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idksmtms · 7 days

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You Are Not One of Us (Poseidon x Norse Goddess!reader) - Part 5

Full Request: https://www.tumblr.com/idksmtms/741566020545839104/im-back-and-this-is-part-2-and-some-things-i?source=share

AN: My sincerest apologies for how FUCKING long it took me to get this out. But just so everyone knows, I am trying to finish writing the ENTIRE story before I post but it is taking me longer than expected because of self control issues. So depending on how much I get written by next week I will either post another part or post the entire story. (Let’s be real, it’ll probably just be another part). But thank you so much to everyone who is reading and waiting patiently for me to get my shit together. I appreciate every single one of you to the moon back!

Summary: You go into hiding for your child’s safety and meet a kind young woman. You make the biggest decision of your life.

Word count: 3,026

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, profanity, innuendo, age gap (even tho they are both thousands of years old), god racism?? Idk they act like “foreigner gods” is a bad thing, liking the fact that he looks older (is this a warning???), giving your child away (please let me know if I missed any)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Percy Jackson and the Olympians characters. I do not claim to own any of the Percy Jackson and the Olympians characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

In the aftermath of your announcement, you and Poseidon sat together in your little hut trying to come up with a plan to keep your future baby safe. You had both agreed that you could not stay here. Too many people knew about the hut, and you couldn’t risk anyone dropping in for a visit when you weren’t expecting them. You would have to go somewhere no one could find you, at least until you had the baby.

“I-” you paused, knowing what you would have to do but not wanting to say it. Poseidon gently rested his hand atop yours, threading your fingers together as you lay side by side on the bed. “I cannot keep him, you cannot either, not until he grows anyway.” You swallowed back your tears as he turned his head and kissed your temple, keeping his face pressed to your hair as you continued talking. “If we want him to live, if we want there to be no way that either of our peoples may kill him, he will have to live on his own until he is grown, until he can fully use his powers.” Your voice wobbled so much that you wondered if he had understood a single word you had said.

“I know,” he whispered, eyes closing as tears began to gather again. “I know.”

“We must disguise him in some way, as a demigod perhaps?” You posed, trying to push through, trying to force yourself to acknowledge that this is really the only way to keep your child alive long enough to see him again.

“Yes, as a demigod he will be able to live at Camp Half-Blood, he will be safe there until he is grown. He can train, and… he will be happy, I’m sure,” Poseidon’s voice quivered just as yours had and you turned onto your side, wrapping your arm around him and burrowing your face into his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. He could feel your lashes against his skin and it tickled, but he refused to move away, moving closer in fact.

“Yes,” you replied, and both of you went silent. You weren’t sure for how long, but when he reached up and rubbed at his face, you pulled back. He looked down at you, a gentle smile on his face as he shuffled forward and kissed your forehead.

“I know where you can go. The beach where we first kissed,” he smiled against your head and you giggled, shaking your head, tears now dried. “It has become popular with people now, they have built cabins just before the shoreline. You can live in one of them, hide in plain sight as a human on holiday. If anything goes wrong, just walk into the water and I will find you.” You nodded, agreeing without a second thought. You knew he only had your best interests at heart. You would follow him to the ends of the earth if he asked.

So it was settled. Poseidon would bring you back to that beach, set you up in one of the houses, whichever was closest to the water, and you would live there until the baby was born. He would visit when he could, though it wouldn’t be often lest someone find out where you were, why he was disappearing. The only things you really had to ‘pack’ were your sword, you would go nowhere without it now, and your pearls. They would go everywhere with you, even to death.

Poseidon kissed you, long and hard, before leading you into the water and off to your new life.

You first met Sally Jackson on your third day in hiding. You had finally decided to venture out of the cabin, desperate to lay on the beach and catch the sun at least for a few hours. You had walked along the water's edge, dipping your toes in but nothing more or he would get worried and try to come to you. You had walked to the edge of the cabins, whispering to your child, stories that you made up in the moment or histories of the gods that Loki had once told you with glee. On the way back, just when you had turned, you saw her walking toward you, or rather, toward the final cabin.

