coffeewithcal

[coffeewithcal]

you're my savior

in which anthony bridgerton’s childhood best friend is desperately in love with him…

PAIRING: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader, platonic!bridgertons x reader

WARNINGS: given last name (Kinsley), typical sexism of the era, PINING, avoiding the inevitable, oblivious Anthony, angst, fluff, kissing, fluff ending!!

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

🎶 : sailor song - gigi perez

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - this is a personal fav of mine!! it's also a long one, so have fun!!

Dearest reader, the time has come to place our bets for the upcoming social season. Consider the household of the Baron Featherington. Three misses foisted upon the marriage market like sorrowful sows by their tasteless, tactless mama. Far better odds might exist in the household of the widowed Viscountess Bridgerton. A shockingly prolific family noted for its bounty of perfectly handsome sons and perfectly beautiful daughters.

Your father extended his hand, guiding you out of the carriage. You smiled gratefully, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, Papa."

"Of course, my darling."

Your mother hooked her arm through his, eyes full of adoration. "Shall we head inside, mon cheri?"

"Lead the way, my love."

The castle was magnificent as always, with flowers draped on every surface, and ushers waiting behind every door. Your father led you through to the main hall, his voice carrying as he greeted the young lord. "Viscount Bridgerton!"

"Lord Kinsley.” Anthony showed no sign of embarrassment or disdain for your father’s enthusiasm; in fact, he welcomed it. “I cannot recall how many times I have asked you to call me Anthony."

"As you wish." The older man laughed. "My lord."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes at your father. Your mother apologized to Anthony, hugging him as tightly as she hugged you. "It is his nature, to tease you.” She stepped back, holding his hands in hers. “And how are you?”

“Well, my lady.” He smiled, practically begging to be saved when his eyes met yours. “Very well.” 

You hid your laughter behind your hand, shaking your head in disapproval. "My lord." Your mother moved aside, allowing you to greet your lifelong friend.

“So formal today, Miss Kinsley.”

"You know very well I cannot smack you in front of the Queen.” You whispered. “Must you tease me so?”

The Viscount laughed, hooking his arm through yours. “Those poor Featherington girls.”

You frowned, watching as Penelope, Prudence, and Phillipa were practically marched towards the Queen. You held back a gasp as Prudence fainted in front of the Queen, the room erupting into chaos. Leaning over, you whispered in Anthony’s ear. “I assume Lady Featherington is hoping this is all a dream.” 

Anthony laughed. "I imagine this is her nightmare."

"Miss Daphne Bridgerton, presented by her mother, the Right Honorable, Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton." The doors opened slowly, Daphne almost gliding through them.

"She looks beautiful." You leaned into Anthony’s side, smiling brightly. "Don't you think?"

He looked down, his heart skipping. You looked radiant, the pale blue dress brought out your features wonderfully. It did not go unnoticed by him that you were wearing his family's colors, something he found pride in for some odd reason. “Yes. Yes, she does.” 

She bowed deeply, the entire room holding their breaths as the Queen stood, placing her finger beneath Daphne's chin. "Flawless, my dear." 

You grinned, squeezing Anthony's arm tighter. He winced, hissing from the pain. "Christ. You are more excited for my dear sister than I am."

You lay haphazardly on Daphne’s bed, smiling as you watched the Bridgeton women gossip around you. Moments like this made you long for siblings, for some sort of companion. You supposed the Bridgertons filled that longing by making you a part of their antics - whether you wanted to or not. 

You had known Anthony since you were a mere two years of age, meeting the young boy when your family had moved in those many years ago. You’d been there when each of the Bridgerton children was brought into this world, you’d been there when Edmund died, you’d been there when Anthony became the lord of their family, and you had been there with your mother when Lady Bridgerton gave birth to Hyacinth. 

"You absolutely sparkled, sister."

Daphne was the very picture of grace, brushing off her sister’s kind words. "Come now. I merely simpered and minced in a pretty dress like everyone else.” 

You scoffed. “Not exactly like everyone else, you were perfection itself."

Eloise sighed. "Oh, I shall need to go and visit with Penelope. Her presentation was anything but... what was it the Queen called you again?"

Daphne blushed, slipping into her dress. "Flawless. Or some such thing. Trust, I was astonished Her Majesty offered me, out of two hundred young ladies present, a most gracious remark."

"Yes, it was quite a distinction. And now, 200 young ladies have a common adversary. I wish you luck, sister."

"Eloise!" Daphne gasped. 

Eloise did not look shocked by her sister’s outburst, and you had a sneaking suspicion she was trying to rile her sister into a frenzy. “What? It is true.” 

“My success on the marriage mart influences all of your prospects. We will all need to find love one day. Indeed, a love as pure as what Mama and Papa once shared, if we are so fortunate. I merely hope I am able to continue such a grand tradition.”

Violet burst through the door, the maids trailing behind her, each carrying at least three boxes. “Your dresses have arrived.” The rest of the girls followed after Daphne, who had practically raced toward the new arrivals. 

Eloise stayed in her chair, staring at you curiously. “Surely you agree with me?”

“Eloise.” You gave her a pointed look. “Why must you tease your sister so?” 

“It is all in good fun,” Eloise grumbled, crossing her arms. 

You sighed, slipping off the bed, holding your hand out to the younger girl. "You know I wholeheartedly agree. The marriage market is no honorable arena. It is a bloodbath indeed."

Eloise laughed, putting her hand in yours. "I wish I were like you."

"How so?” You tilted your head. 

“You can flout about undetected, without fear of your mama forcing you to attend fitting after fitting.” 

You laughed, nudging her arm. “If it is any consolation, I wish I were you.” You walked through the doorway, gazing at the dozens of dresses laid out for Daphne to peruse at her pleasure. 

"Why would you want to be like me?" Eloise smirked, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly. "To be young? I didn't take you to be so vain, Kinsley."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You know what I meant." You looked out at the room full of Bridgertons, watching with a concealed envy you hardly ever let show. "That, that is what I meant." 

Eloise squeezed your hand. "You do have that. We are family, you and I." 

"Yes, well..." You shoved Eloise towards the dresses, laughing at her disgusted face. "Enough chatter. Try one of these exquisite gowns on. I demand it." 

Eloise glared, sticking her tongue out as she grabbed the latest gossip column. "Mary Edgecombe, now the Countess of Fulton, apparently spent the last year living in a cottage hundreds of miles away from her Earl. It says it all right here."

Violet sighed. "Do not tell me it is yet another scandal sheet. Eloise-"

"No, no. This one is different. This one lists subjects by name, in full."

Hyacinth jumped. "Let me see!"

"Just wait-"

Francesca stared at the paper. "Lady Whistledown?"

"Do we know a Lady Whistledown?"

"Surely, Lady Whistledown cannot be her true name." Daphne glanced at the scandal sheet.

"What does it say, dearest?"

"She loathes the fact that we've been named alphabetically, oldest to youngest."

"Your father and I found it orderly."

"Lady Whistledown finds banality."

You rolled your eyes. "Lady Whistledown sounds like a bored old hag."

Violet gave you a disappointed look, raising a single eyebrow. "I may not be your mother, but I am sure she does not allow you to use that kind of language."

You instantly cowered under her gaze, smiling guiltily. "Yes, Violet."

"The papers were distributed around town today without charge."

"Without charge? What kind of author-" Violet gasped, holding Daphne's hand. "Well, at least she has one thing right. She has named Daphne this season's Incomparable. She calls you a diamond of the first water.” The older woman sighed, smiling to herself. “Well, how lovely."

You clapped your hands, grabbing the attention of the room. “I'm afraid I must be off. My mother will be wondering where I am."

Daphne smiled. "Will you be at the ball tonight?"

"Of course I will, Daph."

You waved goodbye once more before traipsing down the stairs towards Anthony’s study.

You watched as he worked or tried to, at least. He kept staring at his father’s pocket watch, distracting himself from his duties. And you kept getting distracted by how perfect he looked in the midday light. Ridding yourself of those outlandish thoughts, you pushed the door the rest of the way open, leaning against its frame. "Waiting for someone, my lord?"

"It’s you." He glared playfully. "Please, come in."

"You seem to be in a mood." You stood in front of his desk, wiggling your eyebrows. “Is dear Sienna denying your visits?"

“When I tell you things in confidence, that does not mean you may bring them up every waking moment.” 

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "I think that is exactly what that means, my dear Anthony. Friends tease; it is in their nature."

His eyes were heavy, as if he found offense with your statement. Still, he said nothing of it, leaning forward in his chair. “Shall you be in attendance at the Danbury Ball as well?”

“I would not miss it. Even if I wished not to attend, you know as well as I that my mother would require it. She is determined to find me a husband by the end of this season.”

Anthony looked unempathetic, feigning pity. “What a horrible life to lead. I seem to recall more than one man proposing to you over the years.”

You crossed your arms. “And what a horrible friend you are. You know very well I would wait centuries if that meant finding a love half as fulfilling as my mother and father’s. You do not seem to understand how horrible these men, your peers, truly are. If I had told Benedict, he would have at least tried to-”

“Well, I am not Benedict.” His tone was harsh, all inclinations of humor leaving his face as he sat back, his gaze returning to his paperwork. “Save me a dance.”

You nodded, wishing you could stay just a moment longer. “It is humorous.”

He looked up, taking the bait you had laid. “What is?” 

“That you believed I had not already done so.” You smiled, leaning across the desk and kissing his cheek. “Don’t be late.” 

The Danbury ball, as it had been every year before, was the very picture of elegance, the ultimate beginning to your seventh season on the market. Your dress was pale pink, practically white, with draping fabric that billowed when you walked. Your mother had chosen it herself, stating that if this gown did not attract suitors, she had no idea what would.

You smiled at Daphne, leaning over to your mother, who was locked in some conversation with a lord whose name you didn’t care to learn. “The Bridgertons are calling me over, Mama. Excuse me.” You hadn’t bothered to wait for permission, skirting across the room as you expertly avoided eye contact with any eager young lord in need of a wife. 

Anthony smirked, shaking his head at your antics. “Ms. Kinsley.”

“Lord Bridgerton.” You curtsied. “Lady Bridgerton.” 

Violet smiled. “Are you enjoying the ball, dear?” 

You nodded. “It is quite exquisite.” Looking over at the newly debuted girl, you forced yourself not to laugh at her overwhelmed expression, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Relax your shoulders, Daph. You look as if you forgot how to breathe.” Daphne smiled gratefully, releasing the tension she hadn't even realized she was holding. “It is not so bad, the balls and picnics.” You hooked your arm through Anthony's as if it was second nature, muttering under your breath. "Unless you get stuck with some boring lord like-"

"Lady Bridgerton, Miss Bridgerton." Ambrose sighed, smiling faintly. "Lord Bridgerton."

"Are you not forgetting someone?" Anthony’s voice was harsh, clipped as he gestured toward you. Ambrose nodded, extending the courtesy of a quick smile. 

"Miss Kinsley."

Violet smiled. "I believe you have already met my daughter, Daphne, Lord Ambrose."

He nodded. "Yes! We met at your brother's levee."

"If I recall, my lord, you had just won your first race at Newmarket."

Anthony smiled condescendingly at the lord in front of him. "His first and only, I believe."

"Well..." Daphne looked back at the visibly embarrassed lord. "In that case, let us hope your lordship has found yourself a new horse."

"I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you at our club lately, Ambrose. Should it have anything to do with the unpaid balance you left on our betting books winter last?"

Ambrose practically gulped, walking away without another word, leaving Daphne and Violet standing in uncomfortable silence. Anthony turned to his mother and sister, that terrible all all-knowing look on his face. "Ambrose is a cheat."

“I did not realize.”

"Well, how could you have done? It's the very reason I am here, sister. Now, let us take a turn about the room."

You felt as if this was a conversation best left to family. While you had grown up together, this was not your place. You began to slip your arm out of Anthony’s, whispering. "I should get back to my mother-"

"Do you really want to be stuck in a meaningless conversation with a boring lord?" Anthony scoffed, pulling you closer to him, closer than what many of the ton deemed proper. You choked on your breath, heart stopping at the gesture. "I am saving you from a night of misery."

You rolled your eyes, Anthony quickly reminding you of his arrogance. "How charitable of you."

Daphne interrupted, pointing towards a blond man dancing. "He is rather pleasing."

"He is here to shuffle about hunting fortunes. Trust Mr. Lewis knows of your sizable dowry. Leave him be." 

She frowned, pointing towards another man. "I presume you know him too?"

"Mr. Worthington. Second son. We shall find better."

You nudged Anthony’s side, signalling that he should ease up on the girl. “Anthony, you are going to scare her.” 

“I am merely warning her about the-”

"Anthony, Daph, Miss Kinsley!" Benedict waved from across the room, pushing his way across. You grinned, wiggling your arm out of Anthony's hold to greet him. 

It was not missed by Lady Bridgerton or Daphne how Anthony’s face fell from the loss. 

“Benedict! How are you?”

He brought your right hand up to his lips, kissing the back gently. "Better now that you are here."

You laughed, smacking him lightly with your fan. “You flatter me.”

Anthony glared at Benedict, shaking his head. “Benedict, do not flirt with our dear friend.”

“Why not?”

"Because I said so, that is-"

Colin interrupted. "Did mother tell you yet? About my tour? I'm to begin in Greece."

"Greece, how adventurous, Colin."

You grinned. "Greece is wonderful this time of year; you will have a wonderful time, I'm sure."

Anthony's eyes practically fell out of their sockets, grabbing your hand and making a run for it. “On guard!”

Lady Danbury approached, laughing. “Too late. I already noted you.” She turned to Daphne, smiling. “Miss Bridgerton, you look rather lovely this evening. Is there a reason I've yet to see you on the dance floor?”

Anthony jumped in. "All in good time, Lady Danbury."

The older woman glared at Anthony, leaning towards Daphne. "You poor thing."

You laughed, agreeing with the lady wholeheartedly. "I thank the lord every day I do not have an older brother."

Benedict nudged you, faux frowning. "If only I had been born one year earlier."

"And from different parents." You shook your head, laughing. "The sentiment is there." You turned to Anthony, who was still staring down every eligible young man in the room who had their sights set on his sister. “I believe I saved you a dance.”

“Do not think you can save Daphne by distracting me.”

You raised an eyebrow, an easy sort of smile gracing your lips. “Do I distract you so easily, Lord Bridgerton?” 

His cheeks flushed, and he rolled his eyes. “Come along then.” Still holding your hand from when he tried to escape Lady Danbury, he led you through the crowd, stopping at the center of the dance floor.

A simple waltz rang through the room, the kind that even children knew. Anthony lowered his lips to your ear, shivers running down your spine as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in. "We have not danced in quite some time."

You whispered, not trusting your voice to remain stable. “The last time you asked me to dance, I believe we were in your study." Your smile fell slightly at the thought of him erasing the memory from his mind. "Remember?"

His gaze softened, his fingers pressing into your waist as he pulled you even closer, closer than one should be for a waltz. "How could I forget?"

"It was a rather odd waltz." You retorted, desperate to break the tension. "There was no music after all."

He laughed, a look gracing his face you hadn’t seen in some time, since before his father’s passing. Peace, pure, unadultered peace, perhaps with a sprinkle of mischief. "Such a difficult woman to please." 

"I am not." You glared at him, hating the way he made you feel, the way your stomach twisted when he looked at you the way he often did. "Anthony-"

"You are not a hard woman to please?" His smirk grew into a boyish grin. "What an inappropriate thing to-"

“Do not finish that sentence, Anthony Bridgerton.” You scoffed. “What happened to being a gentleman?” The conductor bowed, the waltz ending what seemed out of nowhere. Or perhaps, you would later tell yourself, it was because you got lost in Anthony Bridgerton’s eyes for the umpteenth time. You curtsied, walking away from the Viscount with your nose in the air. 

He chased after you, walking a mere step behind you. "I forget what being a gentleman is when I am around you." You knew he was jesting, but the way he had said it caused your stomach to twist and your cheeks to grow hot. 

"Please." You pulled your fan out, desperate to save face. "Save your theatrics for Sienna."

"You bring up Sienna quite often." He practically jumped in front of you, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Are you perhaps jealous?"

You scoffed, grabbing a glass of champagne from the table beside you, taking a large sip. "You are the most indignant man I have ever had the displeasure of-" Your eyes drifted over his shoulder, squinting. "Is that Basset?"

"Basset?" Anthony whipped around, grinning at the sight of his best friend. "Basset!"

"Bridgerton!" The Duke smiled kindly at you, bowing. "Miss Kinsley."

"Simon, it’s wonderful to see you."

"Old friend. I heard news of your father.” Anthony had a look of astonishment on his face. “Deuce, take it, you are no longer Basset."

"I shall always-"

"Hastings! The Duke of Hastings, now known for evermore."

Daphne tilted her head. "The Duke of Hastings, is it?"

You jumped. Daphne had shown up out of nowhere. Anthony nodded. "Right, Hastings, this is my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Daphne, Hastings, and I know each other from our days at Oxford, days we shall not soon forget."

"Yes. As I am well aware of the company you keep, brother, I am certain your days with His Grace were most civilized indeed."

You coughed, trying to cover up a laugh that had unfortunately spilled from your lips.

"Hastings, we shall need to get together properly. I expect to see you at our club then."

Simon nodded. "Indeed. Evening Bridgerton. Miss Bridgerton. Miss Kinsley."

Every week since your two families, the Bridgerton’s and the Kinsley’s, had come to know each other, you had had dinner.

This week was no exception, walking behind your parents as the butler escorted you to the dining room. Your father hugged Violet quickly, running after the youngest Bridgertons, who had been trying to attack him while he’d been distracted. 

Your mother laughed, shaking her head affectionately. "I believe my husband will never mature, Violet."

"I believe you would be right, Elisabeth." Violet sighed, her eyes drifting from her typically light-hearted nature to one of melancholy. "Shall we take our seats?"

Ever since his father’s death, Anthony had taken his seat, and for just as long, you had been sitting on his right. It was fitting, your mother would say when you whined. ‘You will marry, I know it.’ That is when you would scoff, shaking your head.

Now, you secretly wish your mother were correct. 

“For all we know, Whistledown may be some interloper living in Bloomsbury of all places."

Benedict rolled his eyes at his brother. "And what should be so terrible about Bloomsbury? That the people there actually work for a living?"

"She does seem to be someone with access."

"Who knows if Whistledown is even a she?"

Anthony nodded, taking a bite of his dinner. "Good point."

You scoffed, leaning forward in your chair. "You all are forgetting one crucial detail."

Anthony raised an eyebrow, waiting for your apparent revelation. "And what is that?"

You smirked, teasingly pointing at him with your fork. "Men do not possess the capacity to remember such details."

Eloise nodded vigorously. "Because she is simply too good to be anyone but a man?"

Anthony sighed. "I must say, you are not a good influence on my sisters."

"Well, I think it is rather obvious that the writer is Lady Danbury."

"Lady Danbury enjoys sharing her insults with society directly. She would never bother herself writing them all down."

Hyacinth spoke up. "Could it be Lady Featherington?"

The table fell into thunderous laughter. "No!"

"You have yet to read what Whistledown writes of the Featherington's, little sister." Eloise pointed out.

Hyacinth sat back, frowning. "I was just trying to help."

"And you were doing wonderfully, Hyacinth." You smiled warmly. "It is not your fault that you are normal and uneducated on such trivial nonsense, unlike Eloise." The girl rolled her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you. "Some say your sister is obsessed."

"I am not obsessed. Simply curious." She said as she stabbed a potato rather harshly.

"I'm only teasing, Eloise. I am equally curious as to who the author is. Wouldn’t it be spectacular if it were-" 

"Hastings! I am most excited that you decided to join us this evening. It was most spontaneous of you."

You glared, muttering under your breath. “I was not finished.” Anthony paid you no heed, staring at his friend with a curious look in his eye. 

"Not at all. With Lady Danbury accepting your dear mother's gracious invitation on my behalf, well. However, could I have declined?"

You laughed, covering your mouth with your wine glass, whispering. "What a matchmaker your mother is."

Anthony scowled. "Do not remind me."

You once again found yourself peeking through the cracked door of Anthony’s study. You smiled to yourself as his face came into view, admiring him from afar. He was quite handsome, with his terribly witty look, his dark features, and his kind eyes. You stepped closer, about to enter the study, when Lady Bridgerton’s voice cut through the silence.

"I was under the impression that the two of you are good friends."

"We are good friends. That is why I know that he is certain of never getting married."

Violet sighed. "Well, you must understand that all men make that assertion. Your father-"

Anthony snapped, looking up from his ledgers. "Do not bring Father into this. Even if he were in want of a wife, you would most certainly not have the duke anywhere near Daphne."

"I am fully subscribed to the belief that reformed rakes make the very best of husbands."

"He will not make her happy! Daphne deserves better. And I know that you think you are solving the problem, but you are not. That is all I shall say about the matter."

"The duke will be joining us as our guest at Vauxhall tomorrow evening. Now, I admit, it was not easy to convince him to come-"

"You overstep."

"She is my eldest daughter."

"Yet she is my responsibility, as are you."

Violet scoffed. "Responsibility?"

"Do not make this any more difficult than it already is."

Violet continued. "I wish to know something, Anthony. Tonight, when you leave this study that you continue to keep at your family home, are you to return to your bachelor lodgings across the square, or will you pay a visit to a certain soprano that you tend to in an apartment that you pay for on the other side of town?" 

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth. 

"You like to speak of responsibility. My dear son! Of duty? Pray, tell, what should you know of it? You must ask yourself, are you merely an older brother, or are you the man of this house?"

Violet stormed out of the study, and you tried your best to look as if you’d just happened upon the hallway, that you had not, in fact, been eavesdropping the entirety of their conversation. Anthony’s face was in his hands as you entered. 

"Mother, please leave me-"

"Anthony." You frowned, shutting the door gently behind you. "Are you quite alright?" He shrugged, finding it difficult to form words. You walked behind the desk, sitting directly in front of him. “Do not become cross with me.”

"Why would I be cross at you?" He tilted his head.

You reached out, holding his hands gently in yours. Your thumb caressed the back of his palm, your eyes trailing up from your joined hands to his eyes. "Anthony..."

"Not you, too." He sounded properly exhausted, simply dropping your hold as he walked toward the fire. That was somehow worse than him ripping his hands out of yours.  

You followed after him, crossing your arms. “I am merely saying that your mother has a point. You are a great Viscount, but you could-”

"I'm not my father."

You felt as if the very air you breathed had been pulled from your lungs. Your voice was soft as you spoke. "I know that."

“Then why does she keep insisting that I be-"

"I know that it feels as if she is putting the weight of the world on your shoulders, but she is trying to help you." You could not fight the urge to hold him any longer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “She loves you.” You whispered, heart skipping. “As do I.” 

