maaeveeee

[maaeveeee]

My baby boy, My husband, My boyfriend, Love of my life

[maaeveeee]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[maaeveeee]

I have a request for a bridgerton story, but part of me wants to write it , but I know I’ll never get to it. I also feel like I’d need multiple parts like a full story, which is too much to ask for. The curse of having ideas but never getting to write them 🫣. — 🫐🫖

I totally understand you and I’d love to help with your Bridgerton story!

No worries about it being too much—how about we start with you sharing your ideas with me so I could try to write them? Lemme know what you’re thinking! :)

[maaeveeee]

Am I the only one who’s like super annoyed over how Bucky has longer hair AGAIN?🫠

I loved his appearance in FATWS and wished he had stayed that way.

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐒

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x oc!black!fem!

Author’s note: since you guys liked part 1

Evelina was warm. That was her first thought.

Warm, but trapped.

Anthony had draped himself over her like a very large, slightly arrogant blanket. One of his legs was tangled with hers, his arm wrapped around her waist, and his mouth—still slack from sleep—rested near the curve of her neck.

She blinked slowly at the ceiling.

She tried to move.

His grip tightened.

“Mhm,” he hummed into her shoulder.

“I need tea,” she said flatly.

“Mm.”

“You said we’d be up early.”

“I lied.”

She rolled to face him—or tried. His arm didn’t budge. She managed to shift just enough to see him: eyes still closed, mouth still relaxed, hair an utter mess.

“You’re clingy.”

“Mhmm.”

“Your family’s going to assume I’ve sedated you.”

His nose brushed along her jaw. “Hm.”

“I���m not letting you sleep through my first breakfast as a Bridgerton.”

“Five minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Time is a construct,” he mumbled, and then—very deliberately—kissed the side of her neck. Not urgent. Not teasing. Just slow and warm.

It made her pause. Just for a second.

Then she sighed. “You’re not winning this.”

“Mhm,” he said, smug. But after one more kiss along her jaw, he finally let her go

The table was already half full. Violet at the head, as ever, reading something with a tight mouth. Benedict and Colin deep in an argument about jacket lapels. Eloise reading and ignoring them both. Hyacinth leaning precariously over her tea.

“Look who survived the wedding night,” Colin said, spotting her.

“She’s glowing,” Hyacinth added. “Or maybe that’s just smugness.”

“Definitely smugness,” Benedict said.

“Good morning,” Evelina said, sitting beside Violet.

“Darling,” Violet said, not looking up from the paper. “You may want to brace yourself.”

“For—”

Anthony entered behind her.

“Oh no,” Eloise muttered.

“Whistledown?” Anthony asked.

Violet handed him the page. “Read it aloud. So we can all share the horror.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “‘In a surprising turn of events, the new Viscountess Bridgerton has emerged from relative obscurity to take her place at the head of London society. Lady Evelina Marchand—now Lady Bridgerton—was known for her sharp silences and equally sharp tongue. But now the question remains: is she merely another cool, calculating society match… or has the Viscount wed himself a woman colder than her gowns?’”

The room fell quiet.

Then Colin burst out: “Oh come off it.”

“Colder than her gowns?” Hyacinth repeated. “That’s the best she could come up with?”

“She’s clearly threatened,” Eloise muttered, snapping her book closed. “We finally get a woman at this table with sense and she starts throwing ice metaphors.”

“She never even met her,” Benedict said.

Anthony didn’t say anything. He looked over at Evelina instead.

She was sipping her tea, entirely calm. The only sign of irritation was the very slight narrowing of her eyes.

“She’s not wrong,” Evelina said mildly

Anthony’s brow furrowed.

“I am reserved. And I do wear a lot of grey.”

“That doesn’t make you cold,” Anthony said, still watching her.

“It makes her stylish,” Violet added. “And mercifully less dramatic than most of the women that paper praises.”

Colin nudged Benedict. “Should we write a counter－article?”

“I’ll paint a portrait of her and hang it in the drawing room.”

“I could pen a ballad,” Hyacinth offered. “A very dramatic one.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Or we could let her defend herself.”