She was beautiful, in a gentle and effortless way. Her hair was brown and windblown, curling in the sea air. Her cheeks were ruddy from the sunshine but still smooth, and permanently pulled up in the hint of a smile. Her eyes were blue, a blue that reminded you of Poseidon, and you couldn’t help the lifting of your spirits. She wore a blue sundress, flowy and almost grecian in its colour and style. She was young, surely in her twenties, and you could only wish that the blink of her existence would be remembered.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” She asked as she approached, sandals in her hand, arms swinging happily.

“Beautiful,” you replied, smile brightening. “It would be foolish not to step out and catch the sun.”

“Agreed! One hundred percent,” she laughed, a deep and jovial sound that made your stomach tickle and laugh along with her. “Are you staying in one of the cabins then?” She asked, walking a little closer and standing by you as you looked out at the ocean (rather wistfully).

“Yes, just down the other end, the one closest to the water,” you told her, pointing toward your new home.

“Oh wonderful! I’m just here,” she gestured to the final, tucked farther back and close to the septic tanks. “I’m Sally, Sally Jackson,” she held out her hand to you, eyes bright.

“I am Y/n,” you answered, shaking her hand gently, watching her in awe. She may be human, but she was the best one you had encountered to date.

“How long are you here?” She asked, walking with you despite it being the opposite way to her home.

“A long time,” you answered simply, but when her face twisted in question, you laughed, and tried again. “I’m pregnant, you see,” you rested your hands on your belly though it wasn’t showing yet.

“Oh! Congratulations! That’s amazing!” She clapped happily, stopping to reach over and hug you tightly, dropping her shoes in the sand.

“Thank you,” your voice was small, clogged up with emotion. She was the first person you had told other than Poseidon. The only person you could tell really, the only person who couldn’t do anything to hurt your child. “Anyway,” you wiped under your eyes, “I am staying here until the baby is born.” She nodded along with your words, ‘ahing’ in understanding.

“That’s amazing, you picked a wonderful place. I would love to stay here before I have a child.” Her voice was wistful and you just rested a hand on her arm, hoping to comfort her in a way words couldn’t. You didn’t know much about her, almost nothing at all, but she was good, good to the core. You could feel it.

‘I’m sure it will happen,” you answered, and she just laughed lightly, smiling brightly at you in thanks.

“Well, I’m glad there will be someone else around just as long as me,” she began, and you offered her a look of surprise. “Yes, I’ll be here for the next year or so. I’ve finished school, and I don’t really know what I want to do. They gave me this place for cheap so I’ll stay here until I can figure something out, I have enough savings for it anyway. Not particularly excited to run back to NYC just yet, you know? I love the city but it can get overwhelming really easily, and I need a long break. So it’s just me and my thoughts and the beach,” she shrugged, leaning her head back to stare up at the sky, bathe her face in the sun. You watched her for a moment, the peace on her face and the looseness of her limbs, and in that moment you made a decision you knew would alter the course of history.

You decided that Sally Jackson would be the one to take your baby.

You waited until it was midnight, when only the light of the moon shone over the beach. Then you ventured out, over the sand into the surf, walking until the water lapped at your knees and when you sat down each wave brushed all the way up to your neck. The water was cold but welcome. The feeling of your skin going prickly made you shiver as you waited for Poseidon to appear. You met once a month in the darkest hour of the night, at the place where the water always met the sand.

You sensed him right before you felt his arms wrap around you. He pulled you to sit between his legs, leaning against his chest. He pressed his face to your hair, inhaling deeply and sighing like every weight he had ever carried was suddenly lifted. You smiled, skin suddenly warm and tingly, and you tilted your head back to press a kiss to his jawline.

“Hello,” you whispered, a dreamy smile on your lips and eyes half open.

“Hello,” he returned equally quietly, then you both sat there in the quiet for some time. Though time was dwindling, neither of you wanted to disturb this moment of peace. It was so rare to feel completely at ease these days, and you wanted to take advantage of it as much as possible.

Finally, after a long enough time had passed that you knew you only had a few moments left together, you turned in his hold and grasped his face in your hands. Your thumbs caressed the apples of his cheeks, your fingertips just grazing the edges of his hairline by his ears. You smiled, a small warm thing that made his chest feel a little too tight.

“I have found the perfect person to take Perseus until he comes of age,” you finally said, voice so quiet that for a moment he thought it was just a whisper amidst the waves.

“Who?” It was short, clipped, not harsh (because he could never be harsh with you, even if he tried) but worried and almost desperate.

