berryblupie

[berryblupie]

[berryblupie]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝔅𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔱 𝔅𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔬𝔫 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ⋆·˚ ༘ *

💯 super great fic║⭐️ chef’s kiss

𓆤 Paint With Me by @magpiencrow

Summary: It turns out multiple stages of a relationship can be forged over art.

𓆤 It is Just Tea by @leahsficemporium ⭐️

Summary: You drink some of Benedict’s special tea and now Benedict must take care of you until the effects wear off. With such a tea in your system, you can’t help but bring up some truths you’ve been hiding and Benedict is right there to comfort you.

𓆤 Benedict Bridgerton and Marriage by @iliveiloveiwrite 💯

Summary: Daily life headcanon having Benedict Bridgerton as your husband.

𓆤 A Love Story by @notmysunnydale

Summary: Benedict finds Y/N in the library, hiding from the party occurring just outside.

𓆤 8.05 p.m. by @magicalxdaydream

Summary: Benedict is amazed when you arrive at a ball.

𓆤 365 Days of You by @promenadewithme ⭐️

Summary: It’s the reader’s birthday, and Benedict decides to give her the most romantic present of all.

𓆤 This and the Next by @iliveiloveiwrite

Summary: Benedict hasn’t painted a thing in two weeks. He’s beginning to think he won’t paint again, but a Smythe-Smith musicale and the reminder of your love has him once again reaching for his brushes.

𓆤 My Heart, My Future by @make-me-imagine 💯

Summary: Benedict prepares a splendid surprise for the reader, one that requires him taking out a special box.

𓆤 High by @thebadgerclan ⭐️

Summary: Your husband comes down from Colin’s tea…

𓆤 Muse of Mine by @murswrites

Summary: You’re his muse and therefore his favorite thing to paint.

𓆤 A Melodic Language by @writeroutoftime

Summary: After a fight, Benedict tries to connect with you once more through music.

𓆤 A Lovely Sight by @writeroutoftime ⭐️

Summary: On a sunny, spring day, Benedict can’t help but capture the lovely sight before him.

𓆤 Back to Bed by @mrsbbridgerton 💯

Summary: Your husband pulls you back to bed, straight into his chest.

𓆤 As a Kite by @saintlike78 ⭐️

Summary: A stressed artist and “travellers powder” - a quite amusing mix, but not during family dinner.

𓆤 A Bet Between Lovers by @saintlike78 ⭐️

Summary: You believe that Daphne and the duke will be engaged before the end of the season… your husband on the other hand does not - why not bet on it?

𓆤 Hands by @ijustwant2write ⭐️

Summary: Hands are every artists worst nightmare, it’s always best to have a real model for help.

𓆤 Beloved Countryside by @alcottsangel

Summary: Benedict and Y/N enjoy their family life in the countryside.

𓆤 Painter’s Muse by @libraryofloveletters ⭐️

Summary: Benedict finally found the perfect muse for his painting.

𓆤 A Fitting Distraction by @benedictscanvas

Summary: In which a game of pall-mall is afoot and you and your husband, Benedict, engage in a bit of harmless spying on your brother-in-law.

𓆤 Best Behaviour by @dragon-baron

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton is oblivious when it comes up to his own feelings.

𓆤 Lullaby by @fanaticalfantasist 💯

Summary: Benedict spends the day with his children while reader hangs out with the ladies.

𓆤 Helen of Troy by @sometimesiwritesstuff ⭐️

Summary: Y/N has habit of scaring possible suitors away but maybe Benedict could be one that stays.

𓆤 An Evening in the Clouds by @justdaydreamsandimagines

Summary: Benedict falls in love at first sight with the reader.

𓆤 And Now I See Daylight by @wonderlandprose ⭐️

Summary: Benedict seemed to completely change his view on love after meeting the reader.

𓆤 A Secret Skill by @fanaticalfantasist 💯

Summary: Reader’s frustrated on Benedict, but that led to some shocking revelations about her skill on a particular sport.

𓆤 Word on the Street is… by @writers-hes 💯

Summary: Word on the street is that after years of seclusion from The Ton, you were back and a certain Bridgerton had his eyes on you.

𓆤 Midnight Dances by @gryffindors-weasley ⭐️

Summary: Upon your first week settling into your estate as a newlywed couple, you share a moment alone.

