Prologue, Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Epilogue
A Bridgerton Fanfiction Footman John x Bridgerton OC Set before season 4
Summary: Beatrice and John relationship deepen into something far more intimate than anything she has known in society. Meanwhile, the appearance of another gentleman and Benedict’s pointed words force Beatrice to confront the reality of love and sacrifice.
Chapter III — Midnight Beneath the Wisteria
The wisteria tree behind Bridgerton House had always been beautiful.
In spring the blossoms fell in soft cascades of lavender and pale violet, draping the wooden archway like silk ribbons caught in the breeze. During the day it was merely another pleasant feature of the garden. Ladies sometimes paused beneath it while strolling the path, remarking politely on the scent before returning to the house for tea.
But at midnight it became something entirely different.
At midnight the garden grew quiet in a way daylight never allowed. The sounds of carriage wheels and polite laughter faded, replaced by the small rustle of leaves and the faint hum of night insects hidden among the hedges. Moonlight filtered through the vines and scattered silver across the path.
At midnight the wisteria belonged to them.
Beatrice had begun slipping from the house just after the clocks struck twelve.
The household slept then. The maids had long since retired to their narrow rooms in the servants’ wing. The footmen finished their duties and vanished into the quiet corners of the house. Even Anthony’s relentless vigilance over the household eventually surrendered to the late hour.
The first night after the confession, her heart had beaten so loudly she was certain someone would hear it echoing through the corridor.
She had stood outside the garden doors for several minutes, debating whether she had lost her senses entirely.
A Bridgerton daughter creeping into the garden at midnight to meet a man.
Not merely a man.
A servant.
Her hand had trembled slightly when she opened the door.
The cool night air brushed her face as she stepped outside, the scent of wisteria drifting through the quiet garden. She had half expected the path to be empty.
Perhaps he had reconsidered.
Perhaps the moment beneath the willow tree had been foolishness.
Perhaps he had decided the entire thing improper.
But when she stepped beneath the arch of vines, he was already there.
He stood with his back to the house, gazing up at the blossoms above. Without the powdered wig and formal livery he wore during the day, he looked younger somehow. Less guarded. The rigid posture of a servant in the presence of nobility had softened into something more natural.
Just John.
When he turned and saw her, a small change passed across his face, something warm and almost relieved.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said quietly.
She stepped closer, unable to stop the smile that tugged at her mouth.
“You know,” she said gently, “if we are to continue meeting like conspirators in the middle of the night… you may call me Beatrice.”
He hesitated.
The pause was brief, but she could see the conflict behind it. Habit and propriety battling something softer.
Finally he nodded. “Beatrice.”
The sound of her name in his voice felt different from when gentlemen spoke it during society gatherings. It lacked the polished charm they used so effortlessly.
It sounded real.
“Good evening, John.”
For a moment they simply stood there, the quiet of the garden settling comfortably around them.
Then, almost without thinking, she reached out and slipped her hand into his. The contact startled them both.
His hand was warm, far warmer than the night air. The skin was rough in places, the calluses unmistakable evidence of work done with tools and effort rather than idle leisure.
It was not the smooth, perfumed hand of a gentleman accustomed to dancing and writing letters.
It was solid.
Real.
And strangely comforting.
He looked down at their joined hands as though unsure whether he ought to withdraw. Instead, his fingers closed gently around hers. The simple gesture sent a small flutter through her chest.
Beatrice had danced with dozens of gentlemen across three London seasons. They had spun her across ballroom floors, guided her through elaborate steps, even held her waist during certain country dances.
None of those moments had felt as intimate as this.
Standing quietly in the moonlight.
Holding John’s hand.
Their meetings soon developed a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud.
Midnight.
Always midnight.
Some nights they spoke for an hour before parting reluctantly at the garden door.
Other nights the conversation drifted so easily that they barely noticed time passing until the eastern sky began to pale.
What surprised Beatrice most was how effortless it felt.
During the day her life was an intricate dance of expectations.
She smiled politely at suitors who complimented her embroidery or remarked upon the elegance of her gown. She attended musicals and garden parties where the same polite conversations circled endlessly, estates, investments, horses, weather.
But beneath the wisteria she did not need to perform.
She could simply exist.
And John, freed from the constant weight of his role within the household, revealed a side of himself few people likely saw.
He was thoughtful in a quiet way.
Sometimes wryly funny.
And far more curious about the world than most gentlemen she had met.
One evening she arrived to find him standing beneath the archway, studying the blossoms above their heads with quiet concentration.
“You are examining flowers now?” she asked, amused.
He glanced down at her, slightly sheepish. “They smell different at night.”
Beatrice tilted her head thoughtfully and leaned closer to one of the blossoms. The faint fragrance was indeed stronger than she remembered from the afternoon.
“…they do.”
“Many flowers release stronger scent after sunset,” he said. “To attract nocturnal pollinators.”
She blinked at him. “You have an alarming quantity of information about insects.”
“I read when I can.”
“You read?” The surprise escaped her before she could stop it.
A faint blush touched his expression. “Occasionally.”
“What sort of books?”
He hesitated briefly before answering. “Natural philosophy.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit instantly. “Science.”
“Some would call it that.”
“I adore science.”
That earned a slightly surprised look. “You do?”