He turned around, pulling your hand from his shoulder and holding it in his. “Promise me something.”

You decided to humor him, nodding. "Anything."

"Do not ever leave me." His eyes held a longing, a want for everything to remain the same. You pitied him. Eventually, you would marry, and now that you had accepted that you and Anthony were never to be, that would mean you would cease to see him.

"I will try my best."

He shook his head and pulled you closer, your breaths intermingling as his eyes darted to your lips every so often. You so longed to jump up, to pull his lips to yours. “I do not know what I would do if I lost you.”

“Anthony, please.” You put a hand on his cheek, smiling as he leaned into your touch. “You would be fine-”

"I do not believe I would." He leaned down, your breath hitching as he laid his forehead against yours. "In fact, I know I would not."

You laughed, falling into the trap of domestic bliss. "Anthony, I will marry eventually. You and I will no longer see each other." 

He scoffed. "Pray tell, what possessed you to ruin my dream? Humor me." 

"Dream?” You raised your eyebrow, smiling giddily. “What dream is that?" His finger pressed against your lips, and you stopped, thanking the lord for the dim lighting the room provided. Hopefully, he could not see how wide your pupils were, your shallow breaths, your burning cheeks.

“It will not happen.” 

You raised your eyebrow once more, this time in offense. “Am I that difficult on the eye?” 

He laughed. “Do not fish for compliments. You know you are exquisite.” You sighed, stepping back. It all became too much, this complimenting, his dream, him. He tightened his hold on your hands, eyebrows furrowing. “Where are you off to?” 

“I should be going, Anthony. It is late-” 

“You always stay this late.” He frowned. “Is something-” 

“Dearest!” Your mother’s voice rang through the house, and your eyes widened, pulling away from the Viscount. “Dearest, we are leaving!” 

You would later thank your mother for her help. Curtsying quickly, you darted out of the study, racing down the steps. “Goodbye, my lord.” 

You hadn’t intended on seeing him here, of all places. You were surprised, in truth, that Anthony still frequented the library. It was gorgeous, and even though you were no student, the librarian still allowed you to frequent the aisles from time to time. You could be found here in truth, just sitting, enjoying the silence. The solitude. 

When you saw his ever familiar frame and you jumped, hiding behind an endcap in the hopes he’d missed you. You groaned when he’d called out your name, squeezing your eyes shut. He whispered your name again, and you took a deep breath, stepping out to face the man you’d been avoiding. 

“Lord Bridgerton, how wonderful to see you.” 

“I would say the same-” He took his hat off, smirking. “But it seems you have been avoiding me as of late.” 

“I do not know what you mean.” You scoffed, walking past him, desperate to escape. “If you’ll excuse me-” 

“Why?” He asked, following after you. “You have not been attending our dinners.” 

“I haven’t been feeling well.” 

“Oh?” He frowned, stepping in front of you. Reaching up, he placed the back of his hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. Your eyes widened, and you stepped around him. He squinted, watching you with interest. “You seem well.”

“I am.” You nodded. “I am now.” He kept looking at you, kept trying to understand you. “Can you stop staring at me?” Your cheeks felt hot. “It is unbecoming.” 

“I have missed you.” He whispered. “May I call on you?” 

You scoffed. “Call on me? Anthony, you have been in my home more times than I care to count. You do not need to call on me.” 

“I know.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “I will see you tomorrow, then?” 

“Anthony…” Your eyes trailed down to his hand, which was still holding your wrist. “I’m afraid I have the time reserved.” 

“Reserved?” He tilted his head, voice becoming hostile. “Reserved for what?” 

“For whom.” You corrected, hating that this conversation was occurring, in public, no less. “It is for Lord Goring.” 

“Lord Goring?” Anthony yelled, drawing the attention of the many students strewn throughout the hall. “Lord Goring? That man is twice your age-”

“His wife recently died, and he is kind.” You hissed. “We are going on a promenade.” Anthony stood before you, fuming silently. You frowned, curtsying quickly. “Goodbye, Lord Bridgerton.”

You’d practically flown down the steps, you walking pace closer to a light run. You hadn’t bothered to look behind you, too scared that Anthony would be there, following after you. 

“Miss Kinsley!”

Of course, he had followed you. You kept your pace, refusing to give in and turn around. 

“Miss Kinsley!” You gasped, turning to your side to see Anthony following after you in his carriage. The many lords and ladies walking on the street gasped, staring at the couple. “Let me bring you home, please.” 

“That would be most improper, my lord.” You hissed, eyes wide. “I enjoy a nice walk.” 

“As do I.” Anthony was not giving up. “If you like, I can escort you home.” 

You glared, crossing your arms. “You are the most arrogant, outlandish, pig-headed-” 

“Are you quite finished?” He raised an eyebrow. “Mother is expecting me for luncheon.” 

You wanted to scream. Gathering your skirts in your hands, you climbed into the carriage, shutting the door behind you harshly. “I cannot stand you.” 

“Funny enough, I cannot stand you either.” He looked thoroughly entertained. “Yet here I am…” 

“Here you are.” You were now hugging yourself, knee bouncing nervously. And Anthony… he had not stopped staring at you, watching you with a fascination you had never seen before. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” His voice was soft. 

“Staring at me with such a-” You met his eyes, voice going weak. “Turn your eyes away from me if you can.” 

“That is the problem.” He leaned forward, whispering. “I do not think that’s possible.”

“Why?” You wished the carriage could go faster. “Is there something on my face that you have yet to tell me?” 

“Can I not admire you?” He smiled. “You are beautiful.” 

You gasped. “Do not say such things.” 

“It is true.” His smile had not left his face. “I am not a fool.” 

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, a small laugh leaving you before you could think.

“Do you believe me to be a fool?” When you did not answer, he smirked. “I know why you have been avoiding me, Miss Kinsley.” 

“Do tell.” 

The ever-familiar scene of your two houses came into view as the carriage slowed, Anthony’s voice confident. “You have fallen in love with me.” 

“You are wrong.” You didn’t know what you wanted to do: smack him or kiss him. “I have not fallen in love with you.” 

He laughed, holding your hand as you descended the carriage steps. “Whatever you say, my love.” 

“My love?” You rolled your eyes, smiling kindly at the servants you passed as you walked through the Bridgerton’s house. “I am not your-” Your eyes widened as Anthony led you into the parlor, the entirety of his family present. “Anthony?” 

Anthony brought you into the middle of the room, hooking his arm through yours. “I have an announcement.” 

Eloise peeked out from behind her book, grinning when she saw you. “Miss Kinsley!” 

Violet stood beside Francesca, who was currently playing the piano forte. “What is the announcement, dear?” 

“Miss Kinsley and I are to be wed.” The room erupted into chaos, all congratulating you while you stared at Anthony, frozen in shock. He leaned down, whispering in your ear. “I may have forgotten a rather important detail.” 

You laughed. “I believe you may have.” 

“Forgive me.” Lowering himself to one knee, he held your hands delicately in his, eyes desperately staring into yours. “Miss Kinsley, will you do me the honor of-” 

“Yes.” You nodded, eyes wide with tears. You leaned down, kissing his cheek. “Anthony, you must know that I’ve loved you for quite some time.” 

He stood, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You must know something as well.” 

You smiled. “And what is that?” 

“I have loved you for quite some time as well.” 

Violet was simply sobbing as she watched the two interact. “Anthony, you must give her your father’s ring.” Pulling the delicate thing off her finger, she placed it in Anthony’s palm, tears streaming down her face. “I always wished- Your mother and I wanted this for- Oh!” She sobbed again, pulling you both into a strong hug. “I am overjoyed!” 

Eloise laughed as you silently begged her for help. “I told you you were family, dear sister.” 

“They will be wondering where I am, Anthony.” You looked nervously toward the door. “Now that we are engaged, they will not allow this sort of-” 

“You are quite tense, my love.” He laughed, placing one hand on your waist, the other on your cheek. “Our wedding is in three days time, surely they will not mind-” 

“My father now believes that every time we have been alone before this was-” Your cheeks felt hot. “Was an attempt on your part to seduce me.” Anthony laughed, actually laughed at your statement. You, on the other hand, did not find this situation remotely as humorous. “It is not amusing in the slightest, Anthony.” 

“I find it amusing.” He whispered, leaning down until his nose nudged yours. “May I kiss you?” 

“You kissed me when I entered your office.” You raised an eyebrow. “Are you so desperate-” You gasped as Anthony pulled you impossibly close. 

“I have a whole lifetime to remedy, for delaying the inevitable, for keeping us apart.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke. “Do you not enjoy it, kissing?” 

You scoffed. “I never said that-” 

“Good.” He smiled. 

“But yo-” Your eyes fluttered shut, his lips colliding against yours passionately. It seemed a whole eternity passed before either of you let go, your breath heavy as you parted. “You interrupted me.” 

“I am sorry.” 

You shrugged, kissing the corner of his mouth. “As long as you promise to interrupt me as you just did for the rest of our lives…” Your voice was warm, full of adoration for your future husband. “Then I do not mind.” 

“Well then,” He grinned, eyes falling to your lips once more. “Your wish is my command, Lady Bridgerton.” 

taglist: @esmereldafloyd @linnygirl09

[coffeewithcal]

Obsessed with you 11

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x afab! reader

Synopsis: Ton's most eligible bachelor makes a move, oh dear ! An offer by the gentleman.

Warning: no description of reader, reader's last name is Rose for convenience ( used only twice ) internal conflict, mutual pinning but it's secret on reader's part, Benedict being an absolute tease, touchy Benedict, fluff and humour, reader's mother has some issues, resentment feelings for love, alcoholism ( blink and you miss it ) please read it !! ( No Polin, kathony in this chapter)

Dearest gentle readers,

This author believes desire to be a spectrum, and while longing, passion, lust and love are often known, i would ask, ' have you ever seen obsession ? ' it is rather very tempting.

It is not I, but the moon that basked in the sky last night who whispered, and i simply convey. There's been an offer made by the gentleman. Tempting, is it not ?

The next morning...

" How was your evening ? "

You coughed, grasping your throat as Mrs. Turner immediately patted your back, helping you with water.

Your mother's gaze was usually unfocused and clouded but even so, it was terrifying enough when she narrowed them at you.

" Fine." You said, feeling your chest burn, " It was very pleasant."

" That's amazing dearest." She turned back to her plate, untouched as it was, she hardly ate sometimes, you looked away, blinking.

" Ma'am, shall we expect any caller ? " Mrs. Turner asked your mother, but the question was solely directed to you.

" Indeed." Mama drank, her third glass of wine," she's very good girl." She added, raising her empty glass, her eyes stinging with moisteness.

" She is." Mrs. Turner smiled, you dropped your gaze back to your breakfast, staring hard. Oh god, what have you done ?

While waiting for a caller...

If Mrs. Turner noticed your panic, she said nothing and darkest part of you wondered if she was enjoying it actually.

" Your mother will be so disappointed if you have no caller today." Mary sighed, you winced internally, feeling sudden urge to just run and run until everything inside you crumbled and withered away.

" C'mon ! " Mary moaned, nudging you on your arm, "you're scaring me like that, say something."

" I don't know." You turned to her, pulling a straight face " suggest something lady Mariam." Mary groaned, you giggled, remembering how your sister used to, in every pain, in every nightmare.

Gissele joked all the times, her sharp wits and biting humour was something you always looked up at, you always wanted to be her because nothing touched her, she never cried, never baffled, her laughter still echoed sometimes in your head. But when night came and so did fear and darkness, on one such you tip tooed to her room, frozen at the soft sobs that were muffled by the pillow.

The jokes weren't funny anymore.

" Oh i wish—" whatever Mary wished was drowned by Mrs. Turner who entered the room with a undignified frown directed to you both , her eyes sharpening with unspoken disdain. Mary sat up straighter, abandoning her usual hunching and slouching.

" You have a caller miss." Mrs. Turner annouced, " Mr. Benedict bridgerton." She said, her mouth bitter with loathing.

You half registered her resentment before a shrilly strangled noise escaped your throat, mind swirling with last night memories that you were still not accepting to be true, you told Mary everything except the offer from the gentleman, or perhaps it wasn't a offer at all. A demand.

" Oh no." Mary gasped, you weren't sure if you had nodded or said anything but Mrs. Turner left, her mouth clasped close, brow knitted.

" What should I do ? " You bited your lip, panic settling, you remembered too well how bolting Benedict made you feel, the feel of his lips pressed against your skin. It was too endearing, a feeling that was too close to flying, soaring high but also to falling, down and down till there's nothing holding you but gravity, Benedict made you skip your heartbeats then become it's very muse.

" Be yourself. Didn't you say that to me ? "

Mary deadpanned, sensing your dread, she tried again,

" We can still run away, the window's open—" Mary stood upright, turning towards the fireplace when Benedict came. He was holding flowers, almost all kinds, his eyes twinkled as he raked his gaze upon you, smiling.

" Good morning, miss Rose." He bowed, at first to you, handling your flowers and you were gone the moment his fingers brushed against you, but it was then you realised there were two bouquets.

" Lady Mariam Turner." Benedict's smile grew wicked, you were sure to heard Mary mumbling something very blasphemous before she turned around, her face red.

" A very good morning, Mr. Bridgerton." She bowed, her eyes shut. You were paralyzed, feeling your skin still buzzing.

" C'mon, don't stand too much ladies, you might get tired." He purred, clapping his hand as he sat down next to you the couch, Mary and you shared a look before you sat back, she followed on the other one.

" Why did you come ? " You said, feeling your throat getting rigid, considering how Mary sighed, it was the worst possible thing to say to your caller, it didn't matter.

" Well, I was going to meet you mother and ask for your hand in marriage today but since she's sick and confined to her chambers, I shall do it tomorrow." You gaped at him, no matter how much you convinced yourself that it was just a dream, in no hell it could be now, his sincere eyes were most dazzling and despite the smirk that lit up his whole face, there was no ounce of humour.

" That's.." you shaked your head, don't think about his mouth, stop, stop, stop—

" Very kind." Mary was equally baffled, but you knew what a tease she would be to you later, if only you survived now.

" Thankyou lady Turner." Benedict smiled to her, bowing again, his teeths showing and Mary's ear blazed and she looked away, chortling under her breath.

" I am sorry about yesterday." You weren't sure how you could offended him but it didn't matter, you would be doomed if anyone knew of the lunacy you pulled last night.

Benedict deepened his gaze but said nothing, he slowly descended to your collarbone and heat crept up your spine. You shifted back, baffled at the tightening in your guts.

" I shall leave you to talking." Mary stood up, motioning towards the shelves and shelves of books.

" You don't read." You hissed at her, she sticked out her tongue tip and was gone, sparing few glances in between.

" I like her." Benedict said, you noticed that he was much closer. It surely wasn't a trick of your mind.

" Why are you doing this ? " You asked him, because you would be damned if it were another of his flirtings, another way to entertain himself. A frown crossed his jolly face and it didn't look like it belonged there.

" Forgive me if I had not made that clear." He said, his eyes softened when he looked at you, " I want to marry you." Oh.

No, no, you told yourself, didn't what Mrs. Turner said, he liked them of class, he has no honour when it comes to corrupt young ladies—

" You don't even know me." You said, voice small and frail.

" As much as I know you, you are kind, gentle and affectionate. Your beauty however is yet another muse of mine, i tried so hard, to trap you in canvas and colours but I couldn't do any justice, for you were simply ethereal in your own orbit. " He said, " but I would like to know all of you, every layer, every facade...you are the most extraordinary person i have ever met."

You wouldn't believe him, no matter how bright his eyes shine and how true every word feels, no, you wouldn't make the mistake Gissele made. Words, stupid words.

" We danced, only one time."

" It was enough." He reached out and kept his hand over yours, it was then your realised how badly your hands were trembling.

You didn't pull away, you knew how you would break down if you had to. You held onto him, not that you trusted him, no.

" Listen love, " love, He said it so softly, you were so doomed, " The moment our eyes locked I knew you had bewitched me, everything inside me longed for you...and..I knew it's silly but I thought i would die if I didn't see you again and when I did, I knew there was no life worth living it it's not with you."

" Those are just words." You looked away, instead focusing your eyes on Mary on the other end of the room, pretending to read a book, it was upside down.

" Yes, they are." He agreed, " so that's why I am here to make them actions, I fancy you so much that it sometimes scares—"

" Then don't, love shouldn't be scary." You remembered all those letters in Gissele's room, talking about love this, love that, ending with love you's, but what then ?

Benedict chuckled, like you weren't bashing him. he squeezed your hand gently. His fingers sliding through the dips of your knuckles, like moulded for each other. Stop.

" Love's not scary, it can be when you think about losing them, I was last night when I thought you wouldn't show up. That I would never see you again...no, I was terrified."

" You knew." You turned to him, he was practically hopping as he caught your gaze, every desire crawling out to you, screaming your name.

" I did." He confirmed, you raised your brow in question, " I would recognise you anywhere." He said simply and just like that you believed him.

You felt your face warming, heat shooting up in flames, Benedict seemed amused as his other hand, the one not making stars on your wrist came to caress your cheek. His lips parted when he felt your warmness, then he smiled, a knowing one.

" What if I nothing that you have assumed me to be ? " You weren't sure why you asked him that, perhaps it was the last letter you burnt before your elder sister could read it.

...Gis, this is not what we agreed on, this is not you, not the Gissele i knew. Please stop claiming it to be mine, we didn't even go that further, stop spreading these sour rumours that could filth my name...

" I adore all of you, every bit and every mole, i don't think there's any choice for me, it's just... there's no proof but you just know...I knew it, it's you, miss Rose. It was always going to be you."

You nodded, not sure if you could speak anything, feeling your heart thud louder and louder with each word that he spoke, every curve of his mouth and you could slowly feel time stoping.

That was the moment Mrs. Turner took to came, you yanked your hand back but Benedict wasn't much interested and his whine was quite visible.

" Mr. Bridgerton, Would you like lemon cakes, our cook is quite famous for it ? " Benedict looked at the refreshments that was left untouched except the biscuit that Mary nicked while on her way to 'reading' books upside down.

" As much I am very fond of it, i would have to say no. Me and miss Rose fancied a walk around the gardens."

Mrs. Turner looked accusingly at you and you shrugged, Benedict ignored all of that.

" Pleasant weather, is it not ? "

Mrs. Turner perched her lips, smiling that was mere curtsy. Oh god, what are you Benedict bridgerton ? Why are you so obsessed with me ?

By the secret gardens, with Mr. Bridgerton...

" Lady Mariam, alright ? " Benedict turned back to Mary who walked few steps behind you and him.

" Yes my Mr. Bridgerton." She said, slowing even more, she wasn't even trying to be good chaperone. Benedict praised her for it.

" That's my hand." You grasped your skirt before Benedict could hold it, for god sake, people were watching.

" Oops." Benedict apologised, not being sorry at all, his smile widening. You kept your eyes ahead.

" So would you say yes when I will propose ? " Benedict asked this, indirectly for the third time since the walk, he was rather good with words, he was also good at painting as much as you had heard and— stop, stop, stop.

" Haven't you already proposed ? " You stopped, he did too, cocking his head sideways.

" Yes indeed I have and I meant it." He admitted, " I was talking about the one where I am on my knees."

You weren't going to think about that, absolutely not, in no scandalous way. His thighs would look very erotic. Shit.

"No."

" You're lying." He scoffed. Yes you were, not that securing a proposal this season was your absolute ultimatum. Your mother wasn't cruel, she never was, but she was very paranoid and it was more crueler sometimes.

But marrying Benedict wouldn't be your escape or security, because you knew you would love him, whatever that was and if you could hate yourself for it then so it be.

The fate and destiny Benedict said, the way he just knew and who were you lying to ?

Didn't you touched him and got so electrified that you knew nothing would ever be same again, say it, go on. Lie, lie again but swear it if you didn't lock eyes with him and wished to just get lost and never be found. Wasn't it the night of the masquerade ball when you were truly alive for the first time in so long, giggling and free, dancing with your hands tied. Go on, lie.

" You wish." Benedict laughed on that, rich and beautiful and enough to make you hide your face as it went crimson.

" Lady—" he bagan to turn, you grabbed his elbow, jerking him to you, very unladylike.

" Stop teasing her." You leaned towards him and while you were in no position to talk about flustering but damn, Benedict was knocked out of his breath. You smiled, it was truly inevitable not to.

" I like to."

" Mean."

" That's very unladylike to insult your husband to be." Benedict said, recovering, all his smugness on full display. You let go of his arm, bending to take a pebble.

" Husband ? " You tossed a pebble off the lake, hoping to blame the rosiness that bloomed your cheeks on the sun.

" Yes wifey ? " Benedict ducked his head, like a puppy with stars in his eyes. He was so beautiful, why did he have to be like this ?

" Don't call me that." Please, very much call me that, it makes me blush, please, please.

" Then what should I call you ? " Benedict asked, before you could answer him, his arm grasped your waist, pulling you to him in a sudden moment. Wish you could say you immediately pulled away but that would be a lie. You melted in his embrace, eyes shut, a soft rhythmic music, it was his heart beats, you listened.

" Pebble." Benedict whispered down in your ear, you nodded once, pulling away hesitantly. He wasn't sure but let go of your elbow at last, his cheeks pink with blood.

" Should I call you Mrs.Bridgerton ? "

" Aren't there going to be three Mrs. Bridgertons ? "

Benedict bumped your nose on that, laughing while you frowned. He ought to stop touching you before you do something awfully stupid.

.... you're not stupid Gissele...

" Well ofcourse, yes. I see you're stalking me." Benedict winked, you eye rolled, something inside you shivering, a knot in your stomach loosening.

" Everyone knows that."

" Hmmph." Benedict hummed, " but you ought to know more wifey."

" Ofcourse Husband." You tried and was rewarded with Benedict missing a step, he smiled, a lopsided grin, recovering soon he turned to you.

" I wished to make you a wedding gift."

You knew he didn't even made a formal proposal to your mother but even so every word felt truer than life, for once you let go of what would happen, if he would break your heart then so be it, if you die bleeding then let it be that way, but you want to be alive, for once, just be alive.

" That's very kind of you."

Benedict tucked a strand of hair behind your hair, smiling his brightest smile.

You looked back at Mary who grinned back with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

" Obsessed." She mouthed, you shaked your head, smiling to yourself, very well.

Rigel's note 🪩 : I hope it was good, I am bit struck in life :( also can anyone make a banner, please ? I mean i would do it myself but I am so so slumped up right now and lack skills too <3 also thank-you for leaving cute cute asks and replies and messages!!! I am so thankful to write for wonderful dearest readers like you, love you <3

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[coffeewithcal]

UNTOLD TRUTHS

benedict bridgerton x fem!reader | 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. (3.3k)

a/n: this is a repost and was requested by an anon on my previous blog, i don't know if i did it justice but i hope u guys like it :)) the gif is made by @catalinabaylors ! also, content warning for fluff? angst? oversharing and not-so subtle “friends”? protective eloise and pen?