“Her name is Sally, Sally Jackson,” you sounded so happy when you said it, like you wholeheartedly believed in this person, so Poseidon nodded and leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“And you trust her?” He asked, caressing your stomach with soft fingers that almost tickled.

“Yes.” There was no doubt in your voice, not even a waver, and he could see the firmness in your eyes, the conviction that the fates had led you to this woman for a reason, for this reason. “I think you should meet her, just to see for yourself. I-I know it is risky, but I think you will understand once you meet her.” You sat up and turned so you were facing him. You had a smile on your face, a small smile of hope that he hadn’t seen since you found out you were carrying his child. He nodded, but he didn’t smile. You understood, you understood better than anyone else would ever understand, and you reached up and caressed his bearded cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbones as he closed his eyes and leaned into your hand.

“I love you.”

“I need to tell you something.” You turned to face Sally as you both sat on the sand just out of the water’s reach. It was a bright and sunny day, the sand warm and crumbly under you, and you dug your toes and fingers into it.

It had been three and a half months since you had met Sally Jackson and you had spent almost every day with her. You would spend days walking along the beach, swimming in the ocean, cooking with each other or just reading in each other’s company. To her it was the perfect summer, to you… to you it proved so much more. She found it odd that you didn’t have a phone, that you had never cooked before, that there were so many normal things that you simply didn’t know how to do. But she was sweet, and patient, and always ready to help you no matter what.

“What is it?” Sally asked, sitting up onto her elbows on the blanket and turning to you, eyes squinted as she pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead.

“I have not been completely honest with you,” you gulped, rubbing your hands together before picking up some sand and letting it fall through your fingers. She waited for you to speak, and until the sand had completely fallen through your fingers, you didn’t. “I am not…”

“Not what?” She asked, leaning forward slightly and staring at you with eyebrows furrowed.

“I am not… human,” you finally breathed, turning to rest your cheek on your knees and watch her expression.

First she let out a breathless laugh, the kind that huffs out of one’s chest and doesn’t sound sincere. Then she gazed at you for a long while without saying a word. Her face was serious, not a hint of that disbelieving laughter from moments prior. She reached out and gently touched the ends of your hair, a dainty caress, then she sighed so long and loud that you began to worry about her.

“You sound absolutely insane, but I think I’m worse because I believe you. It actually makes a lot more sense that you’re something otherworldly rather than a human. Like you said you’ve never cut your hair but how has it not grown any longer than that? You said you’ve never been shopping in your life but you somehow always have new clothes. And… I don’t know, there’s just something about you that doesn’t seem real. You don’t seem real.” You smiled sadly as she spoke, closing your eyes and listening to the gentle swish of the waves crawling up the beach.��

“I told you because there is something very important I need to ask you. If you are willing to listen, I will tell you everything that has happened that led to my being here. Then you may decide your answer to the question I will pose.” You opened your eyes and watched her face as you spoke. Her brows furrowed as if she couldn’t quite understand what you were saying and why you were saying it, but eventually she nodded and you turned to fully face her. You sat with your legs crossed, hands clasped, and began from the beginning.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, staring at you as if you had just asked her to cut off her head and hand it to you on a platter. You smiled woefully, a horizon of tears trembling on your lash line.

“I understand, it is a huge thing to ask of a friend, even more than huge, but you are the only one I trust, the only person I know who will be capable. My child cannot go back with me, they will kill him once they know who its father is. I… I cannot let that happen, Sally. I cannot. He deserves to live a full life, deserves to know that he is the product of love, that he is loved. He will grow up to be a god one day, he will grow up to be powerful and to unite worlds, simply by being himself.” You saw the way her chest trembled as she breathed, you could hear each raspy breath. Her nose was running, her upper lip pulled taut over her teeth as she chewed on it. Her eyes were rimmed with pain and redness and tears and you wanted to reach out and hug her but stayed your hand.

“Sally… I understand I have asked the world of you. And of course you need not make the decision now, you have all the time in the world, until this child is born. He will be disguised as a demigod, so even if either world discovers of his existence, they will not think twice about him. You must raise him until he is old enough to make the journey to Camp Half-Blood. He will be safe there, and your job will be done.” You stopped and you swallowed, wiping at your eyes. “You may think me crazy to ask this of you, I understand, truly, I do. But you are the strongest person I know, human or god.” She stared up at you, hands trembling and face open in surprise. You reached out and grabbed her hands. “Because you have something everyone can only wish for. A strong character. A strong will. I know no one else who would do this as well as I know you would. I know you will be the best mother, regardless of if the child is your own or not. I know you will nurture them, protect them, love them. So please, think about it, ask me anything you wish to ask, and only then, make your decision.”

