. “Every bit of it.”
He bows his head, forehead resting against yours, shaking with silent emotion he’s never let himself show before.
“And who’s going to stay through it all?” he whispers, barely audible.
“I am,” you promise. “Nobody else gets to love you like I do.”
Slowly, he exhales — shaky at first, then steadier, like a man allowing himself to believe he might finally be safe.
His arms wrap around you again — tighter, trusting — and he presses a kiss to your temple with a tenderness that could rewrite fate.
“I’m terrified,” he admits.
“I know,” you reply. “Love is terrifying.”
But your fingers slip into his hair again, scratching gently, soothingly — and he sighs, tension melting as he buries his face in your neck.
He’s still learning how to stay.
But he’s trying.
And that’s enough.
Nobody expects you to show up at his studio.
Least of all Benedict.
You find him there — in the attic of the Bridgerton home — windows open to the afternoon light, canvases stacked like unfinished confessions. His shirt is splattered with paint again, and he’s pacing, restless, tormented.
When he sees you, he freezes. Like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice thin with nerves.
You step closer. “You didn’t come back last night.”
Guilt flashes across his face. “I thought if I left before you woke, you wouldn’t regret—”
“Stop.” You say it firmly, and he does. “Don’t decide for me.”
His chest rises too fast, panic flickering like a candle in wind.
You look past him — at the massive canvas draped in linen. Something he’s been hiding. Protecting. Fearing.
“What is that?”
He doesn’t answer — doesn’t have to. You see the terror in his eyes.
You walk toward it anyway.
“Don’t,” he breathes, taking a step forward — but not stopping you. Never stopping you.
Your fingers grasp the sheet and pull.
And your breath leaves you.
It’s you.
Not just a portrait. A revelation.
You, the way he sees you — illuminated by color and obsession, every brushstroke a love letter. Your laugh captured in soft movement of paint, your eyes alive with more devotion than he has ever said aloud.
It’s intimate. It’s raw. It’s undeniably love.
He swallows hard. “A good artist paints what he knows.” His voice cracks. “And I… know you.”
Your heart stutters.
“You were going to show this?” you ask.
“Not yet.” He looks like he might shatter. “I was afraid people would see how completely I am yours.”
A beat of silence.
Then another.
He steps closer, voice trembling — more confession than words:
“And who,” he whispers, eyes locked to yours like a lifeline, “is going to hold me like you do?”
You feel tears burn.
“Nobody,” you answer.
“Who,” he asks again, breath hitching, “is going to know me like you? Every fear. Every flaw. Every good thing I pretend not to have?”
“Benedict,” you whisper, stepping into him, “nobody will ever know you the way I do.”
He shuts his eyes — like the truth hurts in the best and worst ways.
When he opens them, the fear is still there — but so is something stronger:
Love.
He takes your hand — careful, reverent — and presses it to his heart, paint staining your skin like he’s marking you on purpose.
“I’m not going to hide us anymore,” he promises — quiet but fierce. “Not my love. Not my devotion. Not you.”
The canvas behind him is proof.
Undeniable.
You lift his face in your hands and kiss him — slow and deep — with every ounce of belief you’ve ever had in him. And he kisses you back like a vow sealed in color.
When he pulls away, foreheads touching, breaths shared, he smiles — unguarded and certain.
“You’re my masterpiece,” he says. “And I want the world to know.”
You’ve never been more aware of how crowded a room can feel than tonight — the Bridgerton house buzzing with laughter, music, siblings observing everything like hawks disguised in pastel.
Benedict hasn’t left your side once.
His hand rests on your back — grounding him as much as you. But his eyes keep darting around like he expects someone to wake him from this fragile happiness.
It’s Daphne who sidles up, a knowing smile curving her lips.
“I’ve never seen Benedict look so… terrified to let go of someone,” she murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“He told me once,” she continues, voice lower now, “that if he ever lost you, he wouldn’t know how to keep living in his own skin.”