It has been brought to This Author’s attention that whilst shopping for her trousseau, Lady Y/N L/N was seen leaving the shop of Genevieve Delacroix in tears after a conversation with the aforementioned modiste and Mrs. Lucy Granville.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 1816

Three years.

A year of childish ignorance and playful remarks

Another filled marked with painful longing and not-so revealing revelations

And the most recent?

A beautiful year of sensual dancing and endless promenades.

Three years that brought her the greatest amount of joy could be ruined by the weight of untold truths. Because how is one lying if they simply wished to withhold what was true? How is one called a liar for not telling the other of something they never cared to ask for?

“I swear on all of my writings that I truly believed that he had told you, Y/N,” Eloise said as she held your hand while your head rested on Penelope’s lap. The two were stroking your hair to provide comfort as Eloise also rambled about her idiotic brother.

It was completely humorous of how life can make you crumble and dissolve into tears in merely four-and-twenty hours.

Because four-and twenty hours ago you had found yourself on your way to the modiste to acquire items for your trousseau. Four-and-twenty hours ago, you had been so elated and excited for it made your upcoming marriage more real to you.

Because then, you had sighed, madly and deeply in love as you stared at your beloved’s extremely expressive blue eyes that reflected the same intensity of emotion your own held. Happiness, that was what it felt like and that was what it was supposed to feel like for the rest of your lives.

“I certainly hope that the clothing you choose to include would… be the most satisfactory,” Benedict had said, his hand resting on the one you had placed on his cheek, a lopsided smile on his face that you could not help but match.

“Satisfactory for whom? For you or for me, Mr. Bridgerton?” you had responded, chuckling when he feigned to think for a moment, his eyes had closed as to what he must have believed to be the look of one deep in thought.

When he opened them, those blue eyes engulfed you with the passionate heat it suddenly possessed. “By all means yours.” He then pressed the softest of kisses on your palm. “But if my lady would allow, then perhaps for me too.”

Before you could have answered him or leaned a little bit closer, a cough had interrupted your rather intimate moment. You both withdrew from each other and stepped ever further once under the scrutinizing gaze of your families.

You had cleared your throat before anyone could remark on how lovesick the two of you were or of how close you were on causing a scandal in the middle of Mayfair as you both stood in front the doors of Bridgerton House. “I-is Eloise joining us?”

The desperation of avoiding a scolding from your mother of the virtue you were taught to remain intact must have shown through your eyes as Eloise nodded frantically. “Yes, of course I will be coming.” She had hastily walked to you, grabbed your arm and dragged you towards the carriage. The raised eyebrows of your mother and Lady Bridgerton led you to believe that your close friend had not been invited or accepted an invite to join. “And we must make haste as we ought to stop by Gunter’s for flavored ice too!”

You had managed to wave to Benedict and your families before you entered the carriage and was met with the disgusted face of Eloise. “In front of our very house? Really?”

You merely laughed in response while your mothers entered the carriage, they had seemingly forgotten the scandal that nearly occurred as they began to talk excessively about the shops you were to visit.

Madam Genevieve Delacroix’ popular dressmaking shop had been the last place you were to be at. You had smiled, excited for she was to craft the dress you were to wear at your wedding ceremony.

You wished you knew then that once you left, there would be the possibility of the union to not happen.

You had entered with an optimistic smile on your face, the joy brought by Eloise’s hilarious commentary while moving from shop to shop still evident on your face. Other than matters regarding your awaited nuptials, you had also missed the modiste. The last time you were in each other’s presence was before the season began when you were getting fitted for your outfits.

“Mrs. Granville, it is such a surprise to see you here at this time of the year…” your mother said and the three of you followed in greeting her. It was quite odd to find anyone who was not a mother and a debutante in the modiste when the season was already ending.

Mrs. Granville, a beautiful lady with the kindest of smiles, agreed with what your mother had said. “I am not purchasing anything at the moment, I only missed Madam Delacroix and wished to speak with her about events that happened lately."

Minutes later you found yourself standing on top of a small platform with the mirror in front of you as your mothers sought for fabrics and Eloise read the book she brought. “Mademoiselle Y/N, I feel that I am obligated to express my felicitations,” Madam Delacroix had chimed with a kind smile while she took your measurements. Mrs. Granville was quick to tell you the same.

“Thank you, Madam Delacroix, Mrs. Granville.”

“How is your relationship with Mr. Bridgerton, ma chérie? You two appear to be a very beautiful pair,” Madam Delacroix had asked. You assumed that she was trying to start a conversation to fill the silence in the shop.

“Thank you, uh, I do believe it is going very well… He is very… transparent. Most of the time, he is utterly easy to read which is very interesting,” you had explained, a fond smile on your face as you recalled his eyes. For the longest time, the expressions they held made you feel like you knew him, truly knew him. And when he had professed his longing and desire to court, and eventually marry, you through showing you a sketchbook of his. You had never known that he drew… and from that realization came the promise of finding out everything about him during your courtship.

From his favorite color of paint to use to the dreams that made him restless at night, you had been sure that you knew.

“Oh, so Mr. Bridgerton has told you… everything?” Mrs. Granville inquired, she looked quite shocked and you were not surprised. Most men only displayed and shared carefully selected pieces of themselves while courting debutantes. Of course, most debutantes do the same.

“I believe so.”

“Y/N and my brother have known each other since she moved here four years ago and they are completely and utterly besotted with each other,” Eloise had interjected, her tone appearing to be proving a point that you did not know of. “You should have seen them stare at each other earlier, they gazed upon each other as if they had both hung the stars in the sky.”

“Yes, of course. All of London has been made aware of it, Miss Eloise,” Madam Delacroix had responded with a smile on her face as she draped the fabrics your mother and Violet chose in the few minutes they had been gone. You slightly turned your face to find them looking at more which had made you chuckle. The hint of jealousy in the modiste’s tone flew by your head but Eloise heard it clearly. “Lady Whistledown has only written numerous things about the two of you all season.”

“He has been attending balls and events all season with you and the look in your eyes makes my own heart flutter,” Mrs. Granville had complimented, well you had thought that she complimented your relationship with Benedict. “Although he is dearly missed in some ventures that occur during my husband’s parties.”

“Oui,” Madam Delacroix added with a knowing look on her face which made you assume that she was participating in those parties for artists. You exchanged a confused look with Eloise. You had both wondered what other ventures were there for them to do while they paint or sketch or mingle.

“What other things do you do during those… parties?” You had asked, your heart picking up slightly as if you had anticipated the answer. Eloise, who had known of her brother’s friendship with the modiste, was about to interject when Violet called her to try on a particular dress in preparation for her next season. She reluctantly joined the two mamas, squeezing your hand before she grumbled unladylike words while walking over to them

“I thought…. Mr. Bridgerton must have told you the main purpose of the parties and the things he does and used to do as you said he was open with you?” Mrs. Granville was polite in her tone and she beamed once you nodded. Madam Delacroix began sewing a particular part on the fabric your Mama had said was in the color that put emphasis on the color of your eyes. “Well then you must know that our artists always find themselves with paint in all kinds of peculiar places.”

That was when you knew that something was wrong… there was a sudden tight feeling in your chest as you took in the suggestiveness in her voice. You were innocent, but not naive. As if there was a frog that lodged itself in your throat, no words left your mouth although you had wished you had spoken.

“And oftentimes… there are those who put them there,” Madam Delacroix said.

“Oh.” It was the only thing that you managed to say as Mrs. Granville and Madam Delacroix began talking about some of the thrilling things that have happened during those parties, oblivious to how you had gone pale and still. Oblivious to how you had not even kissed your beloved nor done the things they had said. Oblivious to how he had not even told you that his passions were also involved with other passionate activities.

Within a few minutes, you quickly made your way out of the shop, a small thank you and excuse me coming from you.

“… Lady Whistledown has also written about it, hopefully she does not find out the reasons for your abrupt exit,” Eloise added and Penelope nodded, agreeing with her. The two were quite shocked when you sat up with a frown settled on your face.

“Leaving was pathetic and careless and foolish of me,” you said after some pondering of the recent events and the two hesitantly agreed. Well, Penelope did. Eloise already mentioned that somewhere during her rambling. “And I am not… It is not… It is not even his companionships that have made me upset, well not entirely.”

“Is it because he did not tell you?” Penelope inquired as the two looked at you intensely, noticing how you began playing with the ends of your hair, something you only did when you were anxious.

“No, yes, no, well that’s part of it. You both know that I wished…” They both nodded, understanding you easily. “Trust is vital in a relationship. There is trust in love and love in trust, there is beauty in that. There is beauty in having one trust you with everything they were, are, and shall be. To confide your mind, your soul, and your heart with them and to be assured that they would hold on to that and—”

A knock interrupted your monologue of sorts and the voice of your Lady’s maid could be heard on the other side of your door, “Lady Y/N, Mr. Bridgerton is here and he wishes to talk to you…”

“That fool! We all told him to give you time.” Eloise stood up, Penelope following her actions. “Pen and I shall straighten him up and have him leave.”

Penelope tried to muster up confidence for her friend, she exhaled deeply. “Yes, we shall. You can stay in here, Y/N, he does not deserve to stress you any further.”

Before they could depart, your voice rang within the room, “Thank you, Jane, and please tell Mr. Bridgerton that I shall see him in a few minutes.”

Looks of disbelief lit your closest friends faces as your Lady’s maid left to relay your message.

“You most certainly are not going out of there!” Eloise exclaimed, her eyes wide and hands descriptive. “He may be my brother but he has hurt you! He knows how much trust and communication mean to you!”

“And he is still attending Sir Granville’s parties, does he not? While Mrs. Granville did say that he does not engage in those activities, who’s to say that he does not watch?” Penelope shrunk once her comment made you and Eloise look at her weirdly. She blushed, realizing what she had implied, and it caused a small chuckle to erupt from your chest.

“The two of you are the best friends that any person could ever ask for and I am forever thankful for your protectiveness but I think that the matters in which my heart is involved can only be resolved by the two people involved? And I do not wish to let the situation last longer…”

The two relented and you had them stay within your quarters.

You entered the drawing room and Benedict’s pacing halted. His eyes connected with yours and you could see the anxiety and guilt swirling in them. You suspected that he wished to reach out to you as you stood still near the door but he seemed to stop himself.

“I-uh-I,” he stuttered, squinting as he internally scolded himself for it.

You broke the silence and his stuttering, which was painful to watch, by asking, “Have you been…”

“No! From the moment that I saw you dancing with Lord Kingston during Lady Cowper’s ball, I have attended only to hone my skills,” he admitted and you could not help but give him a small smile which made his heart flutter with love and hope. During your first year as a debutante that you spent with Eloise and Penelope mocking the other ladies and mamas, Lord Kingston was your most respectable suitor that asked you to dance every night.

The most memorable was during Lady Cowper’s ball when the season was half-way finished. You had been serious in your contemplation of Lord Kingston’s proposal and to see if you could ever love him with a slightly longer courtship, you danced with him twice, laughing at the stories he had of his horses in the country. Two days later, you had received numerous bouquets of flowers from an anonymous suitor and that continued until the end of the season.

“Oh,” you breathed. He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, not finding the right words to say to you. “I wish to inform you that it is not even your pursuit of pleasure that causes me great distress.”

“Then…”

“I knew that you were quite rakish, most men are. It is my fault for not inquiring about it during our courtship, you were not obligated to tell me—”

“I am. I should have told you from the moment I knew that you were the only one I wanted to be with in my entire life. You need not have to ask it from me, you need not have to ask me anything about me… I should have been honest with you about everything.”

“Then… why were you not?”

“Fear, I suppose. I know that you value trust above all else, even love, and I always felt like I betrayed the trust you bestowed upon me by attending Henry’s parties.”

“You were only there to practice your art… I would have understood that even if your surroundings were invested in other things,” you said and his eyes were brought back to stare at yours. His hands were shaking as he sighed.

“I know but it did not mean that it would still remove the guilt in my chest every time I stare at the bare bodies I draw,” he admitted and you had to look away, your face heating up at those words.

“Well… I believe that resolves everything, thank you for being honest w—”

He cut you off, the guilt in his eyes fading into the background with a certain form of determination overwhelming you. “Please stop falsifying your happiness or content with my answers. I know that you are still unhappy with me so I implore for you to listen while I share all of my untold truths.”

So, there are more, you thought with a heavy heart. You nodded with a tight smile.

“I often get irritated whenever I draw you,” he elaborated and a smile formed on his face at the offended look on your face. He began walking to you, as he talked and you listened to his odd words. “My sketches used to be abominable due to the harsh lines I always seem to make, so when I draw you… I could never replicate the softness of your smile nor the tranquility in your eyes. I never do your presence justice.

“I also abhor how close you are with my sister. I truly believe that I am her most favorite brother and, do not tell Hyacinth, but she is also my favorite sister. But with you… all sense seems to leave me and I forget about familial ties. I keep vying for your attention when you visit as it was always fixated on Eloise and her endless Whistledown theories.”

“She surely has a lot of those,” you commented, the way the corner of your mouth lifted made Benedict melt every time.

“She does,” he agreed but then continued, “Lest not forget how I do not like the attention that Lady Whistledown has given me during our courtship. My privacy has never felt that invaded yet whenever I see your joy in reading the scandal sheet, I do not seem to care at all.”

He now stood in front of you, his arms wrapping themselves around your waist and your own around his neck. Other than the close positions you two had been seen in on the dance floor, this was the closest you two had been to each other. And you were also unchaperoned, how scandalous, you thought.

“I suppose that is all, Mr. Bridgerton?” you asked and he thought about it for a moment before shaking his head.

“Well, no, Lady Y/N.” You felt his warmth breath fanning your neck as he leaned, his lips brushing off the tender skin which made you shiver with an unknown feeling, your heartbeat picking up. "However, all of my other… impure thoughts and truths are only reserved for the future Mrs. Bridgerton.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you choked out, “Well, whoever she may be, she is truly lucky.”

“As am I.” He removed himself from your neck and went back to simply gazing into your eyes, the feeling you experienced only moments ago left, leaving you yearning for more.

You did not know how long you stood there, simply staring at each other, in an embrace that was truly the most improper. Thank heavens that the curtains were drawn.

“When shall we ask Eloise and Penelope to stop listening in on our conversation?” you whispered, both of your eyes glanced at the door for a short while and Benedict laughed.

“Perhaps a few more minutes, I do believe that I have something I have wished to do for so long,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes that shone with mirth once realization dawned on you.

Before you could say another word, he leaned in and closed the gap, locking lips with yours.

[coffeewithcal]

sleeping beauty

a/N: i hate the word huskily

summary: painting the woman of his dreams feels like a fairytale warning: smutty ish at the end... kinda... sorta - aka lottie thinks she's written some very vanilla smut

"Thank you, Miss Elliot. I shall have it finished by the end of the month."

Y/N stood up from the chair she'd been sitting on for the last three hours, hands clasped in her lap, face calm. "Thank you, Mr Nichols. I look forward to seeing it."

She grabbed her shawl from the back of the chair and draped it over her arms, walking out the room. The Royal Academy was a beautiful building. Y/N walked down the corridor, looking around in awe, wishing she could spend more time here.

Y/N walked past an open door, peering inside as she passed. She skipped to a halt and looked back inside, double-checking what she thought she'd seen.

Benedict Bridgerton had his back to the main door, his jacket abandoned on the chair behind him as he painted a background onto a canvas. He was absorbed in his work, clearly oblivious to everything else around him.

Y/N had spent a lot of time with Benedict over recent months. They had walked around galleries and museums together, promenaded through the park - she had even been invited over to Bridgerton House for dinner.

But this was the first time she was seeing him as Benedict and not Mr Bridgerton. His walls were down and he looked... happy.

Y/N reached over and knocked gently on the door. Benedict turned, his paintbrush still up against the canvas, and looked at the door. His eyes widened and he almost dropped his palette in his hastened attempt to get up.

"Miss Elliot, I am so sorry, I did not -"

"Do not apologise, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said, chuckling as he tried to make himself appear more presentable. "I was merely passing by."

"You've been here?"

Y/N nodded, walking into the room, folding her shawl over her arms. "I am having my portrait done by Mr Nichols. My mother insisted."

Benedict nodded, laughing softly. "Mr Nichols is an excellent artist."

Y/N hummed, tilting her head slightly, approaching Benedict. "I think we both know there is someone else I would rather have, Mr Bridgerton." She stopped in front of his canvas. "If you do not mind me asking... what exactly are you doing?"

"Oh, I am just starting a new painting," he said, turning to face his canvas. "This is just a base layer before I start the actual thing - it's a colour wash. Gives it a base that isn't white. It helps make the colours look more natural."

Y/N nodded. She glanced down at the stool next to him. "Is that a book of fairytales?"

"Hmm, what? Oh, yes." Benedict sighed, smiling. "My little sister Hyacinth -"

"Mr Bridgerton, I do know who Hyacinth is, I have been to dinner -"

"Yes, of course, my apologies. Hyacinth asked me to do her some paintings inspired by the stories in the book. Anthony and I read them to her a lot back when it came out - we still do sometimes."

Y/N gently picked up the book - which was evidently well loved. She carefully opened it, flicking through the pages and admiring the drawings within. "Which is her favourite?"

"It depends who is reading," Benedict answered, leaning over Y/N's shoulder. "If it is Anthony, it is Little Snow White. If it's me it is Cinderella. But her absolute favourite - no matter who is reading - is Little Briar Rose. Why I do not know."

Y/N laughed to herself. "So, is that the one you are painting, then?"

"Well, trying to," Benedict replied, taking the book from her. "I have. studied the drawings in here for hours and yet I cannot quite figure out the composition. What I really need is a model but unfortunately Isabella - our usual model - is away for the next few months. I am a bit stuck."

Y/N was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. "I do not know if this is at all wise..."

"But?"

"Why don't I model for you?" She suggested. At Benedict's raised eyebrows she sighed. "I know it is not proper but I would enjoy it. As long as I do not have to take my clothes off and that door remains open, we should be fine."

"I do believe Briar Rose remains fully clothed throughout, Miss Elliot, you are quite safe."

Y/N smiled. "There we go, then. Besides, I adore Hyacinth. We all know I would do anything for her."

Benedict chuckled, tucking the book down again. "And that is precisely the issue, Miss Elliot - everyone would do anything for her."

"Ok, then, tell me what to do."

Y/N stood there as Benedict looked at her, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. He abruptly walked away, over to a large crate sat in the far corner of the room. Benedict rummaged through it and eventually pulled out several large pieces of fabric. He put them on the floor next to his easel and then grabbed a wooden rectangle block, lifting it up onto the small rectangular platform in the centre of the room.

He stared at it for a minute and then jumped off the platform and grabbed another box, pushing it up against the other one.

Y/N watched with a fascinated expression as Benedict rushed around, throwing cushions and fabric over the boxes, and placing odd items in the background.

Benedict stopped for a moment, looking at his work. He then turned to Y/N and held out a piece of dark blue velvet. Y/N took it, brushing her fingers over the soft material.

"Put that one over your shoulders," Benedict said, pulling her shawl off her arms, "and then this one on top."

Y/N obliged, wrapping herself in the dark velvet, letting it fold over her arms. Benedict then took the lighter blue shawl she had been wearing and put it over the top, the colours contrasting one another perfectly.

"I assume I am to lie down?" Y/N asked, looking at the makeshift bed.

Benedict nodded, taking her hand. He led her up to the podium and to the makeshift bed. Y/N sat down on the edge and carefully laid down, not wanting to knock any cushions off.

She looked up at Benedict, waiting for him to move. "I am your model, Mr Bridgerton," she said softly as he stared at her, "you can touch and move me."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I wouldn't have agreed to this otherwise."

Benedict took a step forwards and heistated. He crouched down beside Y/N and took her arm, his fingers wrapping around the fabric of the makeshift shawl. Y/N inhaled suddenly as she felt him take her arm but kept her composure as he moved her left arm, placing it gently on her stomach.

"Would it help if I closed my eyes?" She suggested, turning her head so that she was looking up at the ceiling.

"Please."

Y/N glanced at Benedict and then shut her eyes, nestling her head into the cushions. She could feel Benedict moving around her and she found herself trying not to breathe too loudly, for some bizarre reason.

She flinched with surprise as Benedict grabbed her legs and carefully moved them closer to the middle of the bed, grabbing the edge of her dress and straightening out, his fingers brushing her calf. He then moved the velvet as well- Y/N could feel it tugging on her arm as he pulled it onto the floor.

"Can you let your arm hang for a moment?" He asked quietly from somewhere to her right.

Y/N let her right arm go limp and allowed it to fall off the edge of the bed, hanging in mid-air. The velvet fell with it and she felt Benedict's fingers brush the inside of her wrist as he manoeuvred it around until it sat just right.

"Do you want me to take my hair down?" Y/N asked, glancing up at him as he fiddled with cushions.

Benedict turned to face her, smiling softly. "If you don't mind."

Y/N leant her head forward and roughly pulled on the pins and combs holding her hair together. Benedict came over and she felt his fingers brush hers again as he helped untangle her hair, letting it loose.

"Feel free to mess with it," Y/N told him, lying back down, trying not to move too much.

She shivered as Benedict combed through her hair with his fingers, spreading it out over the cushions and over her shoulders. Every time his hand brushed against her bare skin, her breath caught in her throat and goosebumps decorated her skin.

His hands gently pushed her chin up and he turned her head to the side, brushing against her cheekbones.

"Ok," Benedict said, his breath tickling the bare skin of her neck. "Do not move an inch."

Y/N smiled gently. "I do not dare, Mr Bridgerton."

She watched as benedict jumped off the platform and rushed over to his canvas, sitting down in front of it. He glanced over at her as he picked up his pencil and then back at the canvas.

The sound of a pencil against canvas was a rather soothing sound. That mixed with the smell of paint made Y/N feel at ease in a way nothing else truly could.

"So, why is Mr Nichols painting your portrait?" Benedict asked, his voice slow, showing how much he was concentrating.

"My mother wanted it done before I marry and am no longer Miss Elliot," Y/N said quietly. "She wanted one more of me as her daughter and not as a wife."

"Has someone proposed, then?"

"No." Y/N tried not to move her head as she looked over at Benedict. "But we all know who will."

Benedict smiled. "Apparently so." He paused his sketching and peered around the canvas. "Close your eyes for me."

Y/N chuckled quietly but obliged, closing her eyes and staying as still as she could. As he worked, Benedict began to hum quietly. Y/N couldn't work out what exactly he was humming but the sound began to lull her to sleep.

Benedict glanced over at Y/N, pausing for a moment, flexing his hand. He could tell she'd fallen asleep - her breathing had evened out and her body looked more relaxed than it had ten minutes before. Benedict smiled to himself as he looked at her - he knew she was beautiful but there was something about how she was that made her even more so.