𓆤 Late Nights, Early Mornings by @gryffindors-weasley

Summary: When you can’t sleep, Benedict will always be there.

𓆤 She’s a Lady by @anthonysharmaa 💯

Summary: Y/N isn’t considered a proper ‘lady’ by members of the ton yet one Benedict Bridgerton would disagree with them all. Even if she did swoon into his arms.

𓆤 [Untitled] by @starryeyedstories

Summary: Family and friends constantly point out how compatible you are with Benedict Bridgerton.

𓆤 [Untitled] by @starryeyedstories 💯

Summary: Benedict as a papa. Imagine how fluffy it would be!

𓆤 A Tale of Two Proposals by @starryeyedstories 💯

Summary: After a few months of courting, Benedict has a question for you.

𓆤 [Untitled] by @starryeyedstories ⭐️

Summary: When Benedict feels like everything’s going wrong with his art, maybe all he needs is a kiss from the reader.

𓆤 [Untitled] by @starryeyedstories ⭐️

Summary: Accidentally bumping noses with Benedict when you’re about to kiss.

𓆤 Young Love by @bennybr1dge

Summary: You and Benedict have loved each other from a very early age. Having grown up around each other. However, both of you are silly and don’t say anything to one another for years.

𓆤 [Untitled] by @iliveiloveiwrite

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton and the shift from friends to lovers.

𓆤 Start Again by @iliveiloveiwrite

Summary: Benedict never knew he could be jealous of his brother, until it comes to you.

𓆤 Deception by @heloisedaphnebrightmore ⭐️

Summary: Violet’s constant search for a wife for her second eldest son has become too much for Benedict. The only escape he sees is to ask you to pretend to be courting each other. But how long will it work for with your feelings eating you up from the inside.

𓆤 Wrong Conclusion by @regencyslxt

Summary: Imagine reconnecting with Benedict after a less than easy split.

𓆤 Behind the Bushes by @shelby-love

Summary: After an evenful nightly escapade in which you and Benedict were the main characters, you find yourself letting him in on your deepest passion. Confused with feelings you never thought you would experience, all it takes for them to set loose is a simple drawing. But the fear of them being one-sided was ever present too.

𓆤 Forgive Me by @benedictscanvas

Summary: In which you think Benedict doesn’t like the idea of you marrying but really he doesn’t like the idea of you marrying anyone else.

𓆤 I Wonder What It’s Like to Be Loved by You by @iliveiloveiwrite ⭐️

Summary: You’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. Is this the season where he finally realises?

𓆤 My Whole World by @wonderlandprose ⭐️

Summary: Benedict rushes home after he got the letter that his son is ill.

𓆤 Fainted by @alcottsangel 💯

Summary: Y/N faints at a ball at Aubrey Hall, leaving Benedict to fear loosing the love of his life.

𓆤 Jealousy, Jealousy by @scandalous-chaos ⭐️

Summary: Lady Whistledown’s newest drama was her theory about how Y/N and Anthony were dating, and a certain Bridgerton brother starts to get pulled into a rabbit hole of investigation. Mostly to cover up how he was jealous.

𓆤 Faithfulness and Inhibitions by @writers-hes ⭐️

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton showed you the world that he kept hidden and feelings of worry ensue.

𓆤 Fear by @fact-fictionx ⭐️

Summary: Benedict and the reader has always been close, but he couldn’t get the courage to tell her how he felt about her… until it’s finally time for her to find a husband.

𓆤 Foolish by @make-me-imagine ⭐️

Summary: The reader is Benedict’s best friend and is in love with him. When her cousin comes to London and Benedict starts courting her, the reader was left heartbroken.

𓆤 Untold Truths by @itsmercurial 💯

Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that there is a perfectly curated image that men and women of the 1800s display to attract suitable matches. One would think that the highly honorable Bridgertons do not fall prey or become predators to this dishonesty… A visit to a certain modiste proves otherwise.

𓆤 Ties That Cut by @writers-hes ⭐️

Summary: The Bridgertons are great friends of your family and you find yourself particularly close to the artist. While your ties with Benedict Bridgerton has proven to be one of the things you and Benedict treasure the most, your fear of the unknown has only resulted to more pain and pining. As you traverse through adulthood, you found yourself growing together and then, growing apart.