“I don’t need to defend myself,” Evelina said, setting her teacup down. “I married the most stubborn man in the city. Clearly, I have warmth to spare.”

Anthony finally smiled.

“Mhm,” he said, and stole her last piece of toast.

The house was quiet. A rare thing.

Evelina stood near the window in the drawing room, her tea now lukewarm. The bustle of breakfast had faded. Violet had gone out to call on a friend. Hyacinth had taken Newton to terrorize the staff. The others scattered.

Anthony came up behind her, one hand gently resting at her waist.

“You’re not cold,” he said quietly.

She didn’t turn around. “No?”

“Reserved, yes. Sharp, absolutely. But cold?”

His lips brushed against the back of her neck. “No.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re very affectionate when you’re not being mocked by your siblings.”

“I’m always affectionate. You just distract me.”

He kissed just below her ear, slow and soft.

She turned, finally, to face him.

“I don’t care what she writes,” Evelina said. “But I hate how they looked at me. Like they needed to hear me defend myself.”

“You didn’t.”

“No,” she said. “But they were waiting.”

Anthony cupped her jaw gently, eyes steady. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Another kiss��just under her jaw this time.

“I know.”

“But I’d fight every single person in the ton if it helped.”

“Mhm,” she said, smiling.

He stepped closer. Kissed her again. This time, slower. Deeper.

“I married you because you look at people like they’re wasting your time,” he murmured. “And I needed that.”

She laughed quietly. “That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s honest.”

“Mhm.”

He kissed her again. Neck. Jaw. Then her lips.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his chest.

“We’re not going to be quiet forever, are we?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “But we’ll be loud together.”

“Hmm.”

He held her a little tighter. “I’ll buy you more grey dresses, if that’s what it takes.”

“I’m wearing red to dinner.

“Terrifying.”

[maaeveeee]

Because you’re out of bridgerton ideas, does this you won’t take bridgerton requests?

Just because I'm out of ideas doesn't mean I'm not waiting for ideas to write about it :)

Feel free to request for more Bridgerton!

[maaeveeee]

I'm officially out of ideas for Bridgerton fanfics.

I will move forward to fill other masterlists :3

Requests are always open and I will write anything you ask for!(read the rules and info first before requesting!)

This is me btw. Talking to a wall.

[maaeveeee]

mᥲᥱ᥎ᥱ’s mᥲr᥎ᥱᥣ mᥲs𝗍ᥱrᥣіs𝗍 !

Waiting for requests !

[maaeveeee]

A huge thank you for all the support I’ve been recently getting!! You guys make my day :)

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐒

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x oc!black!fem!

Warnings: none

Author’s note: this one is way longer than the other fanfics I have posted. Enjoy!

There were few things Anthony Bridgerton prided himself on more than his ability to assess a situation quickly, efficiently, and with the ruthless precision of a man who had spent the past ten years ensuring his family didn’t fall into absolute chaos.

It was with this same precision that he now stood in the center of Lady Danbury’s salon, gazing across the sea of eligible young ladies like a general surveying the battlefield.

He had a mission. He had a list. And by God, he would be married by the end of the season.

He moved briskly from one cluster of ladies to the next, exchanging pleasantries, making mental notes.

Too timid. Too giggly. Frighteningly obsessed with swans. Passable, but mispronounced ‘Goethe’ and will therefore not do.

Then his gaze fell upon her.

Lady Evelina Marchand was not trying to get his attention. In fact, she looked determined to avoid it entirely, seated slightly apart from the crowd near a window, sipping tea like she had paid rent on that chair and fully intended to stay until the lease ended.

She was dressed in a gown of smoky gray, her hair artfully arranged but not overly fussy, and her expression unreadable—save for the slight arch of one perfectly unimpressed brow as she caught him staring.

Interesting.

He made his way over, purposeful as ever.

“Lady Evelina,” he greeted smoothly. “I’ve come to inform you of a decision.”

She did not rise. She did not simper. She did not blink, even as she slowly set her teacup down with surgical precision.