“I spent an entire winter reading about astronomy,” she said proudly.
His mouth curved faintly. “That explains your questions about stars last week.”
She leaned against the wooden post of the archway, still holding his hand.
“I think the universe is far more interesting than most gentlemen in London.”
John chuckled softly.
The sound was warm and low, and she felt a ridiculous thrill at being the cause of it.
“That is not a particularly difficult achievement.”
Beatrice laughed. She had always enjoyed observing people. It was a habit she shared with Benedict. But John fascinated her in ways she had not expected.
Sometimes he spoke about books he had borrowed quietly from the library.
Sometimes he described strange mechanical inventions he had once read about.
Once he explained how telescopes worked using two pieces of broken glass and a lantern as demonstration.
And sometimes,when the conversation grew lighter, Beatrice discovered something surprising about herself. She became… silly.
Comfortable enough to tease him.
Comfortable enough to laugh without worrying whether it sounded ladylike.
One night she attempted to imitate the stiff bow of a particularly pompous gentleman who had called earlier that day.
John nearly choked with laughter.
“You should not mock your suitors so mercilessly,” he said once he recovered.
“I am observing them,” she corrected.
“That was not observation. That was theatrical performance.”
She grinned.
Moments like that made her chest feel strangely light. And each night she noticed something else.
How warm his hand felt around hers.
How easily their shoulders brushed when they walked the garden path.
How much she enjoyed the sound of his quiet laughter.
Their relationship unfolded slowly. Painfully slowly.
John possessed an almost infuriating sense of restraint.
He allowed small gestures of closeness, holding hands, walking beside one another, occasional quiet embraces when the night air grew cold.
But there were boundaries he refused to cross. Beatrice began noticing it after several weeks. Gentlemen she had danced with in ballrooms often attempted flirtations far bolder than anything John allowed himself.
Lord Harcourt had once tried to kiss her hand twice during a single evening. Another gentleman had leaned suspiciously close while discussing poetry.
John, however, behaved as though the very idea of such liberties terrified him.
Eventually curiosity overcame patience.
They were sitting beneath the wisteria one evening, their shoulders brushing lightly as they watched moonlight filter through the blossoms.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you never kiss me?” The question slipped out before she could soften it.
He froze immediately.
Then he looked away.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I will not take something that belongs to your future husband.”
The answer surprised her. “You are my future husband,” she said softly without a second thought.
He shook his head at once. “No.”
The single word struck deeper than she expected.
“You deserve a man who can stand beside you openly,” he continued. “A gentleman who can give you the life expected of you.”
“And you believe you cannot?”
“I know I cannot.”
She studied him for several long seconds.
Then, slightly exasperated, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. The gesture startled him so completely he nearly lost his composure.
“That,” she said calmly, “was merely affection.”
He stared at her. “You are dangerous.”
“I have been told that before.” But as she leaned against him again, Beatrice felt something shifting quietly inside her heart.
Because when she imagined her future husband now…
It was John she saw.
Not in servant’s clothing.
But walking beside her openly.
Laughing with Benedict.
Arguing politely with Anthony.
Standing beside her beneath the same wisteria tree in daylight.
She never spoke the thought aloud. But the image returned again and again.
One night their conversation drifted longer than usual.
They spoke about childhood memories, Colin’s endless travel dreams, Benedict’s artistic experiments, Eloise’s fierce arguments about women’s independence.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
Eventually Beatrice began shivering.
John noticed immediately.
“You should return inside.”
“It is warmer here than my room tonight.”
“Why?”
“Anthony insists the windows remain open for fresh air.”
He sighed quietly. “Come.”
She followed him through a rarely used servant’s corridor to a small spare room. It was simple but warm. Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket he fetched around her shoulders.
Silence settled between them. Eventually she leaned against him. “You may push me away,” she murmured. “If this is improper.”
He did not move. Instead his arm rested lightly around her shoulders. The warmth of him seeped slowly through the blanket.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Eventually exhaustion overtook them both. They drifted asleep fully clothed. Her head resting against his shoulder. His arm loosely around her.
Nothing scandalous. Nothing improper.
And yet for John it was perhaps the most dangerous thing that had ever happened. Because holding her like that made it almost impossible to imagine letting her go.
Not long afterward Benedict returned from the countryside.
Something about him had changed. Beatrice noticed immediately. He seemed distracted. Restless. Quieter than usual in moments when he would normally joke.
Three days later she cornered him in the hallway.
“You have been behaving strangely.”
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just tired.”
“That is a poor lie.”
He sighed. “You would not understand.”
The words stung unexpectedly. “Would not understand?”
“This is… complicated.”
“Then explain it.”
“Bea,” he said finally, frustration slipping into his voice. “You live in a world of polite dances and careful conversations. This situation is not like that.”
“I am not a child.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You implied it.”
He hesitated. Then he made the mistake. “You have never been in love, Beatrice.”
The corridor fell silent.
She stared at him. “You think I cannot understand love?”
“I think,” Benedict said carefully, “you have never had to choose between love and everything else.”
He walked away moments later. But his words lingered in her thoughts.
Oh how wrong he was.
Because hearing them made a realization settle quietly in her heart.
Perhaps she would choose love.
Even if it meant giving up everything else.