[berryblupie]

House of Gentians Arc 3 || Pages 89-92

A very important flashback, to the scene where this story diverges from canon T^T

This is Lan Wangji confessing again, cause that time at the cave, Wei Wuxian wasn't hearing him clearly. This is the part where Lan Wangji saves him by proposing him the deal *sobs*

NEXT PART

PREVIOUS PART

ABOUT + TABLE OF CONTENTS

IMPORTANT NOTE: Always be sure to click on my profile and check for updates because if you see a random part reblogged IT MIGHT NOT BE THE EDITED VERSION WITH THE WORKING LINK TO THE NEXT PART

[berryblupie]

[berryblupie]

@mdzswomen MDZS Women Appreciation Weeks ✩°｡⋆⸜(ू｡•ω•｡)

↳ 1 August 2020: The Women of The Untamed

[berryblupie]

my boyfriend gifted me the sweetest, most thoughtful birthday gift I have ever received and I need the internet to hear wangxian played from a music box

[berryblupie]

[berryblupie]

My Lord of the Rings stationary set for SDCC and Lightbox Expo! Cozy hobbit themed sticker sheets, mini prints, sticky notes, as well as a Fellowship washi tape! I'm so happy with how they turned out!

🌱🌷☁️

[berryblupie]

Cr: 洛洛山河0805x1005

"Wuji" (OST the Untamed) realised 08 Jul 2019, 6 years ago

[berryblupie]

MY HEART!!!!!

because throwing an apple at someone's head was a sign of professing one's love in greek myth.

fluff, gn!reader, i wrote this in a blip

When you told yourself today was the day you confessed to Phainon, you weren't expecting it to turn out like this.

The very ripe, very red, very ready-to-be-consumed apple was not supposed to fly out of your grasp the way it did. It was not supposed to hit him on the head, silencing his laughter as he dumbfoundedly blinks at the item that broke him out of his giddy stupor. It was not supposed to land perfectly in his hands as he glances between your face and your snack, which has now decided to work against you.

You definitely were not supposed to just mutter a meek 'I like you', and you definitely were not supposed to turn on your heel and run away from him!

And why is he chasing after you? Can't he tell you need alone time to recover from the unfortunate series of events that just unfolded?

"Y/n, wait!" He calls, barely sounding out of breath. Your feet hit cement, grass, climb up and down flights of stairs, they don't stop as you dash through every bit of the Grove of Epiphany, all for the sole purpose of shaking Phainon off your tail.

However, it was your mistake for believing someone like him would be willing to give up, and his stamina outpaced yours by a landslide, so just what were you thinking? Running away like that in the spur of the moment?

"No!" You shout back. "Leave me be!"

"But I have something to say to you!"

"I'm sorry for throwing an apple at your head!"

"It's okay! I don't mind- just, stop running!"

"Maybe you should stop chasing me!"

"For Titan's sake-"

As you round a pillar that lead to a short staircase, Phainon had jumped over the ledge and landed by the time you descended the flight, and with a lunge, his hand had securely wrapped itself around your elbow. You had lost. Lost the chase, the fight, your dignity as you gaze up at him, your stomach stirring with unease at his imminent rejection.

There's an unreadable look in his eyes but you don't try deciphering it because you're certain you seem like a mess right now. Your face felt flushed, sweat stuck to your skin, and your hair was all over the place, and worst of all, Phainon was going to reject you while you were in this state.

Titans, please help. This was not what you intended at all.

"You're too fast," he huffs, chest heaving like yours. "You really know how to steal someone's breath away."

"If you're gonna let me down just get to it already."

"Let you down? You think I was chasing you all this way just to let you down?"

"Or were you going to return my apple? It was my afternoon snack-"

"What? No, it's my apple now, you gave it to me!"

"Well, I... threw it at your head-"

"-I accept your confession!" He blurts boldly.

All you can do is splutter out a pathetic 'huh???'.

Phainon is exasperated at this point, desperate to confess the feelings that's been dwelling in his chest for the entire time he's known you. When he's waited this long, he wasn't going to let the moment go, not when you're the one who took the first step, having the nerve to capture his heart and take off bolting with it.

"I like you- a lot! You're everything I've ever wanted and I've waited so long for this, Y/n, please don't make me suffer any longer."