“Have you,” she said, as if this were the most exhausting news she’d heard all day. “Should I brace myself?”

Anthony allowed himself a small, confident smile—the one that usually got at least a blush, if not an outright curtsy.

“You are, by far, the most suitable candidate for Viscountess.”

A pause.

A long pause.

Evelina tilted her head slightly, like a cat observing an unusually loud bird.

“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re serious.”

Anthony’s smile faltered. “Yes. Quite.”

“Well,” she said, leaning back into her chair with an air of amused dismay, “I suppose I should be flattered. I’ve never been selected with such military efficiency before.”

He frowned, a little thrown. “It’s not military—it’s logical. I’ve considered all options. You’re intelligent, and well－mannered, your family is of excellent standing, and you’re fluent in multiple languages. You were presented to the Queen without incident, which is more than can be said for half this room. You haven’t fainted, shouted, or attempted to flirt with my brother—which, frankly, sets you leagues ahead of the competition. I believe you are perfectly suited for the role.”

“The role,” she repeated, sipping her tea. “Of wife.”

“Of Viscountess,” he corrected. “There is a distinction.”

She set her cup down again, very slowly, and then—God help him—laughed.

Anthony blinked. He had, in his twenty－nine years, been rejected, mocked, and even once slapped (that had been a misunderstanding involving a fencing match, a very determined lady, and a bottle of champagne). But he had never been laughed at mid－proposal.

He narrowed his eyes. “What, precisely, do you find amusing?”

“You,” Evelina said brightly, utterly unbothered. “You’ve made a list, haven’t you? I can see it now. Written in that terrifyingly neat hand, probably organized by columns—traits, ratings, acceptable conversation topics—”

“There are no ratings,” he said indignantly, which was not a denial.

She beamed at him like she’d just caught him in a trap of his own making. “You’re trying to hire a wife.”

“I am seeking a suitable match.”

“You sound like you’re choosing wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper doesn’t argue,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, is that what you’re hoping for in a spouse?” she asked, eyes dancing. “Docility? Silence? A woman who won’t correct your Latin or point out when you’re being insufferable?”

“I am not insufferable.”

“You’re currently trying to logic your way into matrimony by interviewing women like they’re servants.”

“It’s hardly—” he paused. “It is a highly efficient process.”

She stood in one graceful motion, towering over him by at least one inch thanks to her heels and her complete lack of respect for his authority.

“Anthony,” she said, with the air of a woman speaking to a very stubborn child, “I am not going to marry you.”

He blinked. “You’re turning me down?”

“You didn’t even ask, my lord. You just… announced it. Like you’d chosen a new horse.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a horse?”

“Oh, forgive me. Was that your job?”

Anthony opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.

She smiled. “Good day, my lord.”

She walked off, leaving him standing by the tea tray, feeling something very unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

Annoyance.

Intrigue.

Maybe… both?

He wasn’t sure.

But what he did know, with absolute certainty, was this:

He was going to marry her.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Anthony sat at the breakfast table, jaw tight, spoon clinking aggressively against his teacup.

Benedict strolled in like a man who hadn’t been emotionally humiliated in public, whistling a little tune, coat slightly askew in that sort of way that made women sigh and Anthony want to commit light murder.

He took one look at his brother and grinned.

“Oh no,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Anthony snapped.

“The look of a man who has had his romantic overtures not only rejected, but mocked.”

Anthony inhaled sharply. “I was not rejected.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Benedict said, pouring himself tea with theatrical elegance. “You merely proposed a logical, emotionless union to Lady Evelina Marchand, who then laughed in your face in front of half the ton.”

“It was not a proposal.”

“It was certainly not romantic,” Eloise added, entering the room like a gust of wind, hair half up, holding a book with the spine cracked so far back it was practically a pamphlet. “You might as well have handed her a contract.”

Anthony set his cup down with such force it clinked ominously. “I simply explained why we were compatible. There’s nothing wrong with approaching marriage with maturity and rational thought.”