Soon after, still determined to help her brother, Beatrice became acquainted with a gentleman who frequently visited the house.
Lord Daniel Harcourt.
He was charming, intelligent, and particularly eager to discuss Benedict’s artistic circles.
Their conversations were pleasant. Entirely innocent.
But society possessed an unfortunate talent for imagination. Within two weeks the ton had decided they were courting.
Beatrice noticed the whispers.
She also noticed something else.
John had grown quieter.
He still appeared beneath the wisteria.
At first.
But something had shifted. He listened more than he spoke. He watched her carefully whenever Lord Harcourt’s name appeared in conversation.
And one evening, after she laughed about something the gentleman had said, John’s expression tightened.
“Perhaps he will prove suitable,” John said quietly.
The words felt wrong.
“He's nothing but a friend John. You sound as though you hope that is true.”
“I hope you find happiness.”
The formality in his voice unsettled her.
“You are being strange.”
“I am being practical.”
“You cannot remain hidden in gardens forever, Beatrice.”
The use of her full name made something twist painfully in her chest.
“And when the right gentleman appears…” He forced himself to finish. “…you deserve the chance to pursue that future.”
Understanding dawned slowly.
“You intend to disappear.”
The silence answered her.
She felt sudden frustration rise.
“You are insufferable.”
“I am realistic.”
Instead of arguing, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek again.
“I love you... you know that, right? Goodnight, John.”
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Prologue, Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Epilogue
A Bridgerton Fanfiction
Footman John x Bridgerton OC
Takes place in season 2
Chapter II — Beneath the Wisteria Tree
By the time the next season of the ton arrived, Miss Beatrice Bridgerton had changed.
Not dramatically.
The change was quieter than that.
It lived in the way she laughed more easily now, the way she no longer stood so stiffly at the edges of ballrooms observing the world like a scholar studying an unfamiliar culture.
She still observed people. That part of her nature would never disappear. But now, sometimes, she enjoyer joining the dance of society rather than merely watching it.
Her sister would occasionally glance at her across crowded drawing rooms and smile with subtle satisfaction. Daphne’s advice, perform until you are ready, had taken root. Beatrice had learned how to glide through polite conversation. She had learned when to smile, when to laugh, when to appear intrigued by subjects that did not interest her at all.
It was not deception exactly. More like wearing gloves. Society required a certain polish, and she had finally learned how to apply it.
But there was another reason the change had occurred.
Every few evenings, when the house had settled into nighttime calm, Beatrice slipped into the garden where the wisteria tree stood beside the winding stone path.
And more often than not, John would be there. Their conversations had become a sort of ritual.
Sometimes they spoke of books Benedict had recommended. Sometimes of Daphne’s married life. Sometimes of utterly strange topics that John seemed to produce at random, bees remained a favorite.
It was a friendship neither of them had expected. And yet it had become the most constant thing in both their lives.
One afternoon, Beatrice walked into the Bridgerton hallway and immediately sensed something unusual.
Daphne stood in the study room looking frustrated. Anthony stood several feet away looking defensive. Between them hung the sort of tense silence that usually preceded a family argument.
“Should I return later?” Beatrice asked mildly.
Daphne exhaled sharply. “I have just witnessed our brother kissing Miss Sharma.”
"I did not!"
"Well with that proximity and tension, you might as well have!"
Anthony groaned.
Beatrice blinked.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that does complicate matters.”
Anthony rubbed his temple.
“You see? Even Beatrice thinks this is a disaster.”
“I did not say disaster,” she replied calmly. “Merely complicated.”
Daphne crossed her arms.
“You are courting her sister, Anthony.”
“Yes, I am painfully aware of that.”
The conversation continued for several tense minutes. Eventually Daphne left with a final exasperated remark. Anthony remained standing looking like a man who had accidentally stepped into emotional quicksand.
Beatrice lingered.
“You love her,” she said quietly.
Anthony looked startled. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?”
He did not answer immediately.
Beatrice studied him thoughtfully. “You know,” she continued, “sometimes the person we intend to choose is not the one our heart chooses.”
Anthony sighed. “I cannot marry for love.”
“You already have.”
He stared at her.
“That,” Beatrice added gently, “is the problem.”
Later that evening, Beatrice found herself alone in her room replaying that conversation.
Anthony had fallen for Kate with remarkable intensity.
Despite his carefully planned intentions.
Despite society’s expectations.
Despite every practical reason not to.
And that realization stirred an uncomfortable thought inside her mind.
Three seasons.
Three entire seasons within the marriage market. She had followed Daphne’s advice. She had learned how to perform society’s expectations with grace.
She had danced.
She had conversed.
She had accepted introductions to countless eligible gentlemen.
And yet…
Nothing had truly stirred her heart. Not even slightly.
Perhaps I am simply not meant for marriage.
The idea did not feel tragic exactly. But it did carry a faint, unexpected ache. Because watching Anthony and Kate made one thing very clear.
Love existed.
Real love.
The sort that unraveled carefully constructed plans.
Would she ever experience something like that?
Or was she destined to remain the thoughtful observer while everyone else lived the story?
That evening she walked to the garden.
The wisteria branches swayed gently in the evening breeze, their long leaves brushing softly against one another like whispered secrets.
John was already there.
He straightened slightly when he saw her approach. “Miss Bridgerton.”