He doesn't blink as he looks at you, as if stubborn to not miss anything about you, not a single micro-change in your expression, the way your breath hitched at his passion, the tweaks of a small smile beginning to pull at your lips.

"Just how am I making you suffer?"

"You tell me the one thing I've been waiting to hear from you and instead of letting me speak, you run away and have me chase you like a Spirithief, does your cruelty know no bounds? Fine, if you're still unsure about my feelings then-"

He takes a big bite out of the apple, the crisp crunch speaking more than it should have to as you blink at his unwavering will.

Phainon's confession settles in the silence, and the first thing you do is laugh in a way that has him almost crumbling to his knees in relief. It was an ode to something beautiful, the start of a new beginning, and as he split your apple in half and handed you the unbitten part, the dull ache on his head finally began to subside.

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[berryblupie]

empty chairs, empty tables

[berryblupie]

So I made this for a reel or tiktok, but I like the drawings themselves and I haven’t posted anything here just yet, hope you like this tiny contribution to wangxian 🤲🏾

[berryblupie]

PLEASE I NEED MORE!!!

I NEED MOOOOOOORRRREEEEE!!!

But take your time! 🥰

I will gladly wait. I will gladly sit here.

A study in stillness - Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Chapter 1)

Pairing : Benedict x Reader (you)

Dynamic : slow burn / ennemies to lovers

Summary : when all you crave is silence and all Benedict wants is to unravel the mystery that you are, only trouble can follow. In a world of whispers and watchful eyes, retreat is your only refuge—until a certain Bridgerton stumbles into your quiet. He asks too many questions. Looks too closely. And the more you resist, the more determined he becomes. Or a tangle of sharp words, stolen glances, and the danger of being truly seen.

Word count : 2.4k

Warnings : some details might not be fully accurate to the era and english is not my first language, apart from that, you should be fine.

You had promised yourself you would never attend another ball.

Not after the emptiness you felt in these grand rooms, where laughter seemed forced and the air thick with expectation. You had only been in London for a year and it already felt like an eternity. The faces were all too familiar already, their smiles too practiced, and you hated it. Every moment felt like a mask, every bow a display, every laugh a hollow note in a symphony of falsehoods.

Yet here you were, once again laced into a gown that you didn't really like, balancing a crystal coupe of champagne you had no intention of drinking.

Lady Danbury’s ball was suffocating—heavy with perfume, pride, and a kind of polished coldness you had come to know all too well. The room buzzed with whispers, with the subtle glances of people who couldn’t care less about each other, but who made sure to care about the right things. Who wore the right colors. Who danced with whom. It made your skin crawl.

You sought refuge in the east drawing room, away from the clamor and the ache in your feet from hours of standing. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through the tall windows, and the scent of lavender and old books filled the air, soothing in its quietness.

A brief moment of peace. Until you heard it—the soft click of a door, followed by footsteps.

“I wasn’t aware the drawing room had become the place for sulking debutantes,” came a voice, smooth and confident, irritatingly sure of itself.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The Bridgertons were as much an institution in society as the monarchy. Benedict Bridgerton—handsome, charming, the one who seemed to waltz through life without a care for what anyone thought. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care to hide it. You’d heard the gossip, of course. Everyone had. There was no escaping the rumors, but you had never met him. You simply knew the name and the image that went with it.

Still, you didn’t turn to face him. “Then consider this a lesson in awareness,” you replied coolly, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. He looked impossibly composed, as expected, in his dark jacket with his cravat slightly loosened, as though he had just slipped out of the grasp of propriety. His eyes, though—there was a spark of something that you didn’t quite trust, not quite charm, but something more dangerous.

Benedict’s brow arched slightly, and he smiled, though it wasn’t one you would have called kind. “I see your wit is sharper than your regard for social grace.”

“And yet you followed me in here. Curious, isn’t it?”

He laughed, a low, rich sound that seemed to settle comfortably in the air between you. It irritated you more than it should have. You didn’t want him to be the type of man who could simply laugh off a barb like that.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, his presence suddenly too large in the quiet room, “do you take this much pleasure in alienating everyone in the room, or am I a special case?”