“Yes,” Benedict said, leaning back, “because nothing sets a lady’s heart aflame like being told she’s statistically optimal.” tv

Eloise flopped into the nearest chair. “Did you even ask her if she wanted to be married at all?”

“She’s at the marriage events,” Anthony said. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she said, resting her chin in her hand with an expression of delighted pity. “You really do think women exist only to be chosen, don’t you?”

“I do not—”

“Does your list of qualifications include ‘has her own opinions’ or was that under the ‘to be discouraged’ column?” Benedict asked.

Anthony glared. “It is not a literal list.”

Eloise and Benedict shared a look.

“She compared herself to a horse,” Anthony muttered.

“And you were surprised she didn’t curtsy afterward?” Benedict said, looking as though he might genuinely expire from glee. “Oh, this is better than the time Colin got caught climbing out of that opera singer’s window and sprained his ankle.”

“At least that wasn’t in the paper,” Anthony growled.

“You’re right,” Eloise said with mock solemnity. “This is far worse. This happened in Lady Danbury’s drawing room. The woman remembers everything. There’ll be a ballad by next Tuesday.”

Anthony stood abruptly. “I’m going riding.”

“To chase her down again?” Benedict said helpfully. “Might I suggest flowers this time? Or perhaps a hand－delivered spreadsheet?”

Anthony gave them both one last scathing look and swept out of the room.

There was a long pause.

Then Benedict leaned toward Eloise. “He’s going to do something incredibly stupid, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Later that afternoon in Eloise’s Room, She was writing a letter to Penelope (a very dramatic one, titled “The Patriarchy Continues To Offend Me”) when Hyacinth knocked and stuck her head in.

“Eloise,” she said, “Anthony just asked me if Lady Marchand likes dogs.”

Eloise blinked. “Why?”

“He said he’s going to ‘accidentally’ run into her at the park.”

“With a dog?”

“With two dogs.”

Eloise grinned slowly, wickedly. “Do you think we have time to borrow Newton from the Featheringtons?”

Meanwhile, at Hyde Park Anthony stood beside two borrowed dogs—one of whom had clearly never been on a leash, and the other of whom was currently chewing on his bootlace—with the air of a man deeply regretting several life decisions.

He was wearing his best coat. His hair was perfect.

And then, as if summoned by Fate or the Devil himself, Lady Evelina Marchand appeared on the path.

She was arm in arm with another lady, laughing at something utterly unrelated to him (which offended him slightly), and looking so infuriatingly radiant that Anthony nearly tripped over the smaller dog.

She spotted him immediately. Her expression changed not at all.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said as they drew closer. “Are those… your dogs?

“Yes,” he lied, with the confidence of a man who had absolutely never owned a dog in his life.

She looked down at the one attempting to eat a stick three times its size. “They seem… spirited.”

“They are very well－trained.”

At that exact moment, the larger dog lunged forward, tangled the leash around Anthony’s legs, and sent him stumbling backwards into a hedge.

There was silence.

Then—of course—Evelina burst out laughing.

“Are you trying to impress me,” she asked, voice breathless with mirth, “or is this just a bonus?”

Anthony stood, brushing leaves from his coat with all the rage and dignity of a man who had been bested, again, by a woman with a sharp tongue and unreasonably good cheekbones.

“I was merely out walking,” he said tightly.

“Of course you were,” she said. “In full dress coat. With unfamiliar dogs. At precisely the hour I frequent this path.”

“…Coincidence,” he muttered.

Her smile was maddening. “Well. I’ll leave you to your coincidence, then.”

She curtsied, impossibly graceful, and walked away.

The smaller dog immediately attempted to follow her.

Anthony sighed. “Yes, I know. She’s charming. Shut up.”

The following afternoon, Lady Evelina Marchand sat beneath the shade of a great chestnut tree in the gardens of the Bridgerton estate—by invitation, to her mild surprise.

The request had been delivered on crisp stationery with Viscount Bridgerton’s infuriatingly exact signature, and a line so succinct, it could only have been his:

A matter of some importance. — A.

She’d considered ignoring it. She should have. And yet, curiosity—and an inconvenient flutter in her stomach—had won out.