“John.”
She sat on the familiar bench beneath the tree and sighed.
“That sounded like the sigh of a philosopher confronting the universe,” he observed.
She gave a faint laugh. “Or perhaps simply a woman confronting the ton.”
He waited patiently.
Eventually she spoke. “Anthony is hopelessly in love with Kate Sharma.”
“That seems… inconvenient.”
“Extremely.” She leaned back against the bench. “And it made me realize something rather unpleasant.”
John remained silent.
“I may end up a spinster.”
She attempted to smile. “It appears I have attended three seasons without discovering a single gentleman capable of inspiring romantic interest.”
John felt an odd tightening in his chest.
She continued thoughtfully. “Anthony, of all people, found love accidentally.”
“Yes.”
“So perhaps there is something wrong with me.”
“There is nothing wrong with you.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps I simply think too much.”
John looked at her carefully.
Then he began speaking.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly listing the things he had noticed over the years.
“You remember every servant’s name in this house.”
She blinked slightly. “That is merely politeness.”
“You notice when Mrs. Wilson is tired and bring her tea without mentioning it.”
“That hardly counts.”
“You sit with Gregory when he struggles with his Latin lessons.”
“He becomes terribly discouraged.”
“You stayed up half the night helping Hyacinth repair her broken doll because she believed it was beyond saving.”
Beatrice stared at him now. “You remember those things?”
“I notice things.” His voice grew softer.
“You laugh with your brothers as though they are still the mischievous boys you grew up with.” He hesitated.
“And when people feel uncomfortable in crowded rooms… you are usually the first person to quietly rescue them with conversation.”
The air beneath the wisteria tree seemed to still. John rarely spoke this much. But Beatrice felt something warm settle in her chest.
“You make it sound as though I am remarkable.”
“You are.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Silence followed. The kind of silence that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
He exhaled slowly.
“If the world cannot see your worth,” he said quietly, “then the world is blind.”
Beatrice’s voice softened. “You speak very kindly of me, John.”
He looked away briefly. “It is merely the truth.”
A long pause settled between them.
Then she said something very quietly. “Would you want me?”
John’s head turned toward her sharply. “What?”
Her voice trembled slightly. “If I truly am destined to remain unmarried…” She attempted a faint smile. “…would someone like you ever wish to marry someone like me?”
The question hung in the air like fragile glass.
John felt his carefully guarded restraint crumble.
More than anything in this world.
The truth rose inside him with frightening clarity.
“If the stars themselves descended to ask what I desire most…” His voice lowered. “…I believe my answer would be sitting beside me already.”
Beatrice inhaled slowly. The wisteria leaves rustled softly overhead. She reached up gently and removed the formal wig he wore as part of his servant’s uniform. His hair fell loose across his forehead. John hesitated before brushing a stray curl away from her face.
Something he had never dared do before.
Something he probably should never have done at all.
But beneath the willow tree, the world felt strangely distant.
Their eyes met.
She did not pull away. Instead she moved closer.
And then she hugged him.
The gesture was so sudden John froze entirely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around him as though seeking warmth. Tentatively, almost reverently, he placed his hands around her waist.
Neither spoke.
In that moment there was no footman.
No Bridgerton daughter.
Just John.
Just Beatrice.
And without announcing it to anyone, not society, not their family, not even fully to themselves...
Prologue, Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV, Epilogue
Bridgerton Fanfiction.
Footman John x Bridgerton OC
Takes place in season 1.
Chapter I — The Night the Music Stopped
The night everything unraveled began like any other ball.
Music swelled through the grand hall. Candles flickered against mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Laughter blended with the rustle of silk gowns.
Beatrice stood near the refreshment table, watching the familiar choreography of society unfold.
Across the room Daphne danced with the duke.
Beatrice could feel people noticing it.
They moved easily together. Their steps matched with natural grace, and though the duke’s expression remained composed, there was something electric in the air around them.
The gossip papers spoke of little else for weeks. At every gathering, every promenade, every musicale, the same whispers drifted through clusters of fans and polite smiles.
Admiring it.
A gentleman approached her then. “Miss Bridgerton, may I have the honor of this dance?” He was perfectly respectable. Well-dressed. Pleasant enough.
Romanticizing it.
The orchestra began the next set.
She accepted automatically.
They moved into the dance.
Daphne was laughing. The duke leaned slightly closer as she spoke.
For the first few moments everything proceeded normally. Polite conversation. Formal steps. But then Beatrice’s gaze drifted across the ballroom again.
They looked… natural.
As though the world around them had softened.
The comparison struck like a quiet blade.
Beatrice attempted to refocus on the dance.
Why does it seem so easy for her?
Her partner was speaking.
Something about estates.
Or horses.
Or perhaps it was trade.
She could not quite follow the words.
Because her thoughts had begun moving faster.
Everyone sees her.
Everyone admires her.
What do they see when they look at me?
Her breathing grew shallow.
The room felt warmer suddenly.
No—hotter.
The music sounded louder.
Her gloves felt too tight.
The walls of the ballroom seemed to draw closer with every turn of the dance.
Her partner continued speaking. “…quite advantageous this season…”
The chandeliers blurred.
Beatrice’s chest tightened painfully.