You wanted to tell him to leave, to go back to the crowd where people adored him, where his reputation meant everything. You weren’t interested in playing his games. But instead, you simply murmured, “You’re special, certainly, though not in the way you like to believe.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement, a look you couldn’t decide if you hated or found oddly fascinating. There was something about him—something too confident, too sure of himself. He was not like the other men at the ball, who would have simply apologized for disturbing you and left. Benedict Bridgerton was the type to stand there and challenge you, to press, to keep pushing until you either gave in or grew too weary to fight back.

For a moment, there was silence again, the weight of his gaze pulling at you. You felt like a moth, trapped in the presence of a flame you had no intention of getting too close to.

But he didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough, the tension thick between you, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the world of the ball and the solace of the quiet room you had sought for yourself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Benedict smiled again, the same knowing, irritating smile. “I won’t keep you from your retreat, Miss…?” His voice trailed off, as though he expected you to provide your name, but you didn’t. You didn’t need to.

“Miss nothing, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied softly, the words more a reflection of how you felt than anything else.

His smile didn’t falter, but there was something more curious in his eyes now. Something you couldn’t place. He didn’t press you for your name again, but instead, with a slight nod of acknowledgment, he turned on his heel and left the room as quietly as he had entered, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The moment of peace you had sought earlier returned, but now it was tainted with something you couldn’t quite name—a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and something else you couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

Not so soon. Not in the quiet corner of the Royal Academy, on a day when the rain had kept most of polite society indoors. The gallery was nearly empty, echoing with soft footsteps and the occasional shift of fabric. It was a relief to be somewhere no one was watching you.

Until you felt him behind you.

You knew it before you turned. The shape of the silence changed. As if the air itself was bracing for interruption.

“Twice in as many days,” came the voice you’d already begun to dread. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second.

Then turned.

He stood there, gloved hands behind his back, the picture of idle nobility. Benedict Bridgerton, in a navy coat that should have been too bold for the weather and yet somehow wasn’t. He looked at you the way an artist might look at an unfinished sketch—curious, critical, perhaps a little bored. And you hated that your breath had caught for the barest instant.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said. “I’m here for the art. Not the commentary.”

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer. “But one so often enhances the other.”

You raised a brow. “And which do you consider yourself? The art? Or the commentary?”

“Both,” he said without missing a beat. “Obviously.”

You should have walked away. You meant to. But his tone was disarmingly light, and something in his expression—just beneath the smirk—suggested a challenge.

So you turned back toward the canvas before you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your irritation.

It was a portrait of a woman, pale and sharp-eyed, draped in ochre and emerald. Her gaze was cold, but not lifeless. She looked like she was waiting for someone to disappoint her.

“Do you like it?” he asked, standing beside you now.

“No,” you replied. “But I respect it.”

He smiled, amused. “Harsh but fair. Like you.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You know nothing about me.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m quite good at studying people.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” you asked. “Studying me?”

“Observing,” he said, with the kind of lazy elegance that made you want to slap him or kiss him or both. “There’s a difference.”

“And what have you observed so far?”

He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider.

“You come to quiet places when you think no one’s watching. You keep your gloves on even when you fidget. You look at paintings like they’ve personally offended you, and you bristle every time someone dares to speak to you as if your silence is a door that needs forcing open.”

You stared at him.

“I could say the same of you,” you said. “Except you wear your charm like armor and expect everyone to find you delightful. When they don’t, you prod them until they do. Or until they crack.”

“And have you cracked, Miss nothing ?”

You couldn't help but smile a little at that. Somehow it didn't feel like an insult, and you knew he only called you that to make you give in and offer him your name. But you didn't. On purpose.

His lips twitched.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll refer to you as the Woman in Grey until you offer something more useful.”

You looked down at your slate-colored gown and sighed. “How inspired.”

“It suits you,” he said, voice quieter now. “Unassuming. But sharp.”

That also shouldn’t have sounded like a compliment. And yet.

You stepped away from the painting, from him, but he followed—not too close, not quite a shadow, but present nonetheless. The corridor curved into another room, filled with landscapes this time, wide and aching. You stood before one of a field at dusk. It looked lonely.

“Is this another one you respect but dislike?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away.

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “But I hate it.”

“Why?” he frowned.

“Because it’s still.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“That surprises me,” he said.

You sighed, not wanting to encourage him but still wanting to understand. “Why?”

“You seem like someone who enjoys stillness. Or at least cultivates it.”