And so here she was. Alone. Waiting.

Of course he was late.

She did not have to wait long.

Anthony appeared with all the subtlety of a man who had rehearsed this in the mirror and yet still managed to look vaguely annoyed with himself.

He wore no cravat, his hair a little mussed, as though he’d attempted to appear casual and ended up looking handsomer for it, damn him.

“Lady Evelina,” he said, voice measured, as he approached.

“My lord,” she returned, polite as ever, though her eyes sparkled faintly. “I must admit, I’m surprised you summoned me. I half－expected you to dispatch a solicitor.”

Anthony exhaled slowly, clearly preparing himself. “I owe you an apology.”

That brought her eyebrows up. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said, with all the dignity of a man being stabbed politely in the pride. “For my earlier… proposition. I may have approached it with the finesse of a banker inspecting livestock.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Evelina said, utterly straight－faced. “There was some romance. You did mention my French.”

Anthony gave her a look. “I meant what I said. About your merits. But I realize now that I failed to… account for your spirit.”

“My spirit,” she echoed, amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“You are… exceedingly difficult.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t—” He exhaled again. “It shouldn’t be a compliment.”

“But it is,” she said gently. “Especially coming from you.”

They stood there in silence, the wind teasing at the leaves above.

“I’m not used to being refused,” he said after a beat.

“I’d imagine not.”

“I’m not used to being laughed at, either.”

“That,” she said with a grin, “you rather deserved.”

He looked away, then back, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Less pride. More… searching.

“You intrigue me, Evelina.”

It was the first time he’d said her name aloud.

She blinked. Then tilted her head slightly, like she was weighing something delicate. “Because I said no?”

“No,” he said quickly, then hesitated. “At first, perhaps. But now—”

He stopped himself. Anthony Bridgerton, master of speeches, commander of social maneuvering, rendered speechless.

Evelina stepped closer, just a fraction. “You’re very serious,” she said, softly. “So terribly proper when it suits you. And yet I suspect you’re not half as composed as you pretend.”

He met her gaze squarely. “I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” she said gently. “You think love is dangerous. That wanting someone too much is a liability.”

He froze.

“And now you’ve met someone who won’t agree to be married out of logic, and it’s turned your entire strategy upside down.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” she said, and this time her voice was quieter. “You want a life you can control. A future that won’t surprise you. But Anthony—what makes you think marriage to someone like me would ever be… predictable?”

There it was again. His name, this time from her mouth.

It did something to him.

He stepped closer. “You think I can’t handle being surprised?”

“I think it terrifies you,” she said, standing her ground. “You’re not after a wife. You’re after a guarantee. And I’m afraid I offer none.”

Anthony looked at her then—not just looked, but saw her. Her spine straight, her eyes steady, her lips parted slightly as if daring him to argue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Would you allow me to court you?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Evelina’s eyes searched his. “Court me?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Properly. Not with lists. Or logic. Or dogs.”

A beat.

“Just… me.”

Evelina exhaled. “What happened to efficient decision－making?”

“I’m realizing it’s a rather lonely sport.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable for once.

Then—finally—she smiled. “You may court me. On one condition.”

His voice was low. “Anything.”

“No lists.”

He smiled, then. Truly. “No lists.”

[maaeveeee]

𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: Angst

The studio felt unbearable now.

The portrait sat on its easel, her face locked in a moment she might never return to. The way he had painted her—unguarded, thoughtful, entirely herself—it ached to look at it.

He grabbed a cloth and threw it over the canvas.

“Coward.” he muttered to himself.

He didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak when Colin asked if he’d be coming to the opera that night.

He simply said, “No,” and shut the door.

By mid－morning the next day, Eloise barged in, no knocking.

“Are you dying?” she asked plainly, standing in the doorway with one eyebrow raised and a slice of toast in her hand.

“No.”

“Hmm.” She walked in, chewed thoughtfully, then sat on the window ledge.

“You look like a man who’s been shot through the heart by a debutante.”

“She’s not a debutante.”