Her heart began pounding against her ribs with alarming force.
Why can I not breathe?
A strange dizziness crept through her limbs.
The laughter in the room echoed unnaturally, stretching into something distorted and overwhelming.
She missed a step.
Her partner frowned slightly.
“Miss Bridgerton?”
Her vision tunneled.
Air refused to enter her lungs properly.
The thought arrived suddenly and terrifyingly.
I cannot stay here.
Without fully understanding how, she murmured an apology and stepped away from the dance floor.
The music continued behind her.
No one noticed.
No one stopped her.
Beatrice moved quickly through the hallway, past the entrance doors, past the waiting carriages.
And then she ran.
The night air was cold and sharp, cutting through the suffocating fog in her mind. She reached the quiet garden beyond the estate and collapsed onto a stone bench beneath a large tree.
Her hands trembled violently. Breathing still came in short, uneven bursts. The thoughts would not stop.
You are invisible.
You are forgettable.
You will never shine the way she does.
She pressed her hands against her face.
The tears arrived without warning.
Not delicate tears.
Not quiet ones.
The sort that shook the entire body.
Somewhere nearby, footsteps paused.
John had been finishing a late errand for the household when he noticed the figure in the garden.
At first he intended to turn away. Servants were trained carefully never to intrude upon a lady’s privacy. But then he heard the sound. Not crying exactly.
Something more fragile.
He stepped closer. Miss Beatrice sat hunched on the bench, shoulders trembling, her breath uneven and panicked.
John had never seen her look so… broken. For a moment he hesitated.
Then he spoke quietly. “Miss Bridgerton?”
She startled, wiping quickly at her face. “John?”
Concern tightened in his chest. “You left the ball.”
“Yes.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Forgive me. I know it was improper.”
Improper was hardly the word that concerned him.
“You should not be alone out here,” he said gently.
She laughed weakly. “Nor should I be collapsing in the middle of a dance.”
The word collapse caught his attention immediately. “Were you unwell?”
She hesitated.
Then something inside her gave way.
“I could not breathe.”
The confession hung between them.
John recognized the signs instantly.
Panic.
Overwhelm.
His voice softened. “May I sit?”
She nodded.
He sat on the far edge of the bench, careful to maintain respectful distance. “Try to breathe slowly,” he said quietly.
“In through your nose… and out again.”
She followed the rhythm gradually.
Slowly, painfully, her breathing steadied.
For several minutes neither spoke. The garden rustled gently with night insects and distant carriage wheels.
“And I…” Her voice faltered. “I stand beside her and feel as though I am made of fog.”
John’s hands tightened slightly. Because he understood something Beatrice did not. To the world, Daphne shone brightly.
But Beatrice possessed a quieter kind of gravity. People did not notice it immediately. And once they did, it was impossible to ignore.
He chose his words carefully. “People admire different qualities.”
“Do they?” she murmured.
He considered. “Yes.”
She stared down at her gloves.
“I wish I could stop thinking so much.”
He almost smiled. “That may be impossible.”
She gave a weak laugh. “Then perhaps my mind is my greatest enemy.”
John tilted his head thoughtfully. Then, quite unexpectedly, he said, “Did you know that bees communicate through dancing?”
Beatrice blinked. “…what?”
“They perform small movements to tell other bees where flowers can be found.”
For a moment she simply stared at him. The shift in topic was so absurd that her mind stumbled out of its anxious spiral.
“…why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” he said calmly, “your thoughts are currently racing in circles.”
“That is unfortunately accurate.”
“And if we allow them to continue,” he added, “they will simply invent new worries.”
She studied him curiously. “So your solution is… bees.”
“Yes.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. And that small smile felt like a victory. That night did not end with grand actions. John escorted her safely home.
But before she went inside, she paused beneath the wisteria tree. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For listening.”
He nodded. “It was nothing.”
But for Beatrice, it was not nothing. Because someone had seen her at her worst moment and stayed.
In the weeks that followed, she found herself returning to the garden occasionally after difficult evenings. John would sometimes be there finishing duties.
Their conversations became longer.
Sometimes serious.
Sometimes completely ridiculous.
Bees remained a recurring topic.
Meanwhile, Daphne’s romance with the duke progressed through the complicated path that society would later gossip about endlessly.
Their engagement.
Their sudden marriage.
And eventually, the quiet struggles that followed.
One evening Daphne came to Beatrice’s room looking unusually troubled. “Marriage,” Daphne admitted quietly, “is not as simple as it appears.”
Beatrice listened as her sister explained the misunderstandings between herself and Simon.
The confusion.
The frustration.
The painful discovery that love did not magically solve every problem.
Beatrice offered advice where she could. Comfort where she could not. When Daphne finally sighed and leaned back in her chair, she looked at her sister with a gentle smile.
“You know,” she said, “society never felt easy to me either.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “You hid it very well.”
Daphne laughed softly. “I performed.”
That word lingered.
“You may do the same,” Daphne continued. “Until you are ready to face society on your own terms.”
The idea stayed with Beatrice long after the conversation ended.
Weeks later she mentioned it casually during one of her quiet conversations with John beneath the tree.
“Marriage appears far more complicated than people admit.”
John listened carefully.
“And yet everyone insists it is the ultimate goal.” She shrugged. “Perhaps rank does not matter as much as people believe.”