The peaceful expression on her face. The way her chest rose and fell as she slept. He did have to admit that she looked like something out of a fairytale.

Benedict finished his sketch and immediately picked up his paint brush, wanting to get as much done as he could before he had to inevitably wake Y/N up and escort her home.

Almost two hours later, Benedict was happy with how much progress he had made. He knew he'd be able to finish the rest of it off later on either at home or in his studio.

He set his palette down and stood up, quietly approaching the platform. Benedict crouched down beside Y/N and gently shook her shoulder. His breath was stolen from him as she slowly opened her eyes and blinked, the confusion fading away as she realised it was him. God, she was beautiful.

"You did not do it right," Y/N said softly, looking up at him.

Benedict frowned. "What did I not do?"

"If I remember correctly, she is woken up by a kiss."

Benedict pressed his lips together as he smiled. "Is that so? Well, I do fear that would be improper of me, Miss Elliot."

"I do believe we can make an exception," Y/N told him. "After all, I am not going to marry anyone else, am I?"

"Are you proposing?"

"I will if you do this right," Y/N replied, her voice a whisper. "Go on."

Benedict shook his head at her antics but stood up, stepping back from the platform. Y/N closed her eyes again and Benedict walked up to her. He knelt down on one knee and gently moved Y/N's hair behind her ear, running his knuckles along her cheek and down her jawline. He leant forward and pressed his lips against hers.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open and she looked at him, a smile growing on her face. "Perfect."

"I am glad," Benedict whispered huskily. He was inches away from her and everything inside him wanted to climb on top of her. "There is another part of the story."

"Oh? Which is?"

"After the prince wakes Briar Rose up, they get married and have two children together."

"You honestly think I am putting this body through two children?!"

Benedict burst out laughing, tilting his head forward. Shaking his head, he said, "that is not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Y/N told him.

"Unfortunately, I am a gentleman."

"Fortunately," Y/N countered, "you are already on one knee."

Benedict glanced down and belatedly realised that he was. He looked back up at Y/N. "Well, then, my sleeping beauty. Will you marry me?"

"You already know the answer, my prince."

Y/N pushed herself up and put her hands around Benedict's neck, catching his lips with hers. She pulled him down towards her and Benedict didn't resist. He swung one leg over her body and straddled Y/N, his hands on either side of her shoulders.

Y/N leant up into him, pressing her stomach against his as she kissed him, unwilling to let go. But she had to - mainly because she was running out of air.

"Are you sure?" Benedict asked, panting slightly.

Y/N ran her fingers through his hair, tugging on it slightly. Benedict closed his eyes, trying not to moan as the small action sent fire through his belly.

"Of course I am," Y/N said, brushing her lips against his. "I would not still be lying here if I wasn't."

"The door is locked."

"Excellent."

"It is late. No one else will hear."

Y/N smiled against his lips. "Even better."

Benedict pressed himself against Y/N, forcing her back down onto the cushions. His hands reached behind her and he began unhooking her dress, tugging it off her shoulders and down to her waist. Y/N pushed herself up and Benedict pulled it all the way off, throwing it to the floor.

It was the first time he'd seen her in just her undergarments. And as much as he wanted to rip them off, he knew he had to savour each moment.

"One day," he whispered into her ear as his right hand danced up her thigh, "I'll draw you in nothing but these."

Y/N arched into him as his hand got higher. She dug her nails into his shoulder, burying her head in his chest. "That day better be our wedding night."

Benedict laughed, ducking his head into her shoulder. His hand moved higher still, drifting just below her stomach. Y/N groaned, closing her eyes as she gripped his shirt tightly.

"I'm sure," Benedict muttered, delving inside her and savouring the noise that came out of her with a chuckle, "that can be arranged."

[coffeewithcal]

paper rings | Benedict Bridgerton x reader

summary | Benedict fell in love with a girl he adored so much

paring | Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

request | hii do you still take requests? i really love your writing! can you do a fic based on "Paper Rings" for our best boy Benedict <33

includes | sweet husband!Benedict, Taylor Swift lyrics, pall mall with the Bridgerton and fluff like a lot (italic means flashbacks)

word count | 1.7k +

a/n | here is some more Taylor Swift and Bridgerton boys for you lovely reader! hope you enjoy this one. I am still taking requests but I will warn you it takes me a while to write them which I apologize for but I am doing my best! hope you all are having a great day <3

The moon is high

Like your friends were the night that we first met

Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet

Now I've read all of the books beside your bed

She had met Benedict Brigerton unexpectedly. y/n had been trying to sneak away from the ball for a breath of air as her mama seemed to make every man in that house dance with y/n. If she had to dance one more time with another man who stepped on her foot, she was worried she would lash out on accident, giving the ton more gossip to talk about. 

y/n had successfully gotten away, walking the halls of the large country home. She had spent a few minutes walking about trying to think back to what she had heard Eloise Bridgerton say which door was the library. y/n thought she could stay in there for a bit before heading back out to the ball. She reached the second door to the end but before she could pull it open, the door moaned open from the other side.

“Oh!” y/n looked up meeting the eyes of the voice.

She recognized him because everyone in the ton knew who the Bridgerton’s were, y/n had conversations with Colin too since becoming friends with Peneople. But y/n had never come face to face with any of the oldest Bridgertons, until now she had come face to face with the second eldest Bridgerton.

“I am sorry Mr Bridgerton,” y/n paused thinking of something else to say, she could see multiple other men behind him. “I seem to have lost my way back to the ball.” 

“Is everything alright, Benedict?” Colin peaked over his shoulder, a drink in hand. “y/n? What are you doing here?”

Before she could tell her lie again, Benedict spoke up. “Lost her way back to the ballroom.”

y/n didn’t miss the smirk on his face as he eyed her again. “A house as large as this one is easy to get lost in Mr Bridgerton.”

Benedict laughed, y/n figured the men inside and him had been drinking. Colin opened the door wider stepping in between y/n and Benedict. 

“Allow me to show you back,”

“Actually, brother, I would be happy to show Miss,” He trailed off looking directly at y/n.

“y/n y/l.”

“I will escort Miss y/l back to the ballroom, I was just on my way out anyway.” The last part he spoke directly to Colin who simply nodded and bid y/n a goodnight.

Benedict gently closed the door behind them, extending his arm towards y/n for her to take. She did without a second thought, the walk back down the hall was full of stolen glances between the two, but once they reached the inside of the ballroom y/n expected Benedict to tell her goodbye instead he stayed.

“Is there a space for me on your dance card Miss y/l?” 

Her eyes widened. “I thought you were leaving Mr Bridgerton.”

“I’ve changed my mind, someone changed my mind and the other thing isn’t important.” He grinned pulling y/n along with him to the dance floor.

— — —

“Darling, have you seen my-?” Benedict's words died quickly when he saw y/n with the book he was looking for in her lap. 

“Hmm?” She hummed, not looking up from the pages.

Benedict couldn’t help but smile, he bent down next to her. “What are you reading?’

“Oh, well you keep saying how this is your favorite poetry book so I thought I would read it and we could talk about it.”

His heart melted at her words. It was something so simple yet made his stomach erupt in butterflies and he had never felt so much love for one person.

With a lopsided grin he said, “Will you marry me?” 

y/n dropped the book down looking at Benedict giggling. “Love, we’re already married.”

“Yes but if I could, I would marry you again and again. That is how much I love you.”

— — — 

In the winter, in the icy outdoor pool

When you jumped in first, I went in too

I'm with you even if it makes me blue

The colder weather was quickly approaching London. After months of glances across rooms, quick dances and secret meetings to get away from society Benedict had started courting y/n. It was a game of cat and mouse they played for a while but everyone in the ton, especially Lady Whistledown, had expected it to be a love match. Though the couple didn’t pay much attention to what other people were saying about them.

Benedict had invited y/n out to Aubrey Hall to spend time with him and his family. Benedict was planning on proposing to y/n that trip. He had waited long enough to make her his official.

y/n arrived early that afternoon with a grin on her face. She had waited all season to come back to Aubrey Hall and this time it was just her and the Bridgerton’s which was exactly what she wanted. As soon as she walked in Daphne and Eloise had stated there would be a game of Pall Mall taking place right now.

They had been playing the game for almost an hour now. Benedict kept his ball close to y/n’s so he could stand next to her when everyone else took their turn. The pair stood close to each other, not caring of being too proper in front of his family as she had noticed Anthony and Kate had forgotten proper public affection during the game. 

Just when it was y/n, Benedict placed a soft kiss on her temple. y/n pulled the mallet back and the ball straight on with so much power it plopped right into the pond. Without thinking y/n started to make her way to the pond not hearing the words from the Briderton family that they had lost another ball to that pond.

“y/n! What are you doing?” Eloise called just as Benedict was about to take his turn, he had not noticed y/n left his side.

y/n pulled her dress up so it wouldn't touch the water and tried using her mallet to reach the ball placed on top of rocks within the pond. “Getting my ball! If I get it, I’m still in the game.” She shouted back.

“Wait! Careful y/n,” Daphne tried calling out but just as y/n was turning to look at Daphne she slipped, falling into the pond with a squeal. 

“y/n!” Benedict took off running down the hill, pulling off his coat and diving into the pond with her.

A fit of giggles erupted from y/n as Benedict reached her. Quickly he realized the pond was no more than four feet deep and y/n was standing perfectly fine leaning against his side to keep her from falling as more laughter rumbled from her. Benedict laughed with her

“Why did you do that?” She finally got out.

Benedict shook his head. “I panicked, I wanted to make sure you were okay and it’s freezing!”

He pulled y/n closer to him noticing just how cold it really was after being completely submerged in water. Benedict began to lead them both out of the pond seeing that the rest of his family had been watching the scene unfold. Daphne and Kate stood at the edge waiting for them with towels. Once they were out and wrapped in towels y/n turned to Benedict, a heart warming smile on her face.

“You jumped into a freezing pond for me.”

“And I would do it again even if it makes me blue.”

— — —

I want your complications too

I want your dreary Mondays

Wrap your arms around me, baby boy

Benedict and y/n had been married for a month now and both never felt happier or more in love. They spend most of their days at home lounging around together as Benedict sketched and y/n read or models for one of his sketches. It was pure bliss for both of them.

Never did Benedict think he would find someone he could love so much, someone who made his heart swell with every little glance and someone who made him feel like himself. He wanted everything that came with marriage and he wanted everything y/n had to offer him no matter how good or bad it was. That’s what Benedict Bridgerton wanted and that’s what he had.

Now as the pair sat on the couch together he took y/n’s left hand and rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. He placed the sketch book down, taking a second to look at her, studying her features and just look at the women he loved.

“You’re staring at me, darling.” y/n said without looking up from her book, a grin forming on her lips.

“I am simply looking at the women I love, can a husband not do that?” 

y/n blushed at his words leaning into his side, Benedict still playing with her hand twisting the ring on her finger. He studied the ring, it was a very simple ring but y/n loved it, however, Benedict didn’t know if she did or not. He was the one who picked it out from his mothers collection but never asked her if she liked it.

“Darling, would you like a better ring? Perhaps with a bigger jewel, I know I can get you one if you so wish.” Benedict continued to rant about buying her a different ring but y/n stopped him but a light squeezed of his hand to reassure him.

“Benedict I don't need a big ring or a new one for that matter. This one is special to both of us and I love it,”

“But you deserve more.” He sighed.

“All I want is you Benedict and you could have given me a ring made out of paper, and I would have still said yes. I don’t need anything new or shiny because you’re the one that I want.”

The biggest feeling of love washed over him in that moment, he pulled her in for a kiss. A kiss meant to say more words than he could ever utter.

---

bridgerton masterlist

tag list: @heyyitsreign @redgetawaycar @rexit-mo @hanster1998@livstilinski @diamondbitch116 @evqans (click here if you want to be on my tag list)

[coffeewithcal]

Best behaviour

Gender neutral reader

♡♡♡

You stand to the side with Lady Bridgerton. Eloise, having escaped her match making attempts, left her on her own. The Bridgerton brothers were among the crowd somewhere, but you had no idea where they had gone. Therefore, you were keeping their mother company.

"Perhaps you may help me find a match? As I do not have my mother here to do so for me."

Violet looks at you and seems rather speechless.

"I am honoured, though I thought, perhaps, you already had a match."

You furrow your brow as you look at her.

"With whom?"

"Well, Benedict," she replies.

"Your Benedict?"

"Yes."

You turn your gaze to the ballroom, eyes searching for him. You find among his brothers on the other side.

"I did not think that likely."

Now Violet is the one confused.

"No? He's rather fond of you. I thought perhaps there was more to it than that."

"We are dear friends. Growing up with them will do that," you chuckle. "No. Benedict does not look upon me as of I put the stars in the sky, as if I'm a walking piece of art. Benedict does not look at me and see a future together. He looks at me for guidance when he is lost. For critique on his work. For a helping hand when your family needs one," you say, looking wistfully at the second eldest Bridgerton across the room.

Violet is confused as she looks at you.

"Then I must be seeing things," she mutters, quietly.

"Hm?"

"When you look upon my son, I see someone who will look at no other. I see someone who only wishes to dance with him and be in his company. I see you looking at him as if he is the only other person in the room."

You gaze at her.

"I did not say I didn't feel that way. I only said he does not."

Violet wishes to say more, but since taking your eyes off of the three eldest sons of her family, you had failed to notice them move across the room. You are startled by Benedict leaning in close and speaking in your ear.

"You do realise you look ghastly with that look on your face."

You jump and let out an inhumane noise as you turn and whack his arm lightly. All manners have gone out of the window as you scold him.

"Benedict, do not do that!"

As you scold him, and he laughs along with his brothers, his mother shakes her head lightly. Though she is amused by her family's antics, you're all in public.

"You seemed very deep in conversation with my mother," Benedict comments

"I was. Not that it's any if your business," you tell him.

"No? I swore I heard my name."

You shake your head in denial.

"Actually, I was just saying to Violet, she can present me if she would like to. Eloise is gone, and we all know none of you will let your mother find you a partner."

Anthony and Colin agree behind you, knowing that statement to be true. Benedict, however, looks at you with a quizzical brow.

"Present you? Do you wish to find a partner?" He asks.

You look out among the crowd.

"Why shouldn't I? I can't keep standing off to the side on my own. I should have to marry one day."

Benedict shifts on the spot, but you don't notice. Anthony does. He leans in close to his brother, pulling him off to the side a bit.

"Does that bother you?" He asks, knowing full well the answer is yes.

"Why should I be surprised? It's the whole point of these events, is it not?"

Anthony stares at his brother.

"That isn't what I asked."

Benedict doesn't even look at him. He turns to where you stand to find someone asking to dance with you. Violet urges you on to accept, and you so. Though, once you have left her side, Violet turns to her son and steps closer to him.

"When this dance is over, you must ask for the next one. I was surprised to them ask for my help. Especially when I thought you two had something."

"Perhaps we did not. I couldn't ask for a better friend," Benedict sighs, watching you.

"Is that where you will settle then?"

He looks at his mother.

"I don't know. Perhaps."

"Then you are just a fool as Anthony."

Benedict and Anthony share a look. The older of the two just shakes his head and walks away.

"Do not let them slip through your fingers."

Benedict turns back to where you're dancing. His heart aches as he follows you around the dancefloor. The one you're dancing with is not worth your time.

Lifting his head a little higher, he leaves his family and walks around the floor. His eyes remain on you, watching where you stop dancing. The moment your dance partner leaves, Benedict steps up and smiles at you. He holds his hand out.

"May I have the honour?"

You look at him, seeming to be a bit bewildered. You obviously didn't expect him to come over right after your dance.

You glance at his hand.

"You may," you say, though he it felt too quiet to be heard. However, you place your hand in his and Benedict guides you a little further onto the floor.

The next piece begins to play.

Dancing with Benedict is much different than when you were dancing before. You don't even feel like you're dancing. It's just you and him, gliding.

The music seems to disappear as you look into his eyes. All you can hear are your soft breaths. All you can feel his hands on you.

"No one here is good enough for you," he says.

You falter, but catch yourself before you make an embarrassment of your footwork.

"What do you mean?"

He sighs softly and you can see his expression begin to melt.

"No one here is worthy of your presence. If you do find a match here tonight, then I have no right to stand in the way, but know that they are not good enough for you. You deserve so much more than any of them can provide."

"Benedict..."

"Come with me?" He asks.

You furrow your brow as he stops the dancing and tugs on your hand lightly. You glance around, but everyone seems occupied. Benedict tugs your hand again.

"Where are we going?"

Benedict smiles knowing you'll follow. He leads you out of the room.

"Outside."

You find yourself grinning. This was very improper, even if the two of you were friends.

The fresh air is a welcome relief as you step outside into the night air. Benedict stands that little bit closer than society would seem appropriate, but you do not comment on it.

"If I came to call on you, would you allow me to court you?" He asks.

You turn your head sharply to look at him.

"Where is this coming from?"

He look you in the eye.

"I want you- No! I need you. The thought hadn't really crossed my mind until mother spoke to me, but she is right. I'm... well, I'm in love with you. There is no other way to say it."

You stare at him.

"Benedict..."

"Say the word here and I shall not approach this topic again, but if you do feel even something for me, allow me the honour to pursue it. I promise, I'll be on my best behaviour," he grins.

You laugh.

"No you won't."

"You're right, I'm incorrigible, but my feelings are true."

You laugh again.

"Benedict, you would make me the happiest person alive. Try as they might, those people in there are dreadfully dull and do not compare to how you make me feel."

Benedict steps a little closer. There is barely room to breath.

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

His nose bumps against yours. His lips are just there. He breath fans across your face. His forehead rest against yours.

So close.

Anthony comes out and grabs his brother, pulling him back.

You bite your lip as you step back.

"As much of a match as you both are, be a gentleman Benedict. You're unchaperoned and clearly on the verge of a scandal. Be glad I saw you both leave first."

You chuckle softly.

Benedict coughs quietly, pretending he wasn't on the verge of making out with you.

"Best behaviour, you two," Anthony scolds.

"Are we really taking advice from the Viscount of all people?" You ask.

Benedict takes your arm in his.

"Alas, we must. There is some sense on that head of his."

Anthony bites back a groan.

"You are perfect for one another. It really grinds me," the eldest Bridgerton mutters.

Benedict and yourself laugh.

You'll behave for the rest of the night... maybe.

[coffeewithcal]

All Along 

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader 

Y/N finds herself feeling anxious at her first ball of her season and Benedict helps her through it

Keep reading

[coffeewithcal]

"I Need You."

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Matt realizes that he can't live without you in his life.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warnings: DDBA Spoilers, grief, depression, making out.

A/N: I hope that you guys enjoy this! Also! Please note that the banner above does NOT represent what the reader looks like.

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Foggy's death had left a gaping hole inside your chest. It had released a black fog that ruined everything in its path of destruction. That much was evidently clear. No one had been normal after what had happened. No one had been able to cope. How could any of you? Everyone had lost one of their best friends.

Karen had tried. She really had at first. But, you were worse company than a brick wall. Any attempt she made at getting through to you had failed. You hadn't been able to find it in yourself to be angry whenever she moved across the country. It's not like she had had anything left in Hell's Kitchen. She did what she needed to. She tried moving on. And, some might say that she did a pretty good job with that.

Foggy might have been the one to die, but no one else escaped unscathed.

Matt had been worse than Karen. The two of you had shared an apartment, and yet it was like he'd disappeared. He wasn't home. Ever. The apartment grew empty. Your only company had been the creaky floorboards and the shadows that talked back after one too many glasses of wine. Lonesome nights became the new normal. Matt worked too late, he made sure he was on a case during every single one of your days off too.

Eventually, it had gotten to be too much. You made the painful choice to end your relationship with Matt and move out. Suffocating around all of the reminders of him had gotten to be too much. Moving into your very own apartment would at least be a fresh start, or so you hoped.

Your apartment reeked of grief and despair. Everyone was gone. Was it really living if no one knew that you were alive? There was no friend left to call whenever the black fog felt suffocating. There was no lover to greet you whenever you came home late at night. It felt less like living and more like drowning. Could it always hurt this much? You weren't sure. You also weren't sure how much longer you could manage to keep going like this. Being alone was a horrible thing. Being alone while grieving was even worse. It made the pain more obvious. There was no hiding behind your friends and family. The only hiding you managed to do was behind a bottle.

A draft blew through your apartment, making you shiver despite your sweatpants. The curtains were closed tight, blocking out all of the light from the bustling city. It made you feel even more isolated than before. Every single thing that you did seemed to make you feel worse. It didn't matter what it was. Trying a new hobby ended with tearful reminders of either Foggy, Matt, or Karen and broken glass, getting out more led to late nights spent at the bar, nothing worked. Nothing.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. It startled you to say the very least. It wasn't often, or really ever, that you had a visitor stop by. Getting to your feet, you cautiously made your way to the door. Peering through the keyhole revealed that it was Matt.

Seeing him standing at your door after all of this time made something crack deep inside of you. He wasn't supposed to be here. The two of you were over. Nothing would be able to convince you otherwise. He was only a painful reminder of the past.

You opened the door, fully taking in Matt's appearance. He had changed. A light dusting of facial hair coated his jaw. During the two and a half years that you had known Matt, he had rarely grown his beard out past a little bit of stubble. It made him look older. So did the sense of weariness that encapsulated his body.

"How do you know where I live?" You asked, the tone of your voice sharper than intended. You knew all about Matt's enhanced senses. He would be able to feel your pain. Even if you didn't want him to. And yet, some small part of you wanted him to feel some of your suffering.

Matt chuckled, "I saw you around the area a few times." His answer was vague and left much for you to ponder on. What he didn't tell you was that he kept a very good eye on where you lived. He knew exactly what kind of people lurked in the darkness of Hell's Kitchen and he refused to allow you to become one of the many victims.

"I didn't know that you got out that much," you replied, finally stepping aside so that Matt could enter your apartment. His walking stick tapped against the ground as he entered the unfamiliar space. The door shut behind him. He had gone too long without seeing you. Your absence had been felt like an open wound that wouldn't heal. Festering and bleeding even whenever he thought that the wound had began trying to heal.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't get out that much." For some reason his words sounded slightly defensive in the moment. He leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking in what parts of you he could sense. He knew that you weren't okay. That much had been shoved in his face three blocks away from your apartment. Your grief had lingered in the air.

"Cut the bullshit," you finally said, ignoring his previous words. The tension between the two of you was clear. You took a seat on one of the barstools. The cool metal cut through your sweatpants like a knife as the chill ran up your spine. "Why are you here Matt? Why now?"