Both of you sat there for hours, not saying a word. Sally had pressed her face into her hands, breathing steadily, and you could almost hear her thinking. You did not say a word, just lay flat on the blanket and stared up at the sky, hands on your stomach. You caressed it up and down, whispering to the child in your mind, telling him that this would be for the best, that this was the only way to keep him alive. But this did nothing to dissipate the pain in your heart.

You felt Sally shift beside you and you turned to look at her from where you lay on the blanket. She had finally pulled her hands away from her face and had wiped her eyes. They were still puffy and red but she was staring out at the sea with determination on her face.

“I want to meet him. Your husband. Before I decide.”

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idksmtms · 7 days

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How’s ur essay going Zee 🫶

IT IS FINALLY DONE MY LOVELY!!! I was actually quite happy with it. I also got a grade back for another thing and I did really well so i am currently celebrating!!!

#ask #send asks #ask box #ask me anything #ask me stuff #ask away #anon ask #answered asks #send me asks #asks open

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idksmtms · 7 days

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I feel like Katniss everdeens mockingjay dress without the wing is very first time on olympus young goddess yn era

:00000

You've just blown my mind. Yes.

#anon ask #send me asks #answered asks #asks open #ask me anything #ask me stuff #send asks #ask away #ask #ask box

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idksmtms · 7 days

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AHHH CAN’T WAIT FINALLYYYY

HEHEHEHE I AM LITERALLY ABOUT TO POST PART 5. IT'S SHORTER THAN THE OTHER PARTS BUT I HAVE SO MUCH MORE FOR PART 6 AND I WANTED TO JUST GET SOMETHING OUT FOR MY LOVELIES!!! HOPEFULLY I CAN FINISH IT IN PART 6.

#ask box #ask #ask me anything #anon ask #ask me stuff #ask away #send asks #answered asks #send me asks #asks open

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idksmtms · 7 days

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NO BC SHOW POSEIDON HAD NO RIGHT TO BE SUCH A DILF

Like sally baby I understand you now

FRRRR THO HAHAHAH

I was like damn, I too would risk everything for him (no offense future child)

#send asks #answered asks #ask me anything #send me asks #anon ask #asks open #ask box #ask away #ask me stuff #ask

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idksmtms · 9 days

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MY HEART ANYWAYYYYYY

I’m gonna go cry and pretend Benedict Bridgerton loves me brb

Second Son

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

Warnings: none really... mild angst, family dynamics, love at first sight.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Request fill for anon here, about Benedict being the second choice for everything.... until his love turns up. Thanks for this request; I hope this is angsty enough for you anon. Im not sure about it tbh. Sorry that it's taken more than three months to get to it on my WIP list. Unbetaed. Enjoy <3

Benedict Bridgerton was born into privilege and can have few complaints. Except perhaps that he is always second. The spare. The just-in-case option. Being a familial insurance policy lends one more freedom than the burden of being the titled first son, perhaps, but it also feels like your whole existence, in some respects, can seem like a contingency plan.

____

His stomach swoops with excitement as the arrow pierces the target dead on the bullseye. And on his first ever archery lesson, just after his twelfth birthday.

He turns around to see if anyone is there to witness his triumph, but it goes unmarked. All his young siblings gathered around Anthony, patting him on the back for his achievements in doing the same moments before. Being a good shot is an essential skill for the next Viscount indeed. The fact that he has been receiving instruction for months already and this is Benedict’s first lesson hurts a little.

But he doesn't bother to bring attention to his arguably more impressive feat. It seems pointless now. Wordlessly he shrugs and walks towards the target, plucking out his arrow and starting again. Perhaps next time, they will notice.

____

“Is that the new Viscount Bridgerton?” Benedict hears a young girl murmur as he sweeps into the first societal event of the season, the spring following his father's death.

“Oh no, my dear, sadly not; I believe that is one of the brothers,” her mother replies, acting as if he has no sense of hearing, even trying to ignore it as he is, surveying the crowd.

“Such a shame,” the young girl huffs, “he is so very handsome.”