His heart gave a sudden, reckless leap.
“If I ever marry,” she continued with a faint smile, “perhaps I should choose someone simply because he understands me.”
Hope flickered dangerously.
Then she added lightly, “Though I suppose society would faint if I chose someone without rank entirely.”
John forced himself to remain calm. “That would indeed be… unconventional.”
She laughed softly. “Well. In any case, I intend to approach the next season with renewed effort.”
She turned toward him warmly. “And it is comforting to know I have such a trustworthy friend supporting me.”
The word struck him harder than any rejection could have.
Friend.
“Thank you, John,” she said sincerely. “You are truly a wonderful companion to speak with.”
He managed a polite nod. “Always at your service, Miss Bridgerton.”
Beatrice left that evening feeling lighter than she had in months.
John remained beneath the tree long after she disappeared inside. Because somewhere along the quiet path of those conversations, something irreversible had happened.
He had fallen in love with her.
And she had never even noticed.
ps. Last chap, Beatrice wasn't able to find a match, so with the new season, she starts feeling insecure, here John was able to lend an ear. I genuinely don't think it makes sense for Beatrice to immediately fall for John. But, it's still progress for her to see him as a close friend now!
A Bridgerton Fanfiction
Footman John x Bridgerton OC
Set before season 1
Prologue - The Twin No One Understood
In the crowded world of the London ton, where reputation traveled faster than carriage wheels and marriages were negotiated like trade agreements, the Bridgerton family had long been considered one of society’s most curious blessings.
Eight children.
Eight entirely different personalities.
And among them, a quiet oddity few spoke about with much interest... Benedict Bridgerton had a twin.
Miss Beatrice Bridgerton had entered the world scarcely five minutes after her brother. As children, they had been inseparable. They shared tutors, mischief, and an unspoken understanding that often left the rest of the household puzzled. Benedict had always been the louder spirit of the two. He was quick to laugh, quicker to question, and perpetually chasing ideas that respectable society found baffling.
Beatrice was different.
Not dull.
Never dull.
But thoughtful in a way that made people pause.
Where Benedict questioned the world loudly, Beatrice observed it quietly. She watched people the way one might watch a complicated painting. She would study every color, every brushstroke, every subtle intention hidden beneath polite smiles.
Their mother, used to say that Benedict inherited the wild wind of curiosity, while Beatrice inherited its patience.
The ton, unfortunately, had little use for patience.
Beatrice’s debut this seasons had been everything society expected.
The gown was exquisite.
The jewels tasteful.
The introductions flawless.
Her eldest brother, Anthony Bridgerton, the ever-watchful Viscount, had stood nearby with the wary expression of a man prepared to interrogate every suitor within a ten-foot radius.
Her sister had whispered entirely inappropriate commentary behind her fan.
Benedict, meanwhile, had leaned against a pillar and looked amused by the entire spectacle.
And Beatrice had smiled.
She had danced.
She had laughed when expected.
She had thanked gentlemen politely for their interest.
Inside, however, she felt an unmistakable sensation.
Boredom.
Not the mild, passing boredom of a long sermon or dull book. This was a deeper, more persistent disappointment, like sitting down for a grand opera only to discover the orchestra had forgotten the music.
Most gentlemen, she discovered quickly, did not actually wish to know her.
They wished to display themselves.
One spoke at great length about the precise lineage of his hunting dogs.
Another proudly explained the annual profits of his estate as though she were a banker evaluating an investment.
A third insisted women should not read novels because imagination encouraged improper thinking. Beatrice had blinked slowly at him. “Improper thinking is often the most interesting kind.” she commented with a smile. He had not asked her to dance again.
Her twin brother noticed the pattern long before anyone else.
Benedict possessed an artist’s eye. He could spot dissatisfaction the way a painter spots a flaw in color.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting ball, Beatrice slipped quietly onto the Bridgerton terrace for air.
Moments later Benedict appeared beside her, carrying two glasses of lemonade he had very likely stolen from the refreshment table.
“You look like someone who has just attended her own funeral,” he observed.
“I feel as though I have,” she replied.
He studied her for a moment. “Did no one amuse you?”
She thought about it. “Not particularly."
“That is unfortunate,” Benedict said, sipping his drink. “I had hoped someone might distract you long enough that you would stop analyzing every person in the room.”
“I do not analyze people.”
“You absolutely do."
“Do not.”
“You absolutely-”
She smiled faintly. “Perhaps a little.”
Benedict chuckled. “Careful, Bea. Society dislikes women who think too much.”
“Then society is welcome to avoid me.” That earned a quiet look of approval from her twin.
But even Benedict did not fully understand the problem.
Because Beatrice was not searching for excitement.
She was searching for sincerity. And sincerity, in London ballrooms, was a rare commodity.
If there was one place in the world that felt genuine, it was home.
Bridgerton House had its own rhythm. Laughter echoed through its halls at odd hours. Siblings argued passionately about everything from politics to pastries. Music drifted from the pianoforte late into the night.
Servants moved through the house with practiced ease, maintaining order beneath the cheerful chaos.
Among them was John.
He had been in service to the Bridgerton household for several years. No one knew much about him beyond the basic facts. He was steady, reliable, and unfailingly polite.