Matt let out a deep sigh as doubt filled his gut. After how he had treated you after Foggy's death he had no right to try entering your life again. And yet, he didn't leave. He couldn't. Not whenever your depression nearly suffocated him. Your despair filled the air of your apartment. He knew that he had made a mistake. He shouldn't have left you alone when you needed him the most, even if his own grief had simply been too much for him to bear.

"What if I came because I wanted to apologize?" He bit back, old emotions rising up his throat. "I know that I messed up." His tongue darted out to lick his lips. A hand ran through his already tousled hair. He had no idea what he was really doing here. Did he want to apologize? Or, did he just want you back? Deep down he knew the answer. . .

"Matt, I know that you messed up. I don't blame you," you said softly. His words made your guts twist up in knots. The thought of what could have been made your heart ache. Old wounds tore open, ravaging through your soul. He had said the words that you had wished on stars for.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words catching in his throat on unshed tears. He needed you. Even if he knew that he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve your love. That couldn't make him turn around. In this moment, there wasn't a force on the planet that could make him do anything but beg for your forgiveness.

"I screwed up. I know that I did. But, I'm sorry," his voice was almost raw. Every word sounded like it caused him great pain. And, in a way, it did. His chest burned and ached with hidden emotions and desires. His whole soul was at war right now with what he wanted and what he deserved.

"I know that you screwed up!" You snapped. You were living proof that he had. The way that things had happened had screwed up your life. You were merely a shadow of your old self. So similar, and yet so different. The dark fog had taken away all of your joy, leaving your heart barren and uninhabitable. You stood from the bar stool and Matt stood up straight. "I know and, and I can't bring myself to blame you for it."

Matt knew that he deserved to be blamed. He deserved to be resented by you for the rest of his life. Your erratic heart rate made him hope. It also made him realize that maybe you needed him just as much as he needed you. It was like the two of you were opposite sides of the same coin, always keeping the other balanced.

Instead of speaking, you crossed the distance between yourself and Matt. One of your hands grabbed onto his shirt as your mind screamed. Warning sirens were going off in your head. This was a terrible idea. Hadn't you been through enough?

All of those thoughts ceased as Matt pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was needy and nearly primal. Your teeth gently sunk into his bottom lip as his hands wrapped around your waist. His walking stick clattered to the ground, he had forgotten to fold it up, and now it would be forgotten for as long as it took the two of you to work things out.

Your fingers threaded through his hair as he deepened the kiss. His movements pulled a strangled moan from somewhere deep inside of your throat. Every move felt strategic. What would it take for this to end right? The two of you danced on burning rocks, one wrong step could end in a way that neither one of you could even think about.

Matt pulled away for a moment. "Are you sure about this?" Matt said, his hands hesitating as they danced along your lower back where your shirt had ridden up. He could sense how emotional you were, your judgement was probably clouded. But, so was his. Both of you were laid out bare before the other, your souls on full display.

"I need you," you whispered in reply. Your words held a deeper meaning than how they sounded and Matt knew that. His hands gripped your hips, as if he was holding on for his life. his head dropped onto the crook between your neck and your shoulder.

"Tell me to go," he whispered, "and I'll leave. I'll never bother you again."

"I can't lose you twice," you said before pulling him even closer. Your bedroom door inched closer and closer as the two of you once again entangled with the other. Every move burned, every kiss seared. The raw need in the air choked Matt every time he kissed you. Your back finally collided with the bedroom door. You were quick to open it without even having to break the kiss.

Clothes flew and so did any hesitation either one of you held.

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A/N: After all of the kind comments on my last Matt fic I decided to post another one for you guys!Thanks!

Taglist: *crickets*

Join My Tag List Here: Tag List

[coffeewithcal]

how do you think matt would react if one day while touching you he'd notice you're wearing a new necklace with his initial on it??

he would loveee this shit.

“wearing me around your neck, sweetheart?” with a smirk, and you chuckle to yourself knowing he’s thinking of his hands wrapped around your neck too.

or when he’s just fiddling with your necklace, initially not noticing you’ve changed it to one with now his initial on it - watching tv, a nice night in for all accounts - and he just says, “honey, where’d you get this from?” and you just mutter, “got it the other day, wanted you with me while you’re at work.” and he can’t even reply, just with a loving movement to meet his lips to yours.

[coffeewithcal]

what we leave behind

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  matt murdock x ex wife!fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  after the Thunderbolts' latest mission, a quiet drink turns into something else when she feels a pull—familiar, ancient, aching. Matt Murdock is standing in the rain on a rooftop that remembers too much. years after their marriage fell apart, grief may bring them back together 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  Deep grief, emotional trauma, mention of past loss, unresolved feelings, heavy introspection

Yelena leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet up onto the table, her bottle of vodka dangling between her fingers. “You know, we should do this more often. Just sit and... not be heroes for a change.” She took a swig, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “You know, like normal people.”

“Normal people?” Bucky chuckled, glancing at her. “We’re anything but normal, kid.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing," Yelena shot back with a wink. "I'm just saying, it would be nice to feel like we’re not always on the clock. Maybe not every day, but... some days. Let’s go get pizza or something.”

Bucky shook his head, but the amusement was clear in his expression. “You really want pizza after everything that just happened?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, unapologetic. “If anyone deserves pizza, it’s us.”

John Walker leaned back in his chair, sipping his whiskey with a contemplative look on his face. “I get what you mean, but I think the world’s gonna want more than pizza from us now. We're not just some secret team anymore. We’re front and center now. This isn’t just about cleaning up messes anymore—it’s about being a mess.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Yelena said, waving a hand. “I think people will like us. I mean, who doesn’t love a good redemption story?” She shot a pointed glance at Walker.

He narrowed his eyes but then shrugged. “Maybe. But the thing is... they’ll never trust us the way they trust those other guys.”

A quiet lull fell over the group as everyone exchanged glances, each of them thinking about the old team—the Avengers. The ones everyone loved. The ones they’d been asked to follow in the footsteps of.

“We’ll prove ourselves,” Bucky broke the silence, his voice steady. “Just like we always do.”

“I think we’ve already proven ourselves,” Walker muttered, toasting his glass to no one in particular. “But hey, I’m up for proving it again.”

You sat back in your seat, listening to the back-and-forth, trying to get a feel for how everyone was adjusting to the weight of what had just happened. The idea of the world seeing you now, of being thrust into the limelight. It felt strange, but not wrong. You didn’t need to say much—you let them talk it out, the way they always did. Even if the topics felt too big to fully wrap your mind around. After a few moments, you let your gaze drift away from the conversation. The rain had let up outside, but the streets were still wet, the night soaked in shadow and glow from the city lights. The hum of the bar and its chatter seemed far away, until...

A strange pull tugged at your senses.

It was almost imperceptible, like a faint pulse under your skin. The faintest of whispers against your mind, something familiar—and the kind of presence you couldn’t shake if you tried. It was the magic, low and insistent, buzzing faintly beneath your ribs. The air had shifted, a thin thread of something you knew too well.

You weren’t sure if anyone else felt it. But you did. Your chest tightened slightly, a knot of recognition. Matt. He was close.

The world around you seemed to slow, just for a moment, as the magic hummed louder. The tension in your body sharpened with the knowledge—he was near. You didn’t need to see him, didn’t need to hear anything. You felt it in the very rhythm of the city itself. A quiet warning.

The memories flooded in, as they always did when you sensed him—tender flashes of a time long past, before everything had fallen apart. You could still feel his touch when you closed your eyes—the way he’d curl his fingers through your hair when he was lost in thought, those moments late at night when he’d pull you close, and the world would disappear. You’d get lost in his smell, that mix of leather, rain, and the faintest hint of something metallic—his blood, his very essence, always so close to danger. It was as much a part of him as the city itself.

And then there was the sound of his voice. Soft and hesitant, yet steady. “Don’t go. I’m here.” His voice had always been a quiet reassurance. But it never lasted, did it? The space between you two had always been a battlefield of silence and unsaid words, a silence that only grew after the divorce, after you both realized that even love wasn’t enough to keep everything from falling apart. The way he'd say your name, the way you'd say his. It had carried the weight of so many years. Too many years. You had gone back to his bed many times after that, you had even tried to be friends. But every single time without fail it fell apart.

But tonight, it was different. The pull of his presence was stronger than ever, a beacon you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much time had passed.

You remember the last time you'd been on a rooftop with him seeing him standing on one in that very moment made you think of it, the two of you looking out over Hell’s Kitchen. The city was lit up below, and you both had been trying to pretend that things were okay, but everything had been unraveling. He’d held your hand tightly, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles absentmindedly as he spoke about a case—about something that didn’t even matter to you in that moment. The feel of his skin against yours, the warmth of him beside you, had made everything feel like it was still possible.

There was another memory, one of the times he'd dragged you to his favorite diner, where the food was terrible but the coffee was always hot, and you laughed over shared plates of pancakes and too much whipped cream. You had been so sure of each other back then. So full of hope that even in a world that had always been out to break him, he would be okay because you would be with him.

Your hand instinctively touched the space near your neck where a necklace once rested—one Matt had given you years ago. It was small, simple, and silver. But the way his hands had trembled when he put it around your neck, as though offering you something precious, something irreplaceable, flooded back like it was yesterday.

And then the moment in the hallway of his apartment, when he pulled you close and whispered, "I don’t want you to leave.” He had been so desperate, so raw in that one moment. But it wasn’t enough to stop the inevitable. You could still hear the sound of the door closing behind you, leaving him on the other side, as the reality of everything set in.

Tonight, the pull was too strong to deny.

You knew deep down—this wouldn’t be the last time you'd feel it.

As you stood up from the table and excused yourself, the group barely noticed, lost in their own thoughts and banter. You didn’t need to look back. You didn’t need to hear any more of their chatter.

You could already feel it pulling you forward—closer.

Matt was near, and that feeling, the magic that bound you to him, was only growing stronger. It was like the strings of fate had tugged you back to him, and you couldn’t resist the call.

The rain danced in the streets beneath you, but the world around you felt distant. The memory of Matt’s warm, calloused hand holding yours under a streetlamp years ago flickered in your mind like a ghost. The way his lips had quirked in a smile when you'd caught him sneaking up behind you, the way you’d laugh at his stubbornness, but you'd always be there for him, just as he'd been there for you, even when he couldn’t feel the world the way you did. It had always been the two of you against it all.

And then there was the last night you'd seen him, in that cold, sterile room. The last time you tried to speak to him, but the words just wouldn't come. The silence, like a weight between you both, hung in the air—unspoken truths, unhealed wounds. It had been the end. For both of you.

Now off you went, away from your new colleagues and towards someone you were supposed to forget. 

The rain had been falling since morning. Not the kind of summer storm that roared and passed through like a tantrum, but the slow, relentless kind—the kind that settles in and refuses to leave. The sky hung heavy, thick with clouds, a deep gray that made the city feel smaller, more suffocating. The sky seemed to swallow everything beneath it, as if even the heavens had given up on trying to make sense of the world. It was as if Hell’s Kitchen itself had become a place caught between worlds: too dark for comfort, too bright for rest.

Matt didn’t use an umbrella. He never had. Something about it felt like a surrender. Like it was an admission that he still cared, still needed to protect himself from the world he fought against every night. But that wasn’t him—not anymore. The rain, the cold, the way it seeped into his bones, only made it clearer. You’re still here. The world still touches you. And that, for better or worse, was something he couldn’t escape. He stood alone on the rooftop of a building that Foggy had once loved.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a crumbling four-story walk-up a few blocks from Josie’s. The roof had a view of the skyline—small and confined by taller, more aggressive buildings, but open enough to feel the city breathe. Foggy had always liked it here. He used to come up after long days, beers clinking in a plastic bag, and talk until the sun slipped away, leaving the city lights to take over. They’d talk about cases, about Matt’s questionable choices, about what could have been.

Matt hadn’t been back here since the funeral. Not really. He hadn’t meant to come tonight. But, as always, his feet led him to places that remembered him. And Foggy’s ghost had been louder than usual lately—nagging, insistent, like a soft echo in the back of his mind that he couldn’t silence.

The air was thick with the scent of wet concrete, of burning metal, of something old, like a thousand forgotten stories clinging to the bricks below. Cars hissed through puddles far below, their tires hissing like whispers. The rain pattered softly on the broken gravel, the bent AC units, the rusted rails. But Matt didn’t move. He stood still, his soaked black suit sticking to his skin, the fabric heavy with the weight of a life he didn’t know how to carry anymore. The cold didn't bother him—not really. Not compared to the cold inside.

He tried to picture Foggy’s voice. The way it would catch in a laugh, the way he would joke about Matt’s 'questionable decision-making,' or how he'd say "Murdock" like it was both a tease and a challenge.

But tonight, even the rain felt quieter. Even the wind held its breath. Matt inhaled deeply, trying to shove the tightness in his chest away. He hadn’t cried at the funeral. It felt like something inside him had broken so cleanly, so suddenly, that it left no room for tears. No room for grief. Just an absence. A chasm too wide to cross.

He was supposed to be the strong one. The protector. The one who carried the burden. But the world had taken Foggy anyway. And Matt had let it. Behind him, the door creaked. Quiet. Controlled. But not so subtle that Matt missed it. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

The footsteps followed—soft, measured, familiar in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. They weren’t the clumsy steps of a stranger, but neither were they the confident, casual pace of someone Matt knew like the back of his hand. They were deliberate. Cautious, almost. Calculating. He spoke before the figure could cross the threshold into the dim light of the rooftop. His voice was raw, cutting through the silence like the first drop of a storm.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A pause. Then, a voice he hadn’t heard in years. Your voice.

It cut through the rain, like the sound of glass breaking, but softened by the weight of memory. "I could say the same to you."

Matt didn’t flinch, but his heart did—just for a beat, just long enough to remind him that the world hadn’t quite moved on, no matter how hard he tried to pretend it had. He knew you were alive. Somewhere. The flicker of your presence, a shadow in the corners of a dozen cases, had never really faded. He’d felt you before—out of the corner of his mind, tucked in the spaces where reality bled into the things he couldn’t understand. The whispers had turned to reports, and the Thunderbolts had your name now, or something close to it. But even then, he'd never seen you. Not since… that night.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to listen to the way your heart was nice and slow. The way you stunk of blood and alcohol mixed somehow the smell of a clean sweet perfume leaked through it all. He could hear the way you weren’t trying to hide your presence by the way your boots smacked onto a puddle on the hard roof top. 

 “You tracked me,” he said, flat, almost accusing.

You shrugged, but there was something unspoken in the way your eyes lingered on him. "I wasn’t looking for you."

“But you found me anyway.” He was now fully facing you, and fuck did he look bad. His entire body just looked beyond exhausted and even though he was standing straight it looked like it was taking a hell of a lot to keep him even standing. 

You didn’t deny his comment. Didn’t need to. Matt’s voice lowered, like he was trying to keep any sort of decency between the two of you. “Still working with the heroes? Or did you finally go full Castle on someone?.”

You took a step closer, the sound of your magic rolling in with the rain. It was wild—untamed, like something ancient buried beneath the skin that you couldn’t sense but he could. He always did. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t burn or crackle in the air. But it hummed underneath everything, a constant thread that never quite let go of Matthew.

“I came because of Foggy,” you lied, and there was something steady in your voice, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You had learned how to lie to Matt, not that he cared enough to really look into what you had to say. 

Matt’s throat tightened, the sting of loss sharper than any rain. “He didn’t even know you were alive.”

“I know.” There was something heavy in your words. Something you didn’t want to say out loud. You had been good friends with him, but more often than not the two of you spent countless conversations trying to figure out Matt or moreover what you could do to help Matt. So you never really got to know Foggy, but you did know how much he loved and cared for Matt. Even when you walked away you knew that with him in tow he would be okay. That was all gone.  The silence that hung between you two felt like it was going to swallow the whole night. You could feel it—the pressure of it, the way the world shifted, the weight of a thousand unspoken things sitting between you, pressing down on you both.

Matt nodded at you.  His face was slick with rain, but his eyes—those eyes—were distant. Lost in the nothingness. It had always been that way between you two—close, and yet always a few steps too far apart. You saw the pain in his face, but it wasn’t just grief. There was something else too, something deeper, as if he had been unraveling long before Foggy’s death. You held his gaze, feeling that tug inside you—a reminder of what you had once been to each other. Something old, something raw, buried deep in the ache of it all. And that’s when it hit you—the moment.

You could still see it. That night. That last night. The night he had stood on the edge of a dark decision, teetering between life and something darker. You had tried to stop him, tried to pull him back from the edge. But in the end, you hadn’t been able to save him from himself.

And now, you couldn’t save him from this.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” you whispered, that was no lie, and you didn’t just mean Foggy. You meant all of it, all of them, everything. 

Matt blinked. Just once. The briefest of cracks in the armor. But it was enough. Enough for you to see the truth, the rawness that he had buried so deep, even the rain couldn’t wash it away. Neither of you said the one thing that hung heavy in the space between you. None of us did. But my god did the look of his state bring back a haunting memory,

The apartment was too quiet. The sound of Matt’s breathing—raspy and labored—was the only thing you could hear, the hum of the city faint beneath the heavy weight of what had just happened. You had come home to him, once again, lost in the dark. You had warned him before, begged him to talk, to open up, but that night… that night was different.

The sharp smell of whiskey still lingered in the air, clinging to the walls like a stain. You found him, sitting on the edge of their bed, looking out of the window into the street below. His back was hunched, his shoulders tense with the weight of the world—too many ghosts, too many scars.

You knew, even before you spoke, that something was wrong. That Matt was never one to drown his demons with alcohol unless something serious has finally got him.

“Matt,” you whispered, your voice shaking just a little, afraid that any louder you'd shatter the fragile silence. “Matt, talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look at you. His hands were shaking slightly as he held the bottle of scotch. You could hear it clink as he set it down, the liquid inside sloshing, too full for comfort. There was a dangerous stillness in him now, a hollowness that made your heart race.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like?" he asked suddenly, his voice distant and dark, like a man lost in his own thoughts, “If it would just… stop? All of it. The pain. The endless cycle of being this guy, this devil, when all I want is just... peace.”

Your stomach twisted, your eyes almost popped out of your head at his sudden expression of pain. You took a step closer to him, trying to keep the tremor in your voice under control. "Matt… please don’t say that. Don't say things like that."

But he wouldn’t turn to you. He kept his eyes on the window, his expression unreadable. It was almost worse this way—the cold, silent version of him that you’d never quite been able to reach. He could feel how fast your body was trying not to succumb to the brutal panic that was threatening to rid you of your senses and collapse you into the floor.

"You don't understand," he muttered bitterly. "You can’t. You’re not in this. You don’t have to fight every day.” He was wrong, so very wrong, you did have to fight every single day whether it be with Matt or in your own private way for a hunt you were put on. 

You took a deep breath, swallowing the fear that was rising in your throat. "Matt, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare think that I wouldn’t understand. You think I don’t see the way you carry this all by yourself? I see it, Matt. Every day. But that doesn't mean you have to face it alone."

It was there—the breaking point. It had been building for months, the quiet rage, the withdrawal. But this was different. This was the breaking point where all the careful walls he had built around himself, the walls he never let anyone breach, finally began to crack. Suddenly, his hand shot out, knocking the bottle of scotch from the table, the glass shattering as it hit the floor. The violent sound echoed in the small apartment, the sharp noise punctuating the unbearable tension between you two.

He stood up abruptly, his movements jerky and erratic, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. “I am alone,” he spat, eyes blazing with a fire that didn’t belong to him, "I’m always alone. And I’m tired of pretending I’m not."

"Matt," you said, stepping toward him, reaching out. But he backed away, putting distance between you, his hands shaking with emotion. "Don’t push me away," you pleaded, "Please, just talk to me. We’ll figure this out together. We always do."

But he shook his head. The way his body was moving, the way he was pivoting clearly injured, his mind was distant, like he was a million miles away. "I don’t need anyone," he said, voice dangerously calm, “I can do this alone.”

You took another step forward, your voice thick with emotion, heart aching for the man you loved. “No, Matt,” you said, firm despite the tremble in your chest, “You’re not alone. Not anymore. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. And then, before you could stop it, you blurted out the words you had been holding back for months. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw your life away, Matt. I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself.”

His expression darkened, a sharp edge to his features. “You think I’m destroying myself?” he laughed bitterly, but there was no humor in it. “You’re the one who’s trying to save me. You don’t even see what this has become. You’re not even real in this anymore. I’m just—just—this thing that you need to fix.”

You flinched as though he’d slapped you, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you’d ever admit. But before you could respond, he took a step backward and grabbed the edge of the window sill. You saw his fists clench. You knew what was happening before he did.

“Matt, no,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t walk away from me.”

But he was already turning, already walking to the window. You reached out to him, grabbing his arm in a desperate attempt to stop him, but his hand was already reaching for the latch.

You were too late.

“Matt, please—”

But the world seemed to tilt in that moment. The next thing you knew, you were both tumbling into the cold, unforgiving night. He didn’t look back, didn’t give you a chance to stop him. He was that close, just a few inches from taking the final step. The night air seemed to freeze in place, and you felt the coldness in your chest as the distance between you and him grew.

You had never felt so powerless. So small.

The memory of that night—of your first real fight, the first time he had pushed you away so violently, so completely—came crashing back like it was yesterday. You could still hear his words in your ears, still feel the sting of his rejection. The rain continued its quiet assault, but it wasn't the storm that held them. It was the way the water seemed to slow time itself, the way each droplet against the cracked pavement felt like a reminder. A reminder of what they'd lost. What they'd been too afraid to fight for.

The city stretched out in front of them, a blur of dark silhouettes and faint lights, and yet in this small corner of Hell's Kitchen, it felt as though the world was holding its breath. Matt stood motionless, he was thinking of all the same things if not worse, it was your voice that was killing him. The quiet, the scared little voice that peeped out to tell him you didn’t get to say goodbye. You weren’t a ghost, not anymore. You were flesh, you were real, you were still here. And God, the way you stood there, just inches from him, made the space between them feel infinite.

The soft sound of your breath. The slick shiver of your coat against your skin. The rain dampening your hair, your skin—drenched in the same grief, the same unspoken pain.

And then, those words. His voice, breaking. "I’m sorry for everything."

He shot you right back, that man knew how to kill and tonight he was choosing to. Matt was always sorry, but you hadn’t heard him say it in so long it felt new all over again. It was a confession, but also an admission of what both of them had known deep down for far too long: there was nothing left to say except the truth. Your heart ached with that truth. Matt had spent years hiding in shadows, pulling away from the very thing that could’ve saved him. You had, too.

"Matt..." You whispered it again, barely audible over the rain. And he did the thing he always did. He turned. He pulled away. It was his reflex. The instinct to protect you by keeping you at arm’s length.

Except you weren’t having it this time. You advanced toward him as quickly as you had run toward his presence. As quickly as you had run to him the night you had been married. Just as quickly as the night he had first entered through the bedroom window shattering the glass needing help. 