“Yes, dear, but sadly not titled. We can do better,” her mother chides, moving them along out of earshot.

He will never get over how cutthroat the Ton can be, a part of his tender seventeen-year-old heart sinking. Not that he had a potential interest in that girl, more the principle that he will somehow be rendered as an also-ran, at best a consolation prize, for the rest of his life.

What is most galling, perhaps, is that, when his mother needs their presence the most on a night like tonight, the new VIscount is nowhere to be seen. Has not even bothered to show his face, running off to some spurious gambling den and brothel, spending the night indulging himself rather than facing society.

So here Benedict is, stepping up to play the dutiful son that his elder brother should be. Being the support their mother so desperately needs at her first event as a widow, her arm looped heavily through his, her whole bodyweight seeming to use him as her literal pillar of support. As he escorts her around the room, he is filled with admiration at her brave face. He can see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes every time the word dowager is invoked, and his heart cracks a little at the loneliness he can feel emanating from his mother’s very soul.

“Tis a shame the Viscount did not deign the first event of the season worthy of his patronage,” she states pointedly as she sips champagne.

“I am sure he has very good reasons for his absence,” Benedict replies soothingly, covering for his errant brother, attempting to shield their mother from the truth of his philandering ways. Benedict knows it is Anthony’s way of dealing with the responsibility of the title of Viscount being thrust upon him so young. But sometimes, just sometimes, Benedict wishes he could escape his grief in such a manner, Anthony taking his turn attending a stuffy ball and playing guardian to a grieving woman. Their burdens may be different, but the wish to escape them is often not, Benedict realises.

____

She catches his eye at a garden party at Aubrey Hall. She is a pretty young lady, maybe eighteen to his twenty-three, with bright eyes and a sweet, happy face. She makes his palms slightly sweaty. He watches her from a distance, uncertain how to approach or what to say, feeling a little tongue-tied, even.

Just then, Anthony materialises at his shoulder.

“Who is that pretty young thing?” Anthony asks, tracing Benedict’s line of sight.

“Miss Bradstreet,” he replies, watching as she turns to face the sun, closing her eyes, basking in its warmth. The light captures her cheekbones perfectly, and he itches to have his sketchbook and capture her likeness. He would very much like to get to know her better.

“Let's go provide a warm welcome,” Anthony smirks, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and practically dragging him across the lawn.

Benedict reluctantly follows, a flutter of excitement as her eyes land upon them as they approach.

“Miss Bradstreet,” Anthony swaggers. “Viscount Bridgerton at your service; I am so very pleased to be your host today,” he bows.

Benedict's stomach plunges as he watches her practically melt into the lawn right there, virtually swooning at Anthony’s feet.

“Oh, and this is my brother, Benedict,” Anthony adds, almost as an afterthought.

She flicks her head to the side briefly to politely acknowledge Benedict before returning to Anthony. All of her undivided adoring attention on him as he regales the story of his latest hunting triumphs upon her insistence. Benedict heaves a sigh and watches as yet another young lady he likes chooses his brother over him. He is almost used to it now, but it doesn't stop the sting every time.

____

Your world grinds to a halt as you see him. He is descending the stairs with what you assume is the rest of his family. He is very much in the middle of a tight circle, walking behind what appears to be his mother and perhaps older brother. Quite the most beautiful man you have ever seen, your heart pounding in your ears, your throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade in your hand. You assume they must be the hosts, seeing as they are the very last to enter the ballroom here at Bridgerton House, and there is no announcement of their name.

“Who is that?” you whisper, leaning towards your elder sister. She has been out among society for a year and knows the Ton better than you.

“That is the Bridgerton family, of course,” she replies. “Illustrious in the extreme. Our hosts for this evening. The Viscount there is the most eligible bachelor of every season… and every season, he has resisted a match. So I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she sniffs.

“Which is the Viscount?” you check, your eyes unable to leave the beautiful man with a cravat tied in the most unconventional fashion.

“The one with his arm looped with their mother, the dowager Viscountess, naturally,” your sister rolls her eyes as if patently obvious.

“And what of the others?” you inquire keenly, realising the man you admire cannot be the one your sister is referring to. “Do you know their names?”

“I do not,” she admits, “such things are not really important when one is looking for a titled husband,” she points out airily.