He rarely spoke unless addressed.
But he noticed everything.
He noticed when Miss Daphne forgot her gloves.
He noticed when Gregory tried to sneak sweets before dinner.
And he noticed when Miss Beatrice returned from another glittering ball looking faintly exhausted.
It was late autumn when they first truly spoke. Beatrice had returned from a musicale so dull she suspected the musicians themselves were suffering.
She slipped quietly into the corridor, tugging loose the pins holding her hair in place. The elaborate arrangement collapsed into soft curls around her shoulders.
She exhaled. The house was quiet. Then footsteps approached.
John appeared carrying a lantern, its warm glow casting gentle shadows along the hallway.
He paused immediately upon seeing her. “Miss Bridgerton.” His voice was calm, respectful, careful.
She nodded. “Good evening, John.”
There was always something reassuring about his presence. Perhaps it was the way he never rushed her, never demanded conversation the way society gentlemen did.
He simply stood there, lantern in hand, waiting. “You have returned early tonight,” he said after a moment.
“I escaped,” she replied.
A tiny flicker of amusement crossed his expression before disappearing again. “Unsuccessful evening, then?”
She leaned lightly against the banister. “That depends. If one enjoys listening to gentlemen describe horse breeding techniques for forty minutes, it was an excellent evening.”
John looked down briefly, hiding what might have been a smile.
Silence settled comfortably between them.
It was Beatrice who broke it.
“John,” she said thoughtfully.
“Yes, miss?”
She studied him. “Tell me something honestly.”
He stiffened ever so slightly. Servants were rarely invited into honest conversations.
“I shall try.”
“Are they all like that?”
His brow furrowed. “The gentlemen?”
“Yes.”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. John hesitated. Footmen were not meant to have opinions about noblemen. But something about her tone, half weary, half curious made the truth slip out.
“Not all.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Yet none of them interest you.” He regretted the words instantly. A servant should never presume such familiarity. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bridgerton-”
But she was not offended. She was intrigued. “Why would you say that?”
John struggled for a response that would not reveal too much.
Because I watch you.
Because I see how your smile fades halfway through a dance.
Because I know when you are pretending.
He said instead, quietly, “Had there been a gentleman who truly captured your interest… you would not look so disappointed each night.”
Beatrice tilted her head. “And what would I look like?”
He thought about it.
About the rare moments when she laughed freely with her siblings. About the warmth that lit her face when Benedict showed her a new sketch.
“Happy,” he said simply.
The word lingered. Beatrice felt something strange stir in her chest.
It was not flirtation. It was not admiration. It was something quieter.
Recognition.
“You notice a great deal, John.”
“I try not to,” he replied softly.
But that night, as she climbed the staircase toward her room, Beatrice realized something unusual.
For the first time since her debut, someone had spoken to her without expectation.
Without calculation.
Without trying to impress her.
And the person who had done so…
Was a footman.
That's all for the first chapter, hope you enjoy it! Planning to make a series out of it. Feel free to comment and share ideas on how the plot should go ♡
Leo always had low self esteem and never talked much about his feelings. Unable to stand the feeling of jealousy, he finally burst.
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It took Leo almost the whole semester just to get close to Hela, so imagine just how ecstatic he was when she finally agreed to date. It began with a simple pinky intertwining till finally, their first kiss.
It was on the roof, one of the many late nights they decided to stay up together to look at the stars, Hela was the one who initiated. It was a simple peck in the nose, but boy did that do the trick. Leo's face was tomato red the rest of the night, Hela's laugh at his reaction was forever imprinted in his head.
But ever since the bus trip, Hela and Jason Grace have been acting closer than before. Leo tried to ignore it, not wanting to come off as being a possessive boyfriend. But frankly, ever since the quest started, it had only gotten worst. They began exchanging nicknames, which was a jab in Leo's heart as it took practically months of him begging before he got a nickname from Hela.
He knew it was irrational and lame of him to be jealous, but how could he not when his competition literally looks like a roman statue hand-carved by Da Vinci himself. Leo on the other hand, he felt like a scrawny little monkey who clowns around in comparison to Jason.
So when Hela leaned backwards towards Jason to take a nap instead of leaning forward to Leo. He snapped, he could feel his heart in the verge of breaking. Was this it? Has she really replaced Leo already?
__________________
"OH, COME ON Hela. I'm not blind, okay!" Leo raised his voice in frustration. "You were very defensive of him the moment he woke up that morning! You stopped calling me with nicknames, and don't you dare think I didn't saw how you both holding hands and hugging either! And now, you even refer each other with nicknames? You don't even like to be called with nicknames!" His voice got a pitch or two higher, his eyes getting glassy with tears.
Hela reached forward to hug Leo but he slapped her hand away, afraid it she hold him, he'd immediately melt onto her and pretend that nothing was troubling him. But Leo can't take it anymore, the fear of being abandoned was too great that maybe him initiating it would at least make the pain hurt less.
"I know you like him, okay... A-at least just break up with me if you're going to treat him more like your boyfriend than you do with me. I can handle a b-break up- I'm f-f-fine if you break up with me. Just don't go c-cheating on me right when we're still-" He choked up, clearly trying his best not to break down into tears.