“Right. She’s an almost－Viscountess. Very serious business.” Eloise studied him. “Did you tell her?”

“I didn’t need to. She said it first.”

Eloise’s toast paused mid－air. “She said it?”

He nodded. “She said she loved me. And then she left.”

“Well. That’s delightfully catastrophic.” She tilted her head. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t.”

“Benedict!”

“I froze, all right?” he snapped, standing up, walking to the fireplace. “She said it, and it felt like someone had thrown open a door I’d been leaning against for a decade.”

Later that afternoon, Violet found him in the conservatory, sketching flowers he wasn’t really seeing.

“You’ve been brooding,” she said gently, easing into the seat beside him. “The staff is whispering.”

“I’m not brooding,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

“Mmm.” She smiled faintly. “You get that look your father used to get when he’d left something unsaid.”

He didn’t respond.

Violet tilted her head. “Eliza is a lovely girl.”

“She’s engaged.”

“Not anymore, from what I hear.”

That made his head snap around. “What?”

“She was seen leaving her aunt’s townhouse in tears this morning. The Viscount left shortly after. Alone.” Violet paused. “There are murmurs.”

“What kind of murmurs?”

“The kind I used to chase when I was your age.”

The Langford townhouse was unbearable.

Every room stifled her.

Every flower arrangement mocked her. Every carefully arranged future detail—menus, guest lists, embroidery on her veil—felt like a chain dragging her under.

She had spent two nights sitting at the edge of her bed, staring at the portrait she had once allowed herself to imagine hanging in a future home. The one she should have loved.

But it wasn’t her. That portrait—ordered by the Viscount—had been done by another artist. It was lovely. Flattering. Elegant.

Lifeless.

The one Benedict painted—the unfinished one—haunted her.

She’d seen herself in it. Not the lady, but the woman. And in that woman’s eyes, there had been love.

And freedom.

And now she’d run from it.

“I’m a coward,” she whispered aloud, burying her face in her hands.

Her aunt had demanded answers that morning.

“Tell me this is a misunderstanding, Eliza,” the woman had hissed, pacing in the sitting room. “The entire ton is watching you.”

“I can’t marry him.”

Her aunt turned slowly, face paling. “You can. You will. Do you have any idea what this means?”

“Yes,” Eliza said. “It means I’m finally doing something for me.”

That evening when she arrived at Bridgerton House, she had no idea what she would say. Her boots clicked quietly against the entry floor. The butler blinked when she requested Benedict.

He showed her to the studio.

She didn’t knock. She opened the door and stepped inside.

Benedict looked up and nearly dropped his brush.

She was there.

Standing in the doorway with wind－tangled curls, her cheeks flushed from cold and nerves. She wore no gloves. No hat. Just her and that look in her eyes—the one that had undone him a hundred times.

“Eliza.”

“I left because I didn’t trust myself to stay,” she said immediately. “And then I spent every minute since wishing I had.”

He was frozen, caught somewhere between hope and fear.

She stepped forward, voice shaking but steady. “I told him. Henry. I told him I couldn’t marry him. I told him it wasn’t fair to either of us.”

Benedict’s chest rose slowly. “And what did he say?”

“That he suspected as much.” Her eyes flicked away. “That he knew I wasn’t all there.”

Benedict’s voice was raw. “And are you here now?”

She looked up at him. “I’ve never been more here in my life.”

He crossed the room in three strides and took her face in his hands. “Tell me again.”

She smiled, breath catching. “I love you.”

His mouth crashed against hers like lightning to dry earth.

His hands tangled in her hair. Hers curled around his collar, pulling him closer. She made a soft, desperate sound against his lips and he responded with one of his own—like a man gasping for life after being underwater too long.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“I Love you so, so much.”

[maaeveeee]

𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: Repressed Feelings, Jealousy, Slow Burn Romance, angst

The request clung to Benedict’s skin like oil.

A portrait, the Viscount had said, as if it were something simple. Something elegant. A gift, as though what Benedict would be painting was just a likeness and not the quiet, defiant ache of the woman he had loved for half his life.