"No, Matt. No more," you said, shaking your head, each word like a weight lifting from your chest. You were getting louder as you moved forward, the wind whipped around but it was not strong enough to even make you falter, nothing in the world, not even nature was going to keep you from this, "You can’t do this to me anymore."

Matt stiffened at the force of your voice, but you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his fists clenched at his sides. His entire body is a coil of tension, wrapped up in some desperate need to push you away and pull you closer at the same time. His eyes flashed with something wild. Something desperate. You were now standing toe to toe with him and he couldn’t move, you had now taken away another sense of his, he couldn’t feel a damn thing. 

"Why didn’t you fight for us?" Your voice broke the silence like a thunderclap, you were screaming in his face sharp and raw. "You say you love me, but why the hell did you let me walk away? Why didn’t you tell me that you needed me? Why didn’t you... fight?"

His expression faltered. There was a flicker of shame—regret—and then, an unraveling that was so subtle, yet so violent, that it sent a chill down your spine. He was letting you assault him in the only way you ever could. 

"I couldn’t." The words came out strangled, as if they had to fight their way through his chest. He took his glasses off, and you saw it: vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like the soft skin beneath his armor. "I didn’t think I deserved you. I didn’t think I deserved anything... good."

A painful silence stretched between you. And in that silence, you both felt it—the undeniable pull. The space between you and him was so small, but the distance  was even smaller between your hearts. The words of the past had been cut with a blade so sharp, so final, but this moment felt different. You wanted to scream more, to just lose your shit, but the flame in your heart was fizzing out. It had been lit for so long, the anger fueled it, but maybe that was all you needed to yell for. One last spark to fly before it all went out. You were both scared, weren’t you? Scared of this love that had been tested by time, by loss, by mistakes too big to ignore. Scared of the future you didn’t know how to face. But here, now, in the middle of the storm, you both knew that the walls, the defenses—everything that had kept you apart—had fallen.

He stepped closer, the two of you were practically touching. The familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the damp air. His heartbeat, steady but fragile, rang out in the silence. The way he reached for you—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he should. You didn’t give him the chance to question himself. You stepped forward, closing the last of the space between you, your hands reaching for him—just to touch. To remind him that you were here, still. You wanted to fucking cry, so bad but you knew he would sense it and this would all be different, he needed this more than you did. 

His arms wrapped around you like a promise, he was so warm for someone who had been standing in the cold, his jacket felt like fleece blanket against your face. His hands were solid against your back, one of them moving up and down his fingertips getting lightly caught on the suit you wore to protect yourself. "I can't live without you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion, you could feel him taking in deep breaths the air from his body making cool spots in your hair momentarily. 

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything, of years spent apart, of love twisted into knots, of the aching hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find a way back to each other. You put your hands to his back and felt the muscles, the ones so prominent from his fighting completely relax. Though still solid they felt almost smoother. Holding onto him again was like trying nicotine for the first time all over again, and with that same type of headache kicking in you whispered back "I can’t either.”

For a moment, there was nothing else. No past. No guilt. No regret. Just the rain. Just the two of you, standing there in the quiet, the world outside forgotten. If only it were snow, then it would have been a full circle moment to the first date you ever shared. But no, it was teetering on a full blown storm, neither of you cared. 

Matt pulled back, just enough to take a hand from your back and cup your face. Tears welled up, he would blame it on the rain if you planned to say a thing about it. But he rolled his thumb under your eye as if you were the one crying. "You’re all I’ve got. You know that, right?"

The words hit you hard, but not in a painful way. In a way that felt like a lifeline.You had just started a new life again, but this, you needed this more. One more time for the hell of it. No. Twelve more times. The rest of your life. It was never going to be done. You nodded. "I know. I’m not going anywhere. Not again."

And then, just as it had always been, the distance between you was no longer a barrier. You got up on your tip toes and grabbed his face with a tight grip,  kissed him, your teeth practically clacked together at the force. He reciprocated the same urgency grabbing the back of your head, tightening a hand in your hair. He could feel the small knots and tangles in the strands of hair that the  wind and whatever you had been up to previously had created. The rain felt harder, touching him like this was crashing reality down. The droplets felt like sweat bees as they pricked at your exposed skin. The world had otherwise faded into the background—gone, erased. All that mattered was the promise in his arms, the feeling of his lips against yours, and the surety that, no matter what the future held, you were in this together. 

When you pulled away, he smiled softly, releasing your hair and touching across the back of your neck, the first time in a long while that it wasn’t forced, you were his favorite sin. There was nothing better or more tempting than the shit you pulled with one another, "We’re going to try, right?"

You smiled back, breathless but certain his lips were slightly redder than before and all puffed out from your initial assault. But the added color made him look better than when you had first seen him that day. You could’ve ran away, just said I’m sorry the way he always did and left him there on that rooftop. But instead you spoke with conviction. "Together. Always."

And for the first time in years, Matt Murdock didn't feel so alone.

And neither did you.

[coffeewithcal]

Falling For Ya (1)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

You meet Benedict and after falling in front of him in a game of tag, you continue to fall for him in more than ways in one for the rest of your lives.

will contain eventual smut so MDNI (18+)

Age Eight

Sun streams through the trees and down onto the garden where the Bridgerton children are giggling as they chase each other in a game of tag. You watch them from afar, holding onto your mother’s hand as she and Viscountess Bridgerton lead you over to the children to introduce them. 

Daphne notices you first, racing over to introduce herself and you hide yourself behind your mother, terrified to actually speak to another child. Your whole life has been spent around adults because you are an only child so you’re not even sure actually sure how to speak to someone your own age.

“I’m Daphne,” she says, peering around your mother but you shut your eyes tight as you press yourself further into your mother’s back as she tries her best to get you off of her. She’s finally able to peel you from her body then forces you to stand in front of her as a boy who looks to be a bit older stands next to her, sticking his hand out for you to shake. 

You hesitantly take it and give it a shake, feeling your anxiety lessen only slightly when he smiles at you. You shyly smile back and even though you feel a little more comfortable, you’re still grabbing hold of your mother’s hand when she and Violet turn to head back towards their husbands leaving you alone with the other children. 

“I’m Anthony,” the boy introduces himself. “And you are?”

“Y/n,” you reply, your voice barely audible. This is uncharted territory and you’re not entirely sure how to go about speaking to them. You don’t want to come across as too mature because then maybe they won’t want to spend time with you. 

“We’re playing tag if you want to join!” Daphne calls out and you nod your head, growing quiet again as you go over and sit on the grass to watch. 

You feel safe here in your little bubble. You’re so used to being on your own that it would feel weird playing with anyone besides yourself. It looks fun though, watching the six siblings chase each other around the garden, their giggles picking up again. 

They even stop every so often to encourage you to play with them despite the constant shakes of your head. You want to, you really do, but you’re far too clumsy for it and just know that you’ll fall if you partake in their game. 

But you join anyway, mostly because your parents are watching. Anthony has decided that you are “it” and now you’re chasing after him, holding your dress up higher than you should so as to not trip on your dress, but it’s deemed rather pointless when you trip anyway in some of the mud that’s still wet from the rain last night. 

The giggles suddenly stop and everyone just stares as you lie there, too embarrassed to get up. Well, everyone but Benedict who’s quick to help you to your feet. He wipes what he can off of your dress and when you sink to your knees again because of the pain, he scoops you in your arms and carries you over to where the adults are having tea.

He grabs an empty chair and sets you in it before hurrying to fetch the proper supplies to clean up your scraped knees. He presses a cloth with warm water to your skin and begins to wipe away the dirt from your knees. 

This boy doesn’t even know you yet is doing everything in his power to make sure that you’re okay. It warms your heart but at the same time, you feel your cheeks burn as the adults watch the two of you, definitely already planning your wedding in their heads.

“I’m Benedict, by the way,” he introduces himself with a smile. It’s from that moment that you just know that you’re going to be the best of friends.

Age Sixteen

The Bridgerton study is empty besides you and Benedict. You are by the window reading your favorite book again, while he is sitting across from you, sketching his favorite subject, but you keep moving, making it hard for him to get it right. You’re not actually reading, though, talking non-stop which is something that Benedict loves. Especially because you only do it with him. 

Over the eight years you have been friends, he has been the only person who you let see the realest form of yourself. He understands you in a way that not everyone does and he feels the same exact way about you. 

He feels like he can tell you anything and you won’t judge him. You’ve spent so many days doing exactly this, talking about everything and nothing as you skim your book and Benedict works on a sketch. He’ll never show you what he’s drawing though, and you respect that. Just because you’re friends doesn’t mean he owes that to you.

When he slams the book closed, though, your curiosity gets the best of you. You suddenly have to know what’s inside it, what he’s been drawing this whole time and why he’s been so secretive. So you make a beeline for him, reaching for the book which he holds out of your reach. It starts off aggressive but then becomes progressively more playful as you try to get the book from him, desperate to see what’s on the pages. 

If he lets you see it, though, then you’ll know that he’s been drawing you for years and he’s not sure how you’re going to take it. He’ll have to explain that he’s been in love with you for half of his life and he’s afraid that he’s going to ruin the best friendship he’s ever had because of it. 

He doesn’t let up, though, holding it out of your grasp and racing around the study, maniacal laughter falling from his lips as he holds it just out of your reach as you continue to call after him. You’ve got him pinned to the desk as you continue to reach for the book, completely oblivious to how he’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.

You’re so close that he can smell your perfume. He’s always close enough to smell it, but this is different. Your body is pressed against his and if anyone was to come in here and find you in the position, you’d be in huge trouble. But you can’t stop staring at each other’s lips, desperate to know what they feel like even though you know it’s wrong. But that’s what makes you want to do it more. 

As soon as your lips are about to meet, the door bursts open and Benedict is so caught off guard that you’re able to steal the sketchbook from his hand and race out of the room, straight past Anthony who is probably the only person who you’d want to catch you like this since he doesn’t ever seem to care. 

“So it seems you haven’t told her yet,” he says as he closes the door, making his way over to his younger brother. 

“No, and I never will,” Benedict sighs as he turns towards the desk, leaning his palms against it to try and figure out what just happened between the two of you. 

Anthony thinks his brother is silly for not telling you the truth. If he had been in his brother’s shoes, you would have known long ago and the second the two of you were able, you’d be engaged. He just can’t understand why Benedict is dragging his feet. A woman as beautiful as yourself will be snatched up as soon as you’re available so he thinks Benedict should be acting fast.

“It would save you from the marriage mart.” Benedict does like that possibility, but he’s not even sure if you feel the same way and too afraid to actually find out. 

“Even so, I’m taking this information to the grave.”

“As if the sketchbook she’s got in her hands won’t tell her everything that there is to know.” Benedict’s eyes widen and he’s quick to race out of the room to chase after you to which Anthony just chuckles to himself. He’s so easy. 

Age Twenty-Three

You sit at your pottery wheel, grateful for some peace and quiet, working on-well, you don’t exactly know what you’re working on. You just needed to get away from Benedict, especially with having those inappropriate thoughts about him that just won’t go away. Seeing him briefly at the ball only made it worse and now you just need to be alone so you don’t do something you would regret. 

The door shuts behind you and you roll your eyes because you know exactly who it is. You can tell just by his footsteps and really wish you could get the courage to tell him to go away. Funny how the very person you’d want to talk to about this is the one you want to ignore. 

You don’t deny him, though, as he sits behind you, trying your best to focus when he rests his chin on your shoulder. He’s done this exact thing more times than you can count but this time it feels different. He wraps his arms around your waist which you would normally love, but having him this close is making you feel hot, nervous. Your heart is beating so fast and hard and you really hope he can’t hear it. 

“You left,” he says and you feel your heart break a little at how disappointed he sounds.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, trying your best to not sound like your heart is beating out of your chest. 

“I missed you.” He scoots even closer so that his chest is pressed to your back and now your skin is on fire. He always says that, but this time, it feels different, like there’s more weight to it and you’re beginning to wonder if he feels the same way even though he probably (definitely) doesn’t. “You left me all alone and I hate to dance with someone else.” 

“Oh no, poor Benedict had to dance with a beautiful woman.” 

“She had two left feet,” he corrects and your blood is boiling just hearing him talk about another woman. It makes you so angry but little do you know that he has always only had eyes for you and will continue to until he takes his last breath.

“So do I.” You both know that, but Benedict always likes to use it as an excuse to pull you closer. But the one he was dancing with just kept stepping on his feet. His toes still hurt.

“I just like to dance with you. Is that such a crime?” Your skin is burning even more at his compliment and part of you just wants to show him exactly how you feel about him. But you can’t. Not only are you just too shy, but it would also alter your friendship. Not to mention if you were both caught, there would hell to pay. You just can’t risk it. But god, are you dreaming about it. 

You’re about to excuse yourself when you feel him push the sleeve of your dress off your shoulder. You let out a gasp but you don’t dare stop him. You’re too stunned to do anything and you also just want to see what he’s going to do. 

A foreign sound leaves your mouth when he eventually presses a feather light kiss to the skin. Benedict seems to like it because he continues, peppering your shoulder with kisses, slowly making his way to your neck. He helps you lean your head to the side to give him more room as he hesitantly begins to suck. 

Another sound falls from your lips as your pottery wheel stops. Benedict’s hands reach for your now free ones, not even caring if they’re covered in clay. He just wants to feel them in his. This is nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. There’s a strange feeling pooling in your stomach and you have to lean forward to put a stop to it. Just when Benedict’s afraid that he’s made you feel uncomfortable, you turn fully on your stool to face him, your pupils dilated as you scoot closer to him.

“I just don’t want anyone to see it,” you tell him and he nods. 

“Good point. Now come here.” He helps you sit in his lap, your bare chest looking so inviting right in front of his face. “How about here?” He asks, his now clay covered hand pointing at the spot right above your breast. 

“Or, I could give you one. Yours could be covered up, right?” You ask, your face just inches from his. Your voice is flirty, seductive, and he is loving seeing this side of you.

“Oh, I’d love for you to give me one. Do you want me to teach you?” Benedict is the only one who you’d want to show you. Any time he’s taught you anything, he’s been nothing but polite and gentle. 

“Please.” It’s desperate, pleading and he decides that he needs you right now.

“Okay, start by kissing the spot.” Your face falls and that’s when he remembers that you don’t have nearly as much experience as he does. Or any at all. “You don’t know how to kiss do you?” The question is more genuine than anything. Benedict would never laugh at you for something like that. “Come here.” 

You lean down as his hands take yours, guiding them to his neck, wrapping your arms around it as his hands rest gently on your waist. Your eyes are already staring at his lips and he can’t believe that no one has tried to kiss you before because he selfishly wants to be your first. 

His hands slowly move up your back as he guides you closer, his lips finding yours in a lingering peck before he pulls away. He sees how disappointed you are then pulls you in for another, this one even longer before pulling away yet again. 

“Patience,” he demands with a chuckle when he sees you getting impatient. “I’m just warming you up.” He then takes your face in his hands and slowly slots his lips between yours, your hands grabbing onto his shirt, kissing him so desperately, as if you’ve been waiting your entire life for it. And you have. This is something that you’ve been dreaming about for longer than you’d ever care to admit. 

You pick it up quickly, sliding your hands into his hair and Benedict decides that this is the best kiss he’s ever had by far. He would have usually moved on by now, but he can’t. Your lips are just too addicting and he can’t seem to get himself to stop until you pull away to catch your breath, breathing so heavily that he can’t help but laugh.

“You’ve gotta breathe, darling,” he says with a chuckle. “Through your nose. Can’t have you passing out on me.” His hands lazily move up and down your waist and you feel like you could melt right there. You’ve both been in the marriage mart for quite some time now and you always wonder how he’s still not found a wife. 

You always hear women whispering about him and see how many times he gets approached when the two of you are together. Growing up, you were sure that he’d be married with at least a few children by now. You don’t understand why he can’t just pick one and settle down. Because maybe then, you wouldn’t convince yourself that you had a chance. A chance with Benedict Bridgerton? That will only happen when hell freezes over. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize and lean forward again. You don’t know what’s going on here, but you’re not going to question it. You’re just going to take what he’s willing to give you. 

“You don’t have to apologize. Now come here.” You do as he says but this time, he gently takes your face in his hands and kisses you gently this time, like he’s done this exact thing a thousand times as his thumbs rub back and forth against your jaw. “Open,” he whispers against your lips and you listen, opening your mouth just a little bit, gasping as you feel his younger flicking inside. 

Your tongue moves with his as he tilts your head back, pushing down on your chin so you’ll open wider so he’ll have more access. You let out another moan and Benedict’s trying his hardest to ignore how hard he’s become. He knows that he can’t possibly take this any farther, but pulls away and brings your head to his neck anyway. 

“Kiss me,” he breathes, not following his own advice and only just now trying to catch his breath. You do as he says and kiss his neck, trying to remember what he had done to you just a few moments ago. 

You then go in for a gentle suck and feel him squirm underneath you, something hard against you and you pull away to see that he’s adjusting his crotch for reasons unknown to you. 

“Did I do something?” You ask and Benedict immediately shakes his head, only realizing now that you’ve never been educated on what goes on between a man and woman, surely unaware that it doesn’t just happen to produce children. 

“Of course not, darling.” He knows this is a bad idea because he knows that he’ll want more, the greedy man he is, but he’s going to make sure to not progress so that you’re saved for your husband. A few kisses is one thing, but sex is something entirely different. He knows how big of a deal it is and he certainly wouldn’t want to get you in trouble and even worse, if word were to get out, he’d get an earful from Anthony and lord knows he’s had enough of those to last a lifetime. 

“Maybe we should stop,” he says and hates to see pout on your face. “Hey, hey. I had a lovely time. In fact, I’ll dream about this tonight, but I don’t think we should continue.” He’s sure that he sees tears pricking your eyes and his heart is breaking just looking at you. “Only because I think it’d be best to save yourself for your husband.” 

You know he’s right, but you really were hoping that he’d be your first, not even caring that you wouldn’t be his. In fact, you’d want him to show you how it’s done because he has so much knowledge. He would be so gentle and sweet and you just know that your future husband will only want to get you into bed for the sole purpose of having a child and he wouldn’t care whether or not you enjoyed yourself. You’ve heard the stories and you’re going to be another one. 

“You’re right,” you nod, trying to remind yourself that this is the right thing to do. And you know that this isn’t rejection, but why does it feel like it is? 

“I should go.” 

“Okay,” you nod and he helps you up from his lap and you both head to the bucket beside the wheel to rinse your hands. It’s small since you’re the only one who usually uses it so his hands keep knocking against yours and as you try your best to not look him in the eye, you can’t help it. He’s staring at you and when you finally look up at him, he motions for you to come closer. Once you’re close enough, he brings his hand up and removes some of the clay that’s dried there. 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He asks and you hate the sad tone in his voice. You’re always so quick to forgive him when he uses it. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Now you should go before someone catches you.” 

“One more kiss?” He asks. “For the long journey home?” He puckers his lips as he dries his hands. 

“You live next door.” 

“Then you know just how long the journey is.” 

He’s leaning down, puckering his lips even more and you can’t help but give in, pressing your lips to his and he’s quick to grab hold of your waist, pulling you to him as he wraps his arms around you tightly. 

He then pulls away only to steal one more peck before fleeing, slamming the door behind him. You watch him race across the grass through the window, not being able to stop yourself from giggling when he slips on the grass and falls forward. He then gets up and hurries to his house before anyone notices that he was gone while you close the curtain and let your kisses replay in your head as you clean up your space before retiring to your room for the rest of the night.

[coffeewithcal]

Have you done a drabble on Reid and bombshell r wedding day?? I just read the proposal one and :(( it warms my heart

Ty for requesting!!! fem

The morning of your wedding day isn’t the chaos you’d both pictured. Spencer wears the finest suit he’s ever had. You wear a white silk dress with drops of diamonds hanging in your hair like the rain. There are no morning drinks, no catastrophes to correct. 

You sit on a chaise lounge. He sits in a wooden chair, dragged to you, his hands on your knees careful not to wrinkle the skirt of your dress. 

“It's so quiet,” he whispers. 

“I know.” 

Somewhere in the venue, Penelope and Luke are waging war on the florists —you did not order yellow geraniums. Hotch is explaining to Jack that you and Spencer met years ago, and have been smitten with one another pretty much every moment since. Derek’s cradling his toddler before he takes stage as the best man. JJ, Emily, and Tara are debating the kiss; will you make a show of things, pulling him in by the tie for a smacker, or will Spencer tame the excitement?

There’s a whole team of people making sure today goes smoothly. And still, Spencer‘s worried about some thing. 

“You know how beautiful you look?” 

“I should say that to you.” You reach for his tie, rolling it gently between your fingers. “My beautiful husband.” 

“This is… I don’t really know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything, Spence.” Anything he has to say about you, you know it all. The same way you’ve told him every thought you’ve had about him for years. He’s part of your psyche. 

“I’m so nervous about my vows,” he confesses then. 

“Don’t be.” 

“What if yours are better than mine?” 

“They will be.” You raise your hand tentatively to his face, fingertips drawing in the hollow of his cheek. “But you’re the academic, baby…” 

“I can write them again.”

You smile at him keenly. “If you don’t like them, you can try again on our anniversary. Or in a few years when we renew them, yeah? It doesn’t have to be perfect. You’ve promised me all this stuff for years.” 

“My speech isn’t good enough, either.” 

“Your speech will be perfect. It’s Morgan’s you should worry about, he’s gonna rehash all the embarrassing things… Savannah said he’s been practicing when Hank’s sleeping. That he,” —you laugh, in love with not just Spencer but the world— “keeps waking him up laughing at his own jokes.” 

Spencer dips toward you at the sound of your laughing, he can’t help himself. “If it didn’t wrinkle your dress, I’d really try to have you in my lap,” he admits in a whisper, nothing salacious, just the honest truth. “We could sit on the floor, like we did that time in New York.”

“Where would we get dessert now?” 

“That’s what we’ll do tonight, right?” He looks for your thigh in the dress, squeezing nicely. 

“Yeah, Spence. Yeah, I’ll even put the dress back on.” You tilt your chin up and follow your nose down, meeting his gaze with an unnamed emotion. Total devotion, perhaps. Something too soft to describe accurately. “We’ll share the spoon, just like New York.” 

Three kisses and a careful hug, his hair tickling your forehead as he curls over you. “This is the best day of my life.”

“It’s the best day of mine!” You let your hands climb his back, aiming for the mop of his hair to play with. “You’re everything, sweetheart. You’re just perfect. I can’t believe you’re seeing me in my dress though, everybody says that’s bad luck.” 

But you and Spencer don’t worry about what everybody says anymore. Not for a long time. 

“It’s good to see it now. I… I know I’ll cry, but this is taking the edge off.” 