Heat pools in your chest — fear and love and awe tangled together.
“You shouldn’t repeat something like that lightly,” you whisper.
Daphne squeezes your hand. “I didn’t. But you should know you are not a passing notion to him. You are… everything.”
You swallow hard, blinking fast.
Because you remember saying something similar — to Anthony, of all people — one night when he was questioning Benedict’s capacity to stay.
You remember the way Anthony had asked, arms crossed like a shield,
“Would you survive if he left?”
And you — trembling, angry, desperate — had fired back,
“No. I wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t survive losing me either.”
You hadn’t realized Anthony held on to that.
But as if summoned by your thoughts, he approaches now — eyes serious, gaze softening only for you.
“For the record,” he says, “I believe you two. I see it.”
Your lungs forget how to work.
“Everyone does,” he adds. “It’s… obvious. Painfully so.”
You glance at Benedict then — he’s looking at you like he’s memorizing the lines of your profile, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in a blink.
And maybe that’s what pushes you forward.
You tug him toward the garden — out into night air and quiet stars, where truth doesn’t echo so loudly.
He looks worried. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” you say, taking his hands. “You did something very right.”
You inhale once. Twice. And then—
“Your sister told me what you said,” you whisper.
His eyes widen — panic flaring. “I— it slipped, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” you stop him gently. “I told Anthony something too. About you.”
His breath catches. “What did you say?”
You step closer — so close you can feel his heartbeat thundering through him.
“That I wouldn’t survive losing you either.”
The world stills — wind, stars, everything holding its breath.
“I’m scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “Every day I think I’m going to screw this up — and you’ll realize you deserve someone less… chaotic.”
“Sometimes,” you say, thumb brushing his cheek, “I wonder if you will screw this up too.”
His whole body flinches.
“But then,” you continue, “I look at how everyone we love sees us — really sees us — and I think… this must be meant to be.”
His eyes flood — not tears falling, just there, shimmering like he’s too full.
“Meant to be,” he repeats, like he’s never owned those words before.
You nod. “Because who would we even be without each other at this point?”
He laughs — short and wet and relieved — before dragging you into his arms and burying his face in your neck.
“You are my future,” he whispers. “Whether I’m ready for it or not.”
You hold him tighter.
“I’m ready enough for us both.”
He leans back just far enough to kiss you — deep and slow and grateful — fingers tangled in your hair like letting go isn’t an option anymore.
Because it isn’t.
Because everyone knows.
Because you chose this cyclone.
And neither of you would survive without the other now.
Dinner at the Bridgertons is always chaos dressed in silverware and lace. Tonight is no different — laughter, teasing, wine that never stops pouring. But under the table, Benedict’s knee keeps brushing yours, like he needs the reminder you’re real.
You’re chatting with Eloise about something absurd when Benedict’s hand suddenly finds yours — warm, paint-roughened fingers curling around your palm like a secret.
He turns your hand gently, studying the rings you wear like they’re museum pieces.
“This one,” he murmurs, tapping the slim gold band sitting on your middle finger. “I’ve seen you wear it since the day I met you.”
You smile. “It was my grandmother’s.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, voice soft in a way that doesn’t match how loud the room is.
Then — without thinking, without asking — he slides the ring off.
Your breath snags.
“Benedict—?”
But he’s already guiding it onto your ring finger.
The left hand.
The one with all the history and meaning and forever attached.
It fits too perfectly.
Everything goes silent. At least it feels like it.
Eloise’s words trail off. Anthony looks up. Daphne smothers a smile against her napkin. Penelope gasps quietly.
But Benedict? He doesn’t seem to notice the world watching.
He’s staring at your hand… like he’s seeing the future fall into place.
“That looks right,” he says, barely above a whisper. A confession slipped between heartbeats.
Right.
Your chest is too tight. Your pulse is everywhere — fingertips, throat, the soft spot beneath your ribs where his name lives.