You nod, knowing the responsibility your sister must carry as firstborn to find a suitable match that can provide for your widowed mother and, indeed, perhaps yourself and your younger sister should neither of you be able to find a husband. You don’t envy her position one little bit.

You are, however, desperate to get closer to the most beautiful man you have ever seen. And so you spend your evening working towards them, in as polite of a fashion as you can, your stomach in knots of excitement to know him.

“Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, it is an honour and a pleasure to meet you,” you curtsy, heart pounding as he now stands a few feet away, unable to look at him so close by.

“Hello, my dear and you are?” she asks politely.

“Miss y/n y/l/n, it is my very first season; I am so honoured to be here,” you explain. “I must provide the apologies of my mother, Mrs y/l/n, who could not attend tonight due to a cold, but she is so very thankful for the invitation.”

“Oh, of course,” the viscountess smiles. “I am so sorry to hear of her illness; please pass on my best regards… Anthony!” she turns to her side to grab the attention of a man. The viscount’s head whips around from where he is in discussion with another. “Come meet Miss y/l/n,” she needles pointedly. “Miss y/l/n, this is the Viscount Anthony Brdgerton, and he is so pleased not only to make your acquaintance but also for your presence here tonight,” she welcomes on his behalf, and you do not miss the subtle nudge in the ribs she gives him.

Then his regard is drawn to you. He is handsome certainly, and you appreciate his polite but absent-minded greeting. His attentions are obviously elsewhere, but then you cannot fault him as yours are the same. Your gaze strays over his shoulder to the man who first captures your attention. And your breath is stolen by how his hazy blue eyes stare intently at you.

____

Benedict is twenty-six years old when he is struck by lightning. Not literally. But that is the sensation that runs through his body when he first lays eyes on you—politely introducing yourself to his mother and thanking her for your invitation to this ball.

He thought he knew what attraction was until this point. He thought he knew the depths to which one could fall in love in an instant. He was an utter fool. He looks at you, and at once, everything is so quiet and loud all at once. He is desperate to know you in a way he has never felt. To grab your hand, take you somewhere, and ask you a million questions to get to know your soul. He also wants to kiss you so much that his lips tingle. And inside, his lungs want to scream as his mother does the natural thing and introduces the beautiful, polite young lady to her most eligible son… Anthony.

Then his heart jolts as your eyes stray from Anthony and meets his, your pupils dilating in a way that makes his lungs too small to inhale air. It is the first and only time a young woman has had Anthony’s full attention and has looked away from it. And to him, no less. The tidal flood of chemicals in his system makes it feel like he is vibrating in his very shoes.

____

You try your best to be polite and look at Anthony as he speaks, but your sight is drawn to this other man like a moth to a flame. From appearance, the second son, as you are the second daughter. A flare of understanding and sympathy in your chest as to how that is. You want to grab his hand and run away with him.

“My lord,” you find your voice and snap your eyes back to the Viscount, “would you do me the honour of introducing me to the rest of your wonderful family?” your ask, almost timid.

He looks temporarily taken aback, as if mystified why anyone in the Ton would care about the status of anyone beyond his mother and himself. You smile at him expectantly and do not miss, from the corner of your eye, how the beautiful man’s face is awash with surprise at your request.

“Oh, most certainly,” Anthony seems to snap out of his temporary stupor and turns to introduce his siblings in attendance. A tall, baby-faced young man stands to attention as Anthony moves from left to right. “This is Colin; he has just returned from his travels in Greece,” you nod and smile politely, knowing nothing of the subject. “And this is my sister, Eloise; it is her first season, and she is not in the slightest bit happy about that,” he adds dryly, and you can't help but giggle and feel a kinship with the spirited young lady who returns your wry smile. “My eldest sister, the Duchess of Hastings, who is visiting us,”

You curtsy and bow your head. “It is an honour, your Grace,” you add, and she smiles sweetly at you, her arm looped in her mother's.

“Obviously, you have met my mother,” he continues, and suddenly he is the last in the line. You feel your palms clench, sweaty in anticipation of learning his name “... and this is my brother, Benedict; he hopes to be an artist.”

You are finally brave enough to meet his eyes again. He is so achingly beautiful that the rest of his family, indeed the whole ballroom, melt away from your view—he is all you can see.

“Oh, I adore art,” you stutter, mesmerised, offering your hand to him, the first and only person in the family you do so to. Unseen by you, your gaze only on one man, Anthony’s mouth drops open in surprise.