“Don’t cry, honey. You’ll make me cry, and if I cry up there I’m gonna feel so silly all day.” 

“Silly,” he says, beginning to rub your back in swoops. “If you don’t cry, I might feel jilted.”

“So I have to choose between mortal embarrassment or hurting my husband?” 

He hugs you tighter. You aren’t married yet, but by the end of the night you will be. You’ll order desserts to the hotel room and sit in his lap on the floor by the heater, your white dress surely wrinkled, his tie either side of his neck, undone, neck exposed to be caressed with the tip of your nose. 

“I can’t not cry,” he says now. “Don’t expect me not to.”

“I don’t really expect you not to.” And no one will expect it of you when you cry like a child as he slips on your ring, but it makes sense to him. You and Spencer always make sense to each other. 

[coffeewithcal]

you know what ive been thinking about? boy dad spencer reid. everyone talks about girl dad spence but boy dad spencer?? watching him play sports and having literally no clue what's going on, or dressing him up like a little old man or playing dinosaurs with him and teaching him magic </3 my little heart can't take it

dad!spencer beloved +fem!reader

“Hi, Jude.” 

Jude sizes you up. 

“Want a cuddle?” you whisper. 

The little boy gives a shy smile, falling into your arms as you open them.

Jude is great at hiding but you’re better at finding, no matter where he is. Spencer calls it your ‘Jude tingle’. Despite the dumb name, he’s always grateful you’ve found his toddler, saving Jude from a lifetime in the Trader Joe’s freezer aisle or an abrupt sleepover at Aunt Emily’s apartment. Today, you’ve protected him from the spiders in the Reid backyard. 

”What did daddy say about hiding?” you ask softly. 

Jude sighs against your neck, close to tears at even a whisper of a scolding. “To tell daddy, and we would hide together.” 

“Yeah, you can hide together. Why didn’t you wanna tell dad today? You could’ve told me if you wanted.” Jude sniffles. You trace a short line down his back. “Good thing I always know where to find my favourite boy, huh? You can’t hide from me, Jude, I love you too much. I follow the hearts until I find you.” 

“That’s not true,” he grumbles. 

“Oh yes it is. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” he says. Just a couple of months ago he could barely say love, but he can show it, and he does today by pressing a wet little kiss to your cheek. 

“Daddy’s still looking for you,” you whisper. 

“Hide me?” 

“I don’t think I should. I bet daddy’s about to get upset. Should we go find him?” 

Jude pulls away. You push his glasses up his sloped nose, forcing him to blink as he readjusts to the world again. Jude Reid, in all his baby-faced sweetness, couldn’t look more like his dad. He has Spencer’s eyes, and his cheeks, though Jude doesn’t have the sharp jaw or cheekbones, just puppy fat. You dot a kiss on one soft cheek and stand, offering down a hand to keep Jude tethered, lest you lose him before you find his dad. 

“Is he mangry with me?” 

“Dad’s not mad or angry, just upset.”

“He’s crying?” Jude asks, shocked. 

“No, he’s not crying! He doesn’t like not knowing where you are, that’s all. No, daddy’s not upset like that.” 

“Can you make him… can you…” 

“I can make him feel better,” you promise. 

Jude wriggles his fingers in your hand. 

Spencer’s calling Jude’s name into the expanse of the back yard, attempting to sound cheerful but missing the mark quite severely. “Jude, it’s dinner time!” 

“Dad!” Jude calls back. 

Spencer sags like a popped balloon, trudging over to you both by the patio doors. 

“I don’t know why we bother splitting up,” Spencer says, bending down to swoop Jude into his arms, thrusting him up into the air quickly to make him laugh. “Y/N always finds you!” 

“You’re not sad?” 

Spencer shakes his head. “I’m ecstatic! Because you’re back! And you’re safe and sound!” 

Jude gets guilty and tries to slip into the curve of Spencer’s neck, promising he won’t hide again so long as dad doesn’t cry. Spencer isn’t confused by the hiding anymore, Jude’s paediatrician thinks it’s a reaction to overstimulation, but he goes soft like warm butter whenever Jude’s upset. “I won’t cry, Jude… it’s okay. I’m not upset…” 

Spencer gives him a kiss on the ear and lifts his head back to you. “Okay?” you ask softly, not speaking to one of them in particular. 

“I think Jude’s hungry.” 

“I don’t want milk,” he denies. 

“For dinner,” Spencer agrees. “I think we should have something filling. How about chilli and rice?” 

“No beans?” Jude asks seriously. 

“No beans. I’ll make garlic bread or something too. How does that sound?” 

He speaks so gently you don’t know he’s talking to you until he’s nudging you. 

“Oh, anything you’re making,” you say. 

You’re sure he’s gonna kiss you, though he hasn’t before, but sometimes he’ll work up the courage to kiss your cheek or hold you by the back of the neck, moments of wild intimacy that make you dizzy. He shifts Jude against his chest and dips his nose into wind-brushed curls. “Stop hiding,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Jude sarcs, unexpectedly cheeky. It makes Spencer laugh like a kid, which makes Jude giggle, and for a second you can’t tell whose laugh is whose.

[coffeewithcal]

can we have bed time with dad!spencer, his baby boy and reader? 

Jude has brown eyes like Spencer. They have the same mouth and nose, the same thoughtful gaze. “That’s me,” Spencer says, Jude’s back to his chest, an arm between his legs to keep the little boy steady, “and this is you.” He points at Jude before smoothing a hand over his chest. “See us? That’s dad and Jude.” 

“Us,” Jude echoes. 

“Yeah, that’s us.”

Jude works his lips up into a smile. 

They smell like talc and lavender oil for the teeny tiny burns on Jude’s fingertips. He touched the oven door a few days ago while it was still on, Spencer gets hot remembering how hard Jude cried. It took more kisses than he bothered counting to make him stop screaming, an ice pop held to his small hand with a hand towel wrapped around it, squeezed to the bathroom door together —the first place Spencer could remember seeing a towel, Jude still sobbing. 

Spencer wants Jude to associate the bathroom with normal things. Peeing, showering, and not the little burns. If he can have happy associations, that’s better. Like dad and Jude’s night time routine, where Spencer brings him in here to brush his teeth and dab his face clean with a cloth. Some nights he needs to detangle his hair, or give his baby an impromptu shower, and some nights Jude is already asleep by the time Spencer remembers these things. 

“You’re really handsome,” Spencer says, pointing at the mirror, “see? You’re beautiful. See your smile?” 

Jude giggles excitedly. “I am beautiful,” he says proudly. 

“Exactly, you’re beautiful. Are you happy?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tipping back, his curls tickling Spencer’s nose. 

“Are you comfy?” Spencer whispers. 

“Think so.” 

“You think so,” Spencer says, beaming to himself as he kisses the top of Jude’s head. “You’re smart, Judey. Okay, how do we know we’re comfortable? Are your clothes tight? Do you want to take off your socks?”

“No.” 

“Okay, good. Does your mouth still taste all minty from the paste?” 

A flicker of disgust. “Yeah, it does.” 

“I’ll get you your sippy cup. You don’t seem tired, are we having a story?” he asks, voice turned to fatherly syrup as he shifts Jude around. He turns off the bathroom light and shuts the door behind them as they leave. 

“No, I wan’ be in the big bed.” 

“You do?” 

“With you.” 

“Okay, that’s okay, you can be in the big bed, are you sure you don’t want a story too? We can read about Edward the rabbit again.” 

Jude doesn’t bother answering. Spencer tends to read to him every night unless Jude has expressly shouted that he doesn’t want one, ‘cos that’s what his mom did for him, and Spencer loves his mom. 

Spencer fills Jude’s sippy cup with water (not so much a sippy cup as a bottle), and they retreat together to the big bed. In the middle of the bed, tired and curled up and waiting for them, is you. You perk up enough to drag yourself to one side of the bed as you kick down the sheets. 

Spencer isn’t used to this, but he should be. (This, because there isn’t really a word for it? For being friends and for not being intimate and for sleeping in the same bed together whenever you stay the night.) 

“Hi, baby,” you say, holding your arms out for Jude. 

Spencer gives him over. Jude suckles his drink, a picture of the baby he was when Spencer first got him as he turns into your chest. He’d need all the help he could get back then. You’d given more than he could ever ask for, and Jude knows you for that. 

You tip Jude against you and press yourself flat, your hand spread over his back. 

“Are you reading Edward Tulane tonight?” you ask quietly. 

“Just a bit. Couple of pages.” 

“Sounds good. You okay, mister?” you ask Jude. 

He nods around his drink. 

Spencer turns the light off and the lamp on, bathing you and Jude in a kind orange glow. The mattress sinks under his weight, dipping under yours, encouraging you closer together in the middle. You barely notice the outside influence, shuffling across the pillows to rest your face against Spencer’s arm. 

“Did you want milk?” Spencer asks him. “You can have some, it’s okay.” 

“Minty,” Jude whispers. 

“Minty,” you whisper in support. “Daddy takes good care of those teeth, huh?” 

Jude loves being spoken to sweetly. He closes his eyes as you pull him like a curve to you, squished and cuddling. You’re his mirror, eyes fluttering shut as you sniff his hair. Spencer loves your smile —he knows what you’re thinking, because he knows what you’re thinking. Jude still smells like baby. 

“Maybe this book is too sad,” Spencer says, thumbing to the last page he’d read from. 

“It’s not too sad, and we won’t be awake long.” 

“My Judey told me he’s not tired,” Spencer says. 

“My Judey needs his sleep,” you whisper.

Jude smiles and lets the rest of the cup fall away from him. “Can say you love me?” Jude whispers. 

“Who, baby?” Spencer asks. 

“You and you,” he says. 

You take a deep breath, whispering grandly, “I love you.” 

Spencer follows suit with a hand wrapped around Jude’s calf. “I love you, too. So much they don’t have a word for it yet. You know your middle name, you know what it means? Anwil, it means loved one, because I love you a lot. And I have forever and ever.” 

“And ever?” Jude asks. 

Spencer rubs his leg softly. “And ever. More than Y/N does.” 

You gasp in offense. “No way!”

Jude giggles but settles as you run your fingers through his hair. Spencer lays down and cracks the book over his chest, falling into his usual reading cadence, though he doesn’t bother much with special voices. Jude’s eyes are already shut and he’s jelly on your chest. 

He leans over mid story to brush hair from Jude’s ear. “I love you,” he says, to be sure.

Jude says something back that sounds like, “too.” 

[coffeewithcal]

can I pls request: dad!spencer and his baby boy getting antsy and weepy but spencer not knowing what’s wrong until you come back from a long case and then he’s fine straight away

—Spencer and his baby miss you like crazy for 3k, fem

Things have been hot garbage since Monday. Saturday night and all Spencer wants is one good day, where Jude doesn’t cry, and Spencer doesn’t feel sick. Saturday morning it went on for hours —Jude started crying because his bottle was prematurely empty and he didn’t stop, the sobs petering into weeps, sniffly wet nose pressed to Spencer’s neck, then his chest, then his forehead. Poor boy can’t stay still. 

Spencer hasn’t eaten properly since you left. He can’t get more than a couple of mouthfuls in before Jude is protesting his own meal or snack and flopping sadly into a Jude-puddle. 

Spencer has suggested dinner again, because not eating makes you sad, but Jude doesn’t care what it does and Spencer puts electrolytes in his juice. He offers extra time at the swimming pool and the library, and he plays soccer outside despite terrible coordination because Jude loves to score. Nothing lasts long enough. Jude spends half of his waking time morose and clingy, the other hiding under beds or in the kitchen cabinet under the sink. Spencer makes him an appointment with the pediatrician for Wednesday morning. 

The waiting is agony. 

“I don’t think you should worry about it until you go,” you say down the phone, “you know that worrying twice is pointless. Not that you shouldn’t worry at all, I know it’s scary, but there’s nothing you can’t handle, Spence.” 

“If Jude is sick I definitely can’t handle that.” 

“Yes, you can. Don’t be stupid.” 

Stupid said very softly. Spencer misses your voice. He tries to go on cases but if they look too long, he stays home, ‘cos who does he trust enough to take care of Jude besides himself? There was one time where you stayed with Jude for a two-nighter just because you wanted to and Spencer missed being with the BAU, but he missed Jude more while he was there than he missed the work. He’s a professional consultant now, and it’s fine. He loves his life. He still goes to the office and sees his friends for coffee, and he gets to be with Jude all the time. If something happened to him… 

“He’s just not himself, it’s–” breaking my heart. 

“Emily said we’re a half hour from touching down in Quantico, I’ll come over?” 

Spencer didn’t consider you going home to your own place, but he should’ve. “Please. Maybe you can get through to him, or figure out what it is that’s making him so sad.” 

“What's he been eating?” 

“Nothing.” Spencer rubs his eyebrow and the headache there roughly. “Uh, he can’t stop himself from eating those carrot puffs. If you get a couple of those on the way in I’ll pay you back.” 

“Honey, I can buy the baby some snacks. What about you, are you eating?” 

“Not really,” he confesses quietly. 

“Anything you fancy?” 

He grins at your phrasing and your light tones. Maybe when Jude is a little older, a lot older, Spencer could go with you again. 

“Can you get me those chilli tortilla chips, please?” 

“And salsa?” 

“Please, if you don’t mind.” 

“I love all the snacks you love,” you laugh, “did you want something sweet, too? I really crave a three musketeers.” 

“That’s the worst candy bar you could’ve picked.” 

“It is not. And for that you aren’t getting one.”

Spencer laughs and sways Jude’s attention from the movie. He frowns at Spencer as if to say, What’s so funny? I’m miserable. And Spencer feels more sorry for him than anyone in the whole wide world. “What’s the matter, baby?” he murmurs. 

“Is that my boy?” 

Spencer tries to pretend you saying such a thing doesn’t inspire extreme attraction. “That’s your boy,” he says, flustered beyond sense, “he’s not feeling the best.” 

Jude shuffles to Spencer’s seat. “I know, poor boy,” you murmur, “aw, I can’t wait to be home, I missed him so much more than I can say, this case felt like an age.” 

Doesn’t Spencer know it? He pinches the phone between his ear and shoulder, holding out his hands for Jude, slipping them into his armpits as Jude struggles up into his lap. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asks again. 

Jude pouts up at Spencer through long eyelashes. “Daddy, who’s on’a phone?” 

“Y/N. Do you want to talk?” 

Jude is rigid, his eyebrows pinched tightly, but he nods and holds his hand out for the phone. Spencer guides it gently to his ear. “Tell me if it’s too loud, okay?” 

“Hello?” Spencer hears you say. “Jude, lovely, are you there? Can you hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Jude says. 

“Hello. I miss you very much, I’m excited to come home. Daddy says you’re not feeling well, I’m very sorry to hear it. If you can think of anything I can get you or I can bring you to make you feel better, can you tell me now?” 

“Um…” Jude gives Spencer a betrayed glare that makes no sense.  “Dad?” 

“She said she misses you,” Spencer says softly. “She’s sorry you’re not happy. And she wants to know if you want a present, or a special dinner.” 

“No.” Jude straightens up, a little hand tight on the phone. “I miss you,” he says loudly. 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you soon, just a couple more hours. Can you be good for dad and have something to eat? Have some apple stars or a bowl of chips or a boppy?” 

Jude nods. 

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Say out loud,” he whispers. 

“Say what?” Jude asks. 

“He’s saying yes,” Spencer says loudly. 

“You’re gonna go have a boppy now?” you check. 

“Yeah,” Jude says. 

Your laugh is hard to hear, but Spencer knows it well, filling in the gaps in his head. “Okay, babe. You go have your boppy and I’ll see you real soon.” 

Jude perks up a little. He thanks you in his mind for being a miracle worker. Jude says, “Okay,” and you say, “Okay, bye-bye,” and Jude says, “Bye-bye, I love you,” which makes you backtrack to say, “I love you too! Okay? Go have your boppy. Bye, sweet boy.” 

Jude gives Spencer the phone nicely. 

Spencer can see you’ve hung up, so he puts the phone on the arm and takes Jude’s cheek into his palm. “Okay?” he asks. 

“I’m gonna have boppy now,” Jude informs him. 

“Yeah, let’s go make it.” 

It’s skim milk now Jude’s old enough, but he likes it all the same, and he drinks it held against Spencer’s chest where Spencer stands in the kitchen. Jude doesn’t fuss as Spencer starts writing a list on the fridge-pad. Milk, laundry detergent, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, bread, cheese and broccoli pasta mix, cheese, noodles. “What do you want for your dinner tomorrow?” Spencer asks, unsurprised to go unanswered. He adds rice, hand soap, and crayons. 

Jude doesn’t fall asleep after the bottle. He stretches and cards a hand through his dad’s hair, clumsy but quiet without sulking for the first time in days. “Thank you, that feels nice,” Spencer whispers. 

Jude presses his nose up against Spencer’s jaw, bringing his other hand to double the stroking. “I love you very much, you know,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah.” 

“And things are going to be okay, I promise.” 

“Promise,” he repeats. 

“Want another boppy?” 

“Maybe I can have soup?” 

“Is that what your tummy wants?” Spencer opens the cabinet above the counter before Jude can say yes or no. “What soup do you want? Dad has tomato, chicken, mushroom, parsnip, I have all the best ones. Baby, let’s have soup and sandwiches.” 

“Mayo-yaise?” 

“Is that what you want? Like, a grilled cheese, or just toast and mayo?” He grins at his little weirdo. “You don’t even want the cheese, do you?” 

“No, I don‘ even wan’ the cheese,” Jude grins back. 

They make soup together. Spencer sits Jude next to the stove, positioning him between legs so he can’t fall or touch the saucepan. He opens two cans of tomato soup and adds fresh cream from the fridge to reduce the sourness, letting Jude pull basil from the window plant to sprinkle in after he’s brought it to a boil and then cooked it back down to a simmer. He gives it time to cool for at least ten minutes, stirring, and pressing the bread spread with mayonnaise into a sizzling frying pan, Jude mumbling at his side the whole time. Some stuff he understands, and some is jumbled nothing. “I think we can,” he says as Spencer pours the soup into two bowls. He leaves more than enough for you in the pot. 

“What do you think we can do?” Spencer asks. 

Jude only smiles. 

Jude takes a long, long time to eat his soup. Spencer heats it up again once, but Jude doesn’t mind it cold. Spencer finishes his in about five minutes and spends the next thirty waiting for you to come home. Over. Not home. 

“Have some more?” Jude asks. 

“You want more?” Spencer nearly chokes on his breath. 

“You and me.” 

“Sure,” Spencer says, standing, “babe,” —he kisses Jude’s head— “you can have,” —he gives another kiss while he's there— “as much as you want.” 

“Thanks thank you thanks.” 

“More sandwich, too?” 

“Can I have–” Jude struggles. “Dad, can we have bread without mayo-yaise?” 

“Just bread, not toasted? Still soft?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Sure, baby. Whatever you want.” 

Spencer likes that having a baby has made affection easier in every part of his life, he’s kinder to every child he meets because it’s easier now to call them lovely or beautiful or ask where their mom is, probably as a side effect of being loved resolutely. Jude loves Spencer so Spencer loves the world. It’s not exactly new rhetoric. 

Jude has managed a second piece of bread sans crust when you slip the door open across the house. Spencer grabs a paper towel to wipe Jude’s face and hands quickly.

“Hello?” you call gently, melodic in your cadence. 

Jude sits ramrod straight, batting Spencer’s hands away. “Hello?” he calls back. 

“Is that my Jude?” you ask, footsteps drawing nearer, your shoes clipping the wooden slat flooring, and then suddenly there in the kitchen doorway. “Hi, angel. I can’t believe you’re not feeling good, you look just the same as the last time I saw you!” You don’t take your bag off your shoulder, but you let the tote in your hand fall to the floor by the fridge. 

“Hi,” he says, like he’s in awe. 

Your expression softens further. “Hi.” 

Jude slides off of his chair and you go on one knee to reach for him, laughing softly as he digs his face into your neck, throwing his arms around you, too short to close. You hold his back in one arm. The other —Spencer’s heart feels squeezed in your palm— rests in the waves of his hair where they kiss Jude’s nape. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” you confess, your hand turning to a fist on his back. You drag your knuckles up and down. 

“I miss you.” 

“Sorry, handsome, I didn’t mean to be away that long.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I missed you too.” 

Jude takes a breath somewhere near sobbing and startles both you and Spencer. “I miss you,” he insists. 

“Bud, it’s okay.” 

Jude takes in another horrible straggly breath that nearly forces Spencer onto his knees. 

“Miss you,” Jude says, clinging to you with white-knuckled hands, “miss you, don’t go.” 

“Baby, I’m not going.” 

“Miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” you say, locking eyes with Spencer over his head, your lashes like willow, wide in confusion. 

Jude swallows harshly but nods like you’ve said something he can agree too. 

You shift Jude against your chest and stand. In your winter peacoat, your scarf and your silky black tights, you aren’t shy about squeezing poor rumpled Jude to your chest, ignoring his frizzed hair and his soup-stained t-shirt, all love as you rub his shuddering back. “Jude, you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“You was gone for too long.” 

Spencer can hardly hear him. 

“I was, huh?” 

“Too much.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d miss me this much. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

“You’ll be in the bed with me?” 

“Is that what you want me to do?” you ask patiently. 

“Yeah.” 

“If dad says it’s okay, we’ll sleep in the big bed.”

Jude spins in your arms, imploring Spencer desperately, “Please, daddy? Please?”

Of course you can stay in the big bed. It’s not unusual for you to spend the night, and you stopped suffering the couch a long time ago. 

The moment Jude knows you aren’t going home, he starts to act like himself again. He stops the shuddery breath that makes Spencer hot behind the eyes. His mumbling turns to a more curious probing —Why were you gone so long? Did you miss him? Can I come with you nex’ time? 

You don’t baulk. When Jude knocks the door while you’re changing and again while you’re freshening up, you don’t mind. You open the door with water running down your arms and chin and sit him on the sink basin while you brush your teeth. Spencer isn’t offended that you’ve taken over, it’s love. Like, his stomach aches with fondness watching you with Jude. You’ve been gentle from the beginning, loved Jude since he was a furious little baby crying himself sick in Spencer’s lap, and now you’re somehow more than that. You answer Jude’s why’s and when’s with the best you have. You pretend you aren’t tired, waiting for the three of you to sardine together in the dimly lit bed before you let out your first yawn. 

“Are you tired?” Jude asks you knowingly.  

“Not too much. How about you, are you tired?” 

“Not too much,” he echoes. Jude turns to Spencer, looking his age again. “Are you tired?” 

“I’m the most tired I’ve ever been,” he says. 

He doesn’t have his schoolboy heart attacks seeing you in your pajamas anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still find it special and secret when you rub your bare face and settle on your pillow, one eye hidden, the other sluggish. “Maybe we can rest our eyes with dad,” you suggest in a whisper, “he can sleep, and you can give him a cuddle.” 