You folded your arms. “That’s a mistake people often make. Equating stillness with peace.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not the flirtatious glances he’d given you at the ball, not the charming tilt of the head meant to impress. This was different. There was something like recognition in his eyes, or understanding. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“What is it you do enjoy?” he asked, gently. “If not stillness. Or society.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Not truthfully.

“Solitude,” you said at last. “And silence. When it’s mine.”

“You mean, when no one tries to invade it.”

You looked at him again, sharper this time. “Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “I don’t. Not really.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

“You’re the most interesting thing I’ve encountered all week. Let me have my fun.”

“I’m not here for your entertainment, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“You say that,” he murmured, “but you haven’t left.”

That did it.

You turned sharply and began to walk toward the next corridor, your pulse high in your throat. You felt exposed, raw, even though he’d done nothing but speak. That was the worst part. He hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t flirted. Not really.

He’d seen you.

And you didn’t know what he planned to do with that sight.

“You’re quite good at pretending not to want attention,” he called after you, voice low and amused. “But you wouldn’t dress in grey silk with a neckline like that if you truly wanted to vanish.”

You stopped.

Turned.

And walked back to him, slow and deliberate.

He looked almost surprised when you stopped an inch too close.

“You think everything is about being seen,” you said softly. “You think every gesture is performance. Maybe that’s how you live. But not everyone wants to be painted and displayed, Mr. Bridgerton. Some of us simply want to exist without being interpreted.”

His smile faded. Just slightly.

“And yet here we are,” he said. “Interpreting.”

You straightened your shoulders. The gallery around you had gone still, too still—paintings staring out with their eternal, indifferent gaze while the gas lamps flickered above. You could still hear the faint echo of laughter and footsteps down the marble corridor, but here in the side hall, it was just the two of you. And the distance between you felt unsteady.

“You think you’re terribly clever.”

“I think you’re terribly interesting.”

Your breath caught, not because of the words but the way he said them—like he didn’t mean it as a compliment but a complication.

“I’ve only been in this world a year,” you said slowly, more to yourself than to him. “A year of gowns I didn’t choose and rooms full of names I’m expected to know. And then there’s you—waltzing through galleries like you own the air.”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in slightly, his voice a quiet drawl meant only for you.

“And yet,” he whispered, “you breathe it just fine.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Intentional.

“I don’t want to be a curiosity to you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t want to be another passing muse.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Not shame—something else. Thought.

“I don’t sketch muses,” he said at last. “I sketch what I can’t stop thinking about.”

You scoffed, rolled your eyes. “And how many poor girls has that worked on?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to shift the weight of the moment.

“Would it be easier,” he murmured, “if I were exactly who you expected me to be?”

Your throat tightened. You hated him for asking the question.

“I’m not interested in being part of your game, Lord Bridgerton,” you said again, more forcefully this time. “Find someone else to unravel.”

His smile was slow, infuriating. “Why do you assume I could ?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you assume you couldn’t?”

A beat. Two.

Then, before you could blink, the door creaked behind you.

And when you turned back, Benedict was gone. Only the scent of him lingered—a hint of bergamot and turpentine, and trouble.

[berryblupie]

THIS IS GOOD!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!!

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

─────────────────────

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

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

──────────────────────

benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

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

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

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

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

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

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

──────────────────────

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

✧˖°.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you miss your sisters?”

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

“Do you miss Daphne?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

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

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

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

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you even want to know?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

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

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

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

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

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all good things must come to end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

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

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

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

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

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

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

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

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

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

You love him.

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

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

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

But… could he?

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

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

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eloise, please do not—“

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

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

“Marry me.”

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

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

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

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

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

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

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

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So?”

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

You snort. “Then look away.”

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

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

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

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

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

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

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

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

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[berryblupie]

Hes so funny BUT PLEASE FREE HIM

Charles: is there a leakage?

Pit: a leakage of what?

Charles: I have the seat full of water, full of water!

Pit: ahhhhh.... It must be the water.

Charles: lets add that to the words of wisdom

[berryblupie]

the cheers 🥹🧡

[berryblupie]

Int: how does that kind of thing get smoothed out between drivers [Max and George] when you've had that intensity?

Lando: “I hope it doesn’t get smoothed out… I hope they stay fighting and arguing, because it’s amusing to watch”

a man of the people 😭