Hela stood there, looking around to make sure Jason and Piper hadn't woke up from their quarrel. "I-if you don't want to be the o-o-one who end it, I c-can, just say the w-word and I'll, I'll stop being-"
Unable to stand it anymore, Hela immediately grabbed on to his wrist, "L-let go of me!" Leo tried escaping her grip but failed miserably, she wasn't bothered by it and continue to pull them into a corner.
Using her powers, she made a barrier, allowing them to have the privacy they needed. Hela sat down and make herself comfortable then pull him into her embrace, making him sit of her lap. "Don't bother trying to push me away" She said when Leo tried to escape, he immediately hid his face in the crook of her neck instead. She stroke his hair and whisper soothing words, allowing him cry.
After a few minutes, Leo's cries reduce to sniffles. Letting out a sigh, Hela positioned both of them so they can see each other face to face. She smiles a little, "I'm sorry, love. It was never my intention to make you feel that way... You're my boyfriend, okay? I'm all yours, not Jason's. And I am sorry if I made you feel any less than that." Hela said while wiping the tears left in his face.
"I do not have any romantic interest towards Jason. He doesn't remember anything about his life. I am one of the only one who actually know him, that's why he is close to me. That nickname he and I use is just a way to reassure him about his life and hey, you're the only one who called me Hela, no?" Leo nodded in respond.
"You and my mother are the only ones who ever call me with that name. I let my old friends call my Ash, you know, since I turn things to ash," Hela start bouncing her leg up and down.
"Point is there is only one guy I would ever wanna date and love, a guy who is a genius, funny, handsome, someone who can brighten my day just with a smile. And he is right here in front of my eyes." Hela rest their forehead together. "His name is Leo, not Jason. kay?"
"I'm sorry..." Leo blushed and hid his face in embarrassment. "Aww, don't be soot. I'm glad you told me what's bothering you. I'll try my best to pay more attention to you, but I also need you to be understanding right now, okay? I promise, after this quest, I'll give you all the attention you want." Hela hold his face and gave him a peck in the nose.
"But of course, a five minute break from life won't hurt though," Hela starts pampering Leo's face with kisses and continue to cuddle, Hela always like hugging Leo, his body was like a hot pack, very comfortable.
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Prompt = Geralt and the reader got separated during a fight. Geralt having doubts about their relationship.
Geralt of Rivia, the stoic and battle-hardened Witcher, roamed the lands, his heart forever guarded. Amidst his lonely travels, he found solace in the presence of a fierce and compassionate female reader, who had captured his heart. Their connection was a sanctuary in the chaotic world they inhabited.
One fateful night, as Geralt faced a monstrous adversary, a violent clash ensued. In the midst of the chaos, he was separated from the reader, vanishing into the shadows of uncertainty. Fear gripped her heart as she searched tirelessly, her voice echoing into the silent abyss.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The reader's hope began to waver, but she refused to accept the idea that Geralt was lost forever. She combed through taverns, inquired with fellow Witchers, and followed every lead, driven by a love that knew no bounds.
Finally, on a cool autumn evening, fate intervened. The reader stumbled upon Geralt in a secluded village, nursing his wounds. Relief and joy flooded her, mingled with the lingering fear that had haunted her dreams. Without hesitation, she rushed to his side, enveloping him in a desperate embrace.
"Geralt," she whispered, her voice quivering with emotions held in check for far too long. "I thought I had lost you."
Geralt's eyes softened, a mixture of gratitude and longing filling them. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice tinged with weariness. "I'm sorry for making you worry."
As their reunion unfolded, however, an unforeseen shadow of misunderstanding cast its pall over their moment of solace. Jaskier, with whom the reader had developed a deep friendship during Geralt's absence, stood nearby, their expression one of concern and uncertainty.
Unable to contain the weight of her emotions, the reader's voice faltered as she tried to explain the true nature of her relationship with the other character. But before she could find the right words, Geralt's gaze hardened, his face betraying a mix of pain and confusion.
"I see," he said, his voice low and guarded. "I thought… I thought we had something."
The reader's heart shattered at his words, realizing the depth of Geralt's misunderstanding. The pain etched upon his face cut her to the core, as if a silver blade had pierced her own soul.
"No, Geralt," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "You're the one I love, the one I've been searching for. Please, believe me."
In that moment, the reader saw a flicker of vulnerability in Geralt's eyes, the walls around his heart crumbling under the weight of their shared pain. Slowly, he reached out, his hand finding hers, his touch conveying a yearning for trust and understanding.
"I want to believe you," he confessed, his voice laced with both fear and hope. "But my heart has been wounded before."
With gentle determination, the reader brushed away the remnants of tears from her cheeks and met Geralt's gaze. She poured her love and devotion into her words, baring her soul for him to see.
"I choose you, Geralt," she said, her voice unwavering. "There is no one else I want by my side. Please, let me prove it to you."
Tears welled in Geralt's eyes as he took a leap of faith, willing to let go of his doubts and embrace the possibility of a love that had weathered storms and stood the test of time. The reader's heart swelled with a mixture of relief and love as Geralt's arms encircled her, pulling her closer.
In that moment of profound understanding, their souls intertwined once again, their love resolute and unyielding. As they held each other tightly, the shadows of misunderstanding faded away, replaced by a future where their hearts would forever find solace in each other's embrace.