Jude reaches for your hand. 

You hum softly. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

Slowly, Jude reaches for Spencer with his other hand. 

“Me neither,” he says. 

They ‘rest their eyes’ until Jude falls asleep, snoring in snuffs by your head. Spencer takes his glasses and folds them up for the nightstand, before curling into him. 

Cautious not to disturb Jude, you reach over to hold Spencer’s arm, locking Jude in, and giving Spencer some much needed reassurance. You don’t talk. Your thumb rubs into a ridge, a sore spot, and after a moment it’s sore in a new way. 

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise it was you,” he says. 

“Realise what?” 

“Jude missed you. It was you.” 

Your smile is gaussian. Happy and smudged. You pull Spencer closer to you, which in turn brings Jude right up on your chest. Spencer isn’t too cowardly to curve the arm you're holding right up over you in turn. His fingertips flirt with the dip in your spine, but stay. 

“You’re not saying all this fuss was about me being away.” 

“I’m wondering if it was.” 

You don’t respond. 

“You know how he gets when he can’t see me for the day,” Spencer says, afraid of waking Jude and of saying something too obviously adoring, “I should’ve guessed he missed you.” 

“He doesn’t love me like he loves you, Spencer. Jude loves you like you’re… it’s… I wish you could see him when he’s with you, it’s like you’re the same person…” You smile apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t know how to say it.”

Spencer doesn’t know how to answer. He stares at Jude’s neck. “I know how he loves me, ‘cos it’s how much I love him. I just think after seeing him tonight, it’s obvious what was going on with him.” 

“Don’t speak too soon, okay?” you say. “Let’s wait until tomorrow to decide he’s alright again.” 

Spencer draws a line down Jude’s nose. What a kid. Exhausting, beautiful Jude. 

“I missed you,” he says under his breath, not looking at you. “Don’t think I realised how much, either.” 

“I missed you, too,” you say. When you laugh, it’s like your voice has split and feathered into softness he can’t touch. “I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone like I missed you both. I kept thinking about Jude, when he used to do all that gibberish babble between real words and you’d ask him to repeat himself and he’d be too shy to do it. And his eyes, and his curls, I… I really love him. I’m so lucky that you let me.” 

I love you, Spencer thinks. From the day we met, and again when you called yourself my friend. Again, when you spent the first week of Jude’s homecoming sleeping on the couch and waking with every cry, soothing tears no matter who they came from, patient and tired, endlessly pretty. 

“I didn’t let you,” Spencer says. “You’re ferocious.” 

“Ha!” you whisper. “Ferocious. I like it.” 

“I like you,” he says. It’s all he’s brave enough to confess. 

“I’m a little sweet on you, Spencer Reid,” you say, turning your head up with a yawn. “I’m so tired.”

“Then sleep. We should sleep, I’m tired, too,” he says, sure he’d meant to say I love you, I want you to stay, I want to reach over and hold your neck and stay here for days. 

Spencer allows himself the last one. You whisper goodnight, your face tickled by a small head of hair.

[coffeewithcal]

Bad Day - Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

characters: Benedict fem! reader (reader is not described physically but 'mrs.' 'woman' 'wife' are used) content: kissing, cuddles, general fluff, reverse comfort, mentions of grief. wc. 3.1k (not beta read)

 The morning went well. You and Benedict were invited for breakfast along with everyone else in the family. So you both  got in the carriage, leaving your home and came to the family house. Everyone was happy to be together. You chatted with your new brothers and sisters, enjoying the company and lovely food with Benedict by your side. 

His hand never left yours, tracing little patterns with his thumb while he listened to his family chatter on about nothing in particular. He was quieter today. A small smile placed on his lips that didn’t quite meet his eyes. He just seemed a bit distant. You noticed but it wasn’t too out of the ordinary for him. Sometimes he was tired, maybe that was it. 

A little later, you were in conversation with Kate, discussing your married lives and sharing a few laughs over how your husbands were similar in ways only brothers would be. Anthony strode over with a smile and with casual effort, wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist. “Gossiping, are we?” he smiled lightly. “Hopefully about good things?” 

“Always good things, my love.” Kate smiled, welcoming his embrace. You smiled watching them display affection so effortlessly. It was nice seeing the two soften each other the longer they were married. Their love was always warm and inspiring, like two pieces that fit perfectly together. It made you wonder if others saw you and Benedict like that. 

“We were just discussing you and your brother.” Kate said, soft and warm, her eyes looking over him with nothing but love. “And just how different yet similar you both can be.” 

Anthony’s lips pressed together, the similarities and differences between him and Benedict going through his mind. “Well, we are brothers but there are bound to be differences. I could name a few off the top of my head.” He says with a hint of teasing humor in his voice.

“I’m sure you could.” You smiled with a small chuckle, “Speaking of which, Where is Benedict?” you asked, glancing around finally acknowledging that your husband was absent from your side. He didn’t seem to be in the room either. Realizing he wasn’t around, your hand felt very empty. A small sense of worry began to seep into your chest. 

“He disappeared from my side a while ago.” You say, moving your empty hand to your chest. You looked at Anthony. “I thought he might be with you.” The two were usually together if he was not with you. 

Anthony shook his head, “No. I haven’t seen him.” He said, a little too uncaring. When your expression became slightly concerned, Kate glanced at him giving him a look to be a bit more sympathetic. “But, he might be lingering around in one of the rooms, maybe his old bedroom.” He offers quickly, trying to be helpful if only to please his wife. 

“Right.” You let out a small anxious breath. You felt something was off, you saw it in Benedict’s face and now you felt worried for not saying anything earlier. “I’ll check for him. Thank you.” You smile at them, nodding your head politely. Kate gives you a reassuring smile before you part ways. 

You walked from the bustle of gathering, walking down the quieter halls. The conversation died down the further you walked. Slowly, you made your way up the stairs and down the hallways of his family home. You’d glance into open rooms, trying to remember your way around this place. 

Where was his room again? Was it this one? You opened a door and peeked in, closing it when there was no sign of him.  You sighed, thinking maybe he was downstairs and just slipped away for a second. Maybe you didn’t need to worry. It was wishful thinking but you knew better. Something was wrong. 

Finally, you pressed your hand to a door that felt all too familiar, knocking briefly but opening the door before waiting for an answer. “Ben...?” you called out, stepping into the room. It was cold, unused for some time. He hadn’t needed to since the two of you married and lived in a new home together. But, it was still his room in a way. There was a lingering presence in the air of his life before. 

As you walked into the room, you finally noticed him just laying on the bed. He was laying on his side, his back towards you. His coat tossed lazily onto the chair like he had done a million times before. You sighed, your shoulders slumping at the sight. “Ben.” You say softly, your voice laced with concern. 

Benedict’s breath stilled upon hearing your voice. Somehow he knew you’d find him, you always did. It was a comfort, just one that he didn’t know how to fully accept yet. He shifted slightly with a deep exhale, “I just needed a moment.” He murmured quietly. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to decide how to approach this. You didn’t want him to retreat further into himself. But you also wanted to find out what was wrong. 

“...Benedict,” You started, taking slow steps over to the bed. “What’s wrong?” you asked softly, your hand reaching out. Hesitant at first, you gently placed your hand on his arm. You could feel the tension in his body. 

He was quiet for a second. Maybe thinking how to reply, how he could turn this into some kind of joke but he was too tired. And he loved you too much to dismiss your concern. He wasn’t all too great at communication but he wanted to make an effort for you. 

“There’s nothing wrong.” he answered,  low and tired. 

You frowned, your eyes softening with worry. He felt the mattress dip as you moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “But you’re clearly upset.” You said soft, moving your hand to his hair. You brushed your fingers through his hair, an action you knew he loved. “Could you please tell me what’s wrong?” 

His eyes fluttered closed at your gentle touch, welcoming the comfort. You were trying to help and he appreciated that. With a soft sigh, he began to speak. “...I told you, There is nothing wrong.” He paused, realizing he wasn’t communicating what he truly meant. “...There is nothing for me to be upset about and yet, I am. I shouldn’t be...But I am.” 

For a moment, you worried that maybe he wasn’t happy with you, with your marriage. But that was only insecurity speaking, Benedict adored you. You trusted him enough to not doubt his love for you. Not after the insanity you both went through just to get engaged in the first place. 

“Why?” You probed gently.

“...I don’t know why, I’m just tired.” He continued. The more you watched him, laying there with his body closed off and turned away, the more it became clear what this really was. 

“You don’t need a reason, my love.” You said quietly, still caressing his hair in a slow gentle rhythm. “One can simply have a bad day.” You whispered, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. 

The tension in his body seemed to slip away as you spoke. And with just a kiss, he became more open. It was a testament to the effect you had on him. A deep exhale escaped him as his body relaxed a bit more from your comfort.

Benedict shifted slightly, rolling onto his back to look at you now. His soft blue eyes were almost sad, his hair slightly messed up from your petting and a little frown fixed on his lips. “It feels more than just a bad day,” he admitted. “It feels... heavier, almost.” 

You shifted to accommodate his new position, sitting closer and resting on hand on his chest while the other continued the soft caresses in his hair. “Has something happened...?” You asked with worry.

“No, Nothing’s happened.” Benedict sighed, growing contemplative as he moved his arm to slip around your waist. With a small tug, he guided you closer to him. “It’s... more complicated than that.” He looked you over, his gaze was warm even in its sadness. 

“Are you going to tell me or must I pry it out of you?” You smiled weakly, hoping to add some humor to the situation but your concern didn’t dissipate. He could see it in your eyes how worried you were for him even if your tone was more playful. 

Benedict’s eyes crinkled with a little adoring smile. You always knew how to make things lighthearted in the best of ways. He moved his hand to cup your cheek. “You know I love you, right? ” he said softly. 

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to indulge in his warmth. “I know.” a soft hummed chuckle left your lips. You turn your face just enough to kiss the palm of his hand. “I love you too.” 

“But you’re avoiding my question.” You smiled softly as you opened your eyes.. “So, out with it; What’s bothering you?” 

“You’re going to keep pestering me until I tell you, aren’t you?” He exhaled with a soft chuckle. 

And of course, you nodded. “I am your wife, It’s my duty to know.” You smiled, watching the way he softened at your little declaration. 

“Alright, Alright.” he conceded. Once more, Benedict shifted. Now he lay on his side but this time, allowing you space with him. He wanted you closer. You climbed onto the bed, mirroring his position and laying on your side so you could face him. 

With the two of you close now, curled up in his old bed, he felt a bit lighter. A bit less sad. You were a presence he always craved. There was a sense of comfort, being back in his old room with his now wife. It was like two worlds colliding, two comforts in one place. He found he quite liked it. 

“Comfortable?” he asked. His hand came to rest on your side as he tried to minimize the amount of space between you. 

You made a hum in acknowledgement. “Now, will you finally tell me what is the matter?” 

Benedict exhaled, his gaze averted as he tried to find the words to describe his feelings. He was never the type to bare his feelings, always preferring to avoid the problems with temporary distractions. With drink, parties and pleasurable company, but that was before he met you. He gave all that up when he married you. 

“Lately, I’ve just been thinking...” Benedict started, slow and unsure. “About us, about our life together, and our future...” his eyes flickered to meet yours, searching for understanding.. “And I've been thinking about my past.” 

You didn’t speak, allowing him the space to vent. Your gaze was soft and your hand found a place on his arm, trailing up to his face. You gently brushed the loose hair from his forehead. 

“I don’t talk about it often. I don’t like to talk about-” Benedict paused, his breath trembling for a moment.  “I don’t like to talk about him... often.” He murmured. “My father, I mean.” 

His gaze turned downward, the grief in his eyes was evident. He traced the little patterns sewed onto your dress, finding himself opening up more by the intimate atmosphere created by your proximity. He gave himself a moment to breathe through the feelings that threatened to surface.

“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.” He confessed, his voice growing more hoarse as he voiced his pain.  “I find myself wondering what he’d think; about us, about you... about who I've become.” 

Benedict glanced at you. His heart felt heavier seeing the complete love and sympathy in your eyes. It was an odd feeling, being seen. He didn’t usually like it but with you, It was different. You were different. “I like to think he’d be happy that I married you.” he says low and sincere. 

A soft smile graced your lips, touched by his words but you allowed him to continue without interruption. You caressed his cheek gently, coaxing him to spill his burdened feelings. 

He smiled softly but the pain of loss slowly etched its way back into his expression. “...but the more those thoughts cross my mind, the more I miss him.” He said quietly. You could see his eyes gloss over but no tears would fall. No, your Benedict would never allow those tears to fall. 

“I miss him so much.” He whispered. 

Benedict felt the deep grief that he buried so deep for years just peeking through the surface, if only for a brief time. “I wish he met you...” he closed his eyes. “And...I am torn over the knowledge that it can never be. That I will never be able to show my father the woman I've fallen in love with.” 

His voice was hushed and pained. For a moment, a ball of grief and hurt formed in his throat but he let out a deep sigh, releasing it. He opened his eyes to look into yours. All he saw was the love and care you had for him; a feeling mirrored in his own heart. “...He would have loved you,” he said quietly. 

You gave him a small sad smile. “Oh... I know I would have loved him.” you said softly. 

“And I think... he’d be very proud of you.” You pressed a small kiss to his forehead, “and he’d be very happy.” then his nose, “i know i am.” and finally you kissed his lips. 

Benedict’s arm wrapped around you more, pulling you as close as he could until your chest met his. He kissed back, pouring all the grief and love he felt into it despite its briefness. 

When the kiss broke, you rested your forehead against his. Your eyes were focused on his. “...I’m sorry about your father.” you say softly, caressing your thumb over his cheek. “I know it can’t be easy to carry these feelings... but I want you to know that you don’t have to carry them alone.” 

Benedict made a small smile, appreciating the comfort you offered. “I know.” he said, “I know i have you.” he rubbed your back gently. 

“And...” you continue, “Next time you feel the need to hide, maybe... I could hide with you?” you smiled lightly. 

Benedict chuckled softly, his chest feeling a bit lighter. “I hardly count this as hiding. I'm in my own room.” he smiled. 

“Your old room.” you correct. “Your room...  our room is at home.” you said lovingly. 

He couldn’t deny the little flutter he felt in his chest at those words. Even after being married to you for some time now, he still felt a sense of giddiness knowing your lives were forever intertwined. This was his room for more than half of his life but now home was with you. 

“Right.” Benedict murmured, soft and warm. “At our home,” he said, the words coming out warm and easy. Your home together was his present and all he had done lately is linger in the past. But now, staring at you and feeling your warmth under his palm, he was reminded of what he had now. 

“But you must admit, my old room is quite comfortable.” He chuckled, his eyes glimmering with mischief. “We never had a real moment in this bed, did we?”  He hummed, running his hand over your back. 

You laughed lightly, “No, I don’t think it’d be very appropriate.” You smiled. 

He smiled, cheering up a bit more with your playful banter. You always managed to match his energy and he loved that. “How scandalous of you, Mrs. Bridgerton. Sneaking into a man’s bed...? What will people say?” he murmured in a teasing tone, a little smirk forming. “But I do love having you here.”

You chuckled and pressed a short and sweet kiss to his lips. “Oh hush you.” You whispered against his lips. “Besides, I could think of a lot more romantic places to be than your old bedroom...Our house, for one.”

“Going home. What a lovely idea.” Benedict cooed with a smile. His heart was full. He was loved and he loved you. He chased your lips to return the kiss. His hand splayed over your back to press you as close as he could against him. 

You cupped his face, pecking little kisses to his lips because you knew it always made him happy to be smothered in affections. You chuckled softly, pulling back to look at his face. 

“Still having a bad day?” You asked softly. 

Benedict softened and made a small nod. “You are magic, my love. You make me happy, truly happy. But... unfortunately, I don’t exactly have the energy to keep up with my siblings and their restlessness.” He admitted, feeling content and comfortable enough to tell you he had enough social interactions today. 

You smiled and brushed your hand through his hair, “That’s alright. I think I just want to lay in bed with you, anyway.” You murmured. “How about we just... call it a day and go home?” 

His smile grew, his eyes crinkling in that way they did when he was particularly happy. “I couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself.” He chuckled warmly, kissing you once more. 

Finally, you shifted to sit up. “Come, Let’s go home before someone insists on family games.” You smiled, holding out your hand. 

He intertwined his fingers with yours as he sat up. “Oh, yes. I don’t think I could handle Anthony’s competitiveness today.” he joked. 

You climbed out of the bed and he followed your lead. He stood tall, looking at you with love. You managed to pull him from his sadness and you were caring to his limits. He felt seen and heard. 

You tugged him along, grabbing his coat for him. “We’ll have to come up with a good excuse for leaving early.” You smiled at him with a light little laugh. 

Benedict tossed his coat over his shoulder, glancing back at his old bed once more. And it didn’t really feel like his bed anymore. The room didn’t truly feel like his room anymore. It was something of the past. He glanced at you and felt a warm flutter in his heart. He squeezed your hand lightly. 

“I’m sure we can come up with something.” He smiled. “I’m very good at making excuses.” 

You laughed, leading him to the door. He didn’t look back this time, he didn’t have to. This was his life now. His purpose was with you. His gaze focused on his hand holding yours and he felt happy. 

He was having a bad day, just a bit too tired, a bit too drained to deal with everyone but you made him feel a bit better. 

And his day wasn’t so bad anymore.

thanks for reading! sorry it's short, i'm still new to writing fics.

[coffeewithcal]

The Art of Desire// B.B x Reader epilogue

summary: Benedict Bridgerton longs for more than society’s expectations, drawn instead to art and freedom. Y/N, a fiercely talented but struggling artist, fights for recognition in a world that dismisses women of her class. When their paths cross, fascination sparks—a shared passion for art bridging the divide between privilege and survival. But their growing connection threatens them both in a world where reputation is everything. As scandal looms and duty calls, they must choose: conform to society’s rules or risk everything for love, ambition, and the art that brought them together.

word count: 0.9k

Master List

The cottage smelled like toast and turpentine.

Which, by now, meant everything was running exactly as it should.

Ben was under the kitchen table with a set of pencils he’d definitely stolen from his mother’s studio, whispering furiously to a lopsided drawing of a knight. Eloise—LouLou to everyone except Violet and her occasional scolding tone—was standing barefoot on a stool at the stove, wearing an apron twice her size and wielding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“I said stir,” Y/N called from the doorway, one hand on her lower back and the other cradling her rounded stomach. “Not attack.”

“I am stirring,” LouLou replied, her curls bouncing as she whipped the eggs with such violence the cat flinched and fled.

Ben snorted from beneath the table.

Y/N sighed, rubbing her belly. The baby, still stubbornly nameless, was kicking like mad today, likely in protest of the noise.

“I was going to let Papa sleep in,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

And as if summoned by some invisible thread, Benedict wandered in from the hallway, half-dressed and half-asleep, hair tousled like a storm cloud and shirt buttoned all wrong.

“I was sleeping in,” he said, yawning as he kissed her cheek. “And then someone started duelling the eggs.”

“That’s your daughter,” Y/N said, gesturing vaguely toward the stove.

He glanced over. “No one’s on fire. I call that progress.”

Y/N smiled, leaning against him. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know.”

Ben crawled out from under the table, smudged with graphite and mystery, and launched himself into Benedict’s legs.

“You promised we could go to the pond today,” he said with wide eyes and a tone that suggested betrayal and pending litigation.

Benedict scooped him up with one arm, still clinging to Y/N with the other. “We are. After breakfast. Assuming no one burns the cottage down first.”

“I said I was stirring!” LouLou yelled again, brandishing the spoon.

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Remind me, did she inherit your stubbornness or mine?”

“Both,” Y/N said flatly.

They kissed through the smell of eggs, the sound of wooden clatter, the rustle of soft child feet and the clank of dropped spoons.

And through it all—chaos, laughter, flour dust in the air—there was that quiet, tender stillness that lived in the bones of this place. Their place.

It hadn’t always been easy. There had been years when Y/N still braced herself at doorways, waiting for love to be taken away. Years where Benedict had learned how to hold without fixing, how to support without smothering. But somewhere between muddy boots and shared sunrises, they had built a life full of room for growth, for mess, for them.

They’d been in the cottage nearly eight years now. The garden was wild with late spring bloom. Paintings lined every wall. One of Benedict’s waistcoats lived permanently draped over the banister. And LouLou had just given Fig the cat a bonnet and declared her queen of the hearth.

It was, objectively, a disaster.

But it was theirs.

Y/N lowered herself into a chair with a groan, one hand pressing to the swell of her belly.

Benedict joined her a moment later, Ben sprawled across his lap like a very determined puppy.

“She’s kicking again,” Y/N said, grimacing softly.

“She?”

“Don’t start.”

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then her shoulder. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“You’re radiant.”

“I’m leaking, Benedict.”

“I’ve never been more in love.”

Ben made a gagging noise.

“Alright,” Benedict said, setting him down. “Go help your sister plate the breakfast.”

“She won’t let me!”

“Negotiate,” Benedict said.

“I tried!”

“Then bribe her.”

Ben ran off yelling, “LOULOU, I HAVE A BARGAIN FOR YOU.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands and laughed into her palms. “We’re raising diplomats.”

“We’re raising future revolutionaries,” Benedict said fondly. “And if that terrifies you now, just wait until they’re out in society.”

She groaned. “Don’t say things like that.”

He chuckled, brushing a hand along the curve of her belly. “Any more thoughts on names?”

“I told you. If it’s a girl, we'll name her after your mother.”

“She’d cry.”

“She will cry.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

Y/N arched a brow. “Not Colin.”

“I was never going to suggest Colin.”

A beat.

“Okay, I briefly considered it.”

She reached over and flicked his forehead.

LouLou proudly stomped over with a plate of eggs and toast, setting it down in front of Y/N with a flourish. “I cooked!”

“I supervised,” Ben added, sliding into the bench beside her.

Y/N smiled. “Then I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

They all sat down together—messy, flushed, barefoot and full of crumbs.

And as the morning sun spilled through the windows, catching the edges of paintings and tangled curls and toast crumbs, Y/N caught Benedict looking at her the same way he always had.

Like she was his best idea.

Like she was the beginning of everything good.

She reached across the table, took his hand, and squeezed it.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For finding me. For staying. For… all of it.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “I’d do it again. A thousand times.”

LouLou shoved a forkful of egg into her mouth, then looked at them suspiciously.

“Are you being mushy again?”

Y/N grinned. “Terribly.”

Ben scowled. “Does this mean no pond?”

Benedict laughed, already rising from the bench. “This means immediate pond.”

And with that, the morning unfolded—into giggles and spills and someone forgetting their shoes, into splashes and sketches and the promise of a quiet nap later on, curled up beneath sun-warmed blankets and the slow, steady beat of a life fully lived.