Nothing can prepare you for when Benedict’s gloved hand gently touches yours, him bowing to kiss the back of your hand. You catch a woody citrus scent that makes your mouth water as he does so. And then you feel the warmth of his lips through your glove, and you are utterly undone.

“Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles quietly, the sound making your insides melt even more; it's deep and resonant and makes every inch of your body tingle.

“Please call me y/n,” you murmur, moving closer, knowing how scandalous that might be, but seemingly unable to stop yourself. He has a hypnotic hold over you that you don't want to fight.

“Only if you shall call me Benedict,” he breathes, and it takes Anthony clearing his throat to make you spring apart, suddenly remembering where you are.

____

His lips touch the silk of your glove, and he is gone.

Already planning a future, his mind supplying images of you at his cottage out in the country, the lady of the house. Tending to the herb garden, reading happily curled up in front of the fire in the drawing room, fearlessly plucking a bow as you stand in front of joint archery targets gently teasing him for losing to a girl, and finally, the image that truly knocks the wind out of him, you naked under him, desperately moaning his name as you move together, entwined in ecstasy.

He hears your sharp inhale, and his heart skips at the idea you feel it too. That you are the first woman ever that sees him and not Anthony. Really sees him. Not as the second son. Not as a consolation prize.

And when your body seems to sway towards him, he is already mentally asking his mother for a betrothal ring from her grandmother, which she said she is keeping just for him.

____

“Benedict,” his name feels wonderful in your mouth, like a gift from the heavens. “Please, may we take a turn around the gardens?” you implore, the boldest you have ever been in your whole life.

“It would be my very greatest pleasure,” he responds.

And you know with absolute certainty you have met your husband, the father of your children, your very future.

____

“It is not as if this is my show….” he sighs.

“You should not do that, darling,” you say affectionately, ruffling his hair as you move to fix his cravat; it definitely needs to be more jaunty, in your opinion.

“Do what?” he breathes, his wedding ring catching the light as he places his hands gently over yours and stills your motions.

“Think of yourself as second,” you argue, running your hand over his cheek. “This gallery opening may feature others' work too, but you are the star of the exhibit,” you reassure, tilting his forehead down so it rests upon yours.

There it is again. That look that always floors you. Even now, a year later. Like you are the most wondrous creature, and he can scarcely believe you are his.

“Never forget, you will always be first to me,” you utter fiercely, watching his eyes soften with devotion. “And not just me….” you guide his sizeable warm hand onto the swell of your belly, “to us. We love you so much, Benedict,” your tone is ardent, wanting him to believe he deserves this recognition, that he should believe in himself the way that you do.

“I love you, too,” he responds quietly, reverentially. “So very much. Both of you are my whole world,” his voice choked with emotion, and you throw your arms around him and squeeze hard, wanting to telegraph just how much he is the very centre of your universe.

An hour later, you clutch your hands over your chest as you watch him being brought onto the raised stage and introduced to the crowd as they applaud him and his work rapturously, awaiting to hear him talk of his art. As he does so, you stroke your belly unseen under your cloak, beaming with pride for your wonderful husband.

____

He sees your face in the crowd, and as ever, it calms him, especially at this landmark moment. So as he finishes the speech that he has rehearsed for days now, he decides to do something perhaps unconventional but something he seems unable to resist.

“Lastly, before I allow you back to your champagne,” he jests, finally at ease with the attention and recognition. “I want to thank my life’s inspiration, the very reason I stand before you today. My wonderful wife. Thank you, my love, for being the light of my life; for always making this second son your first choice. You will always, always be my first choice. I love you.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #bridgerton rec #fuck me hes hot #I want an obsessed man

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idksmtms · 9 days

Text

Ms Girl… I only just started watching Bridgerton… THE WAY THIS HAS RUINED ME… the internal organs are currently mush

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers.

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer.

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered.

“Are you sure?”

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him.

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict.

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room.

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby.

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you.

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?”

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later.

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse.

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank.

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours. “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome.

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot.

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is.

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body.

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area.

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.” His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise.

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you.

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time.

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly.

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does.

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone.

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage.

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm.

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world.

Which to you both, they are.

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#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #Benedict Bridgerton rec #Bridgerton #new obsession fr fr

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