He stood by the open window of his studio later that week, staring out at the hazy, early spring London skyline.

She would be arriving soon.

He had spent the morning adjusting the chair. Moving it an inch. Then back. Then adjusting the folds of the fabric he’d chosen for the backdrop. Teal, the same shade as the dress she wore the night she returned. It was all wrong. It was all too much.

The door creaked.

He didn’t turn.

“I’m early,” came her voice.

Of course she was.

“Eliza,” he said, still staring out the window.

“You’re not going to pretend this is a pleasure, are you?” she asked, setting her gloves on the edge of the chaise.

He turned to face her, slowly. She wasn’t dressed for a ball now—no glittering jewels or tightly pinned curls. Just a pale green dress, her curly hair falls in loose, natural waves, half－pinned back with soft roses tucked into the strands and a few tendrils frame her face.

Her face bare of powder. Real. And still the most devastating thing he’d ever seen.

“Sit,” he said. “We’ll begin.”

She walked to the chair, but instead of settling into the pose he’d set—spine tall, shoulders gentle, eyes to the side—she curled her legs beneath her and looked directly at him.

“You don’t want to do this.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re angry.”

He lifted his brush. “Don’t move.”

“Benedict.”

He met her eyes finally, and the breath in his chest caught. Her gaze wasn’t playful. It wasn’t flirty. It was heavy. Frightened, almost. Regretful.

“You’re marrying him,” he said simply.

“And you accepted the commission.”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

A pause.

Her voice dropped. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Benedict stepped back from the canvas, the brush trembling slightly in his fingers.

“Because he doesn’t know you,” he said. “He doesn’t know how you hold your breath when you’re about to speak your mind. Or how your laugh used to fill a whole room, not just brush against it politely. He doesn’t know that you once said you’d rather drown than settle.”

Eliza’s throat moved with the swallow she didn’t speak.

“You think I’ve settled?”

“I know you have.”

The silence between them was not empty. It was thick—with memory, with fury, with every almost that never turned into a moment.

“I didn’t have choices, Benedict.”

“You had me.”

“You never said anything.”

“You never stayed.”

They were both standing now, breathing too hard. Her hands clenched. His jaw ached from grinding.

“I waited,” she whispered. “Do you want to hear it? I waited. The first season we left, I thought maybe you’d write. Say something. I imagined letters. I checked for them.”

Benedict’s breath stilled.

“And then,” she continued, “you didn’t. So I stopped hoping.”

His voice was rough. “Because I was stupid. Because I thought if I said the wrong thing, I’d lose what little I had left of you.”

Eliza’s eyes glistened. But she didn’t look away.

He stepped closer. Slowly

“You don’t love him,” he said.

She didn’t deny it.

“I could paint you,” he said, “a hundred times, and never capture what you are when you’re free. But I know what it looks like. I saw it once. I remember.”

Eliza’s voice trembled. “Benedict…”

“Say it,” he said. “Say you love me.”

She was inches from him now. Her breath hitched.

“I love you.”

The words were like glass breaking.

Neither of them moved or spoke.

Her hand brushed his. And in that second, the world narrowed to the impossible closeness of two people who had been circling the edge of everything for years.

“I’m engaged,” she whispered, like it meant something.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Call it off.”

“It’s a scandal.”

“So what.”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t pull away.

“I’m scared,” she said.

He nodded.

“I am too.”

And then she stepped back. Just a pace. But it cut deeper than a thousand miles.

“I need to go.”

“Eliza—”

“Let me think.”

And she left him in the studio, standing before a blank canvas, shaking with everything he could no longer bury.

The room didn’t smell like her anymore.

But his hands remembered the shape of her name.

[maaeveeee]

𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: Emotional Angst, Unrequited Love, Jealousy, Mentions of Arranged/Obligated Marriage, Slow Burn Element

Benedict Bridgerton did not consider himself a jealous man.

He had been admired. Desired. Whispered about in drawing rooms and sketched by young ladies in their diaries like some mythic creature—part gentleman, part mystery, all charm.

He had danced with countesses, kissed barmaids behind garden walls, laughed at love