He looks up then — blue eyes wide, as if he’s only just realized what he did.
“Oh,” he breathes. “I— I didn’t think. I just…”
You shake your head, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize.”
“I keep doing that,” he says, thumb brushing over the band now resting exactly where a vow should live. “I keep acting like the future is already ours.”
The room is listening.
But when you speak, it’s only for him.
“Maybe it is.”
You swear you feel your heart actually lurch — like it’s trying to leap into his hands.
He swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. His hand tightens around yours beneath the tablecloth — a silent promise, a terrified plea:
Stay.
You lean in — just slightly, just enough — and whisper:
“That’s the closest I’ve ever come to my heart exploding.”
His smile is barely there, but it’s the most honest thing you’ve ever seen on him.
He presses a kiss to your knuckles. Right above the ring.
The entire Bridgerton table exhales — laughter returns, conversation resumes — but everything has changed.
Benedict holds your hand the rest of dinner.
He never once lets go.
The carriage ride home is soft and shadowed — London lanterns flickering through the windows, the world too quiet compared to the storm inside your chest.
Benedict hasn’t stopped touching your hand.
Fingers tangled with yours like he’s memorizing each knuckle, each ridge, each line. His thumb keeps drifting over the ring now claiming the left side of your future.
“You keep looking at it,” he murmurs, a little breathless.
“Only because you put it there,” you tease gently.
His eyes lift — and there’s no panic this time.
Just truth.
“Everyone tries to understand me,” he says quietly. “Mother worries, Anthony lectures, Eloise pries. People think they see me.”
He pauses. His voice softens to a kind of vulnerability that makes your chest hurt.
“But only you know me.”
You shift closer, knees brushing, breath shared in one small space.
“And who’s going to hold you when you spiral?” you ask, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Who’s going to sit with you in your madness, paint stains and fears and all?”
His hand slides up the back of your neck, gentle, reverent.
“You,” he whispers. “Always you.”
His forehead leans into yours, his breath catching like this moment might swallow him whole.
“And who,” he breathes, “will know every foolish part of me — and still choose me in the morning?”
Your lips graze his — the faintest touch, a spark waiting for fuel.
“Me,” you vow. “Always me.”
Something shifts in him — that last bit of doubt falling away like peeled paint.
His kiss is slow at first — a sigh against your mouth — then deeper, growing hunger at the edges. One hand cups your cheek like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone; the other pulls you across the seat and right into his lap.
The carriage jolts — London rolling by — but his grip keeps you steady as if he’s the only place you’ll ever belong.
“Say it again,” he murmurs against your lips, breath hot and pleading.
You hold his face in both hands, stare into him — and let certainty pour out like the easiest truth.
“I’m the one who holds you.”
A slow inhale from him. Shaking. Breaking. Healing.
“And I’m the one who knows you.”
His heart stutters against your palm.
“Yours,” you finish. “In every way that matters.”
He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing as he exhales the promise he’s been terrified to say:
“Then I’m yours too.”
No hesitation.
No retreat.
Just him — a man finally choosing to stay where he’s already long since fallen.
By the time the carriage stops, neither of you let go.
Because there’s no going back now.
It happens on a night when everything has gone wrong.
His latest showing — the one he’d poured every jagged piece of himself into — is torn apart by critics who clearly have no idea what they hold in their hands. Words like unfocused and self-indulgent cling to the air. He disappears the moment the last insufferable reviewer leaves the room.
You don’t hesitate. You follow.
You find him outside the gallery, pacing in the cold, one hand in his hair, the other clutching a cigarette he hasn’t even lit. His eyes are red, not just from frustration but from that awful familiar fear you know too well — what if I’m not enough?
“Ben,” you say softly.
He looks up like the mere sound of your voice keeps him from shattering.
“You still want to be with someone who can’t even paint something worth a damn?” he laughs — except it isn’t a laugh at all. It’s a wound.
You step into his space, fingers cupping his jaw, forcing him to see you. “They didn’t see the soul in it. I did.”
He swallows hard. His breath shakes.
“You always do,” he whispers. “How?”
“Because I know you.”
He breaks.
Suddenly his hands are everywhere — in your hair, around your waist — pulling you into him like he’ll drown otherwise. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s desperate and terrified and reverent all at once. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breaths tangled.
“I can’t lose you,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re the only quiet in my head. The only thing that makes sense.”
“You’re not losing me,” you promise. “I’m right here.”
But he’s shaking his head — no, no, that’s not enough. He drops to his knees so fast you gasp. And he fumbles through every pocket like a madman until he finally finds a small velvet thing — a ring box, the corner frayed like he’s carried it for months, too scared to use it.
“T-this wasn’t…” He curses under his breath. “I had a plan. I had speeches. I was going to wait and— God, fuck—”
Your eyes sting. “Benedict…”
He looks up at you from the ground — eyes wild, heart in his throat.
“I know I’m chaos,” he says, voice raw. “I know I spiral. I know I make you worry more than I should. But you make me want to be better. Not for my art. For me.”
He opens the box with trembling fingers.
“I want every morning where I wake up terrified — as long as you’re the one I’m reaching for. I want every night where I can’t sleep — if you’re the one who tells me to stop overthinking. I want every version of this life — if I get to live it with you.”
A tiny, broken laugh escapes him.
“I don’t want to create a masterpiece without you in it.”
Your hand flies to your mouth as tears spill over.
“Marry me,” he breathes. “Please. I can’t— I don’t want a life where you’re not mine. Say you’ll stay. Say you’ll fight for us even when I’m unbearable. Say yes before I completely fall apart out here.”
And you don’t think. You just feel — everything exploding inside you.
“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes, Benedict. Of course I’ll marry you.”
He lets out a sound — relief, disbelief, love all tangled. He grabs your hand with shaking fingers and slides the ring on as if he’s afraid it’ll vanish.
Then he rises, arms wrapping around you so tight your feet leave the ground. He kisses you like the world is back in color — like every doubt he had is burning away between your mouths.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your lips. “You’ve always been it.”
And suddenly none of the criticism matters. None of the noise matters.
Because the only audience that counts —
is the two of you.
Later, when the chaos has thinned into a quiet night, you’re curled up with him on your sofa — his jacket abandoned somewhere on the floor, both of you wrapped under the same blanket. Your fingers trace absent-minded shapes along his collarbone, and he watches you like every touch is a revelation.
The ring on your hand catches the low light.
You feel his gaze before he speaks.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice still rough from crying and kissing and confessing, “I didn’t just bring those brushes to your flat by accident.”
You smile, eyes closing as you lean into his touch. “I figured.”
“They’re the closest thing I have to a language,” he says. “A way to say what I can’t.”
Your hand rests over his heart — steady now, calm.
“That’s why you don’t need words with me,” you whisper.
Benedict shifts, turning fully toward you, knuckles brushing your jaw with that same reverence he paints with. There’s no panic in him now. No fear that you’ll disappear if he blinks too long.
Just awe.
Pure, unfiltered awe.
“You see every version of me,” he says, quietly stunned by the truth of it. “Even the ones I try to hide.”
“I always will.”
His breath catches — that tiny, beautiful stutter that tells you he feels everything all at once.
He touches the ring, twisting it gently on your finger as he leans closer.
“Who else decodes me?” he asks, not teasing, not uncertain — just honest.
You kiss him slow, sealing the answer into his skin.
“No one,” you murmur against his lips.
Because there has only ever been you.
You — the one who reads him like art.
You — the calm after every cyclone.
You — the home he never thought he’d deserve.
And as he pulls you into him, soft and unguarded, you know neither of you will ever have to wonder again.
Not when he’s here.
Not when you’re his.
a/n : thanks for reading! as always comments likes reblogs feedback etc is always appreciated 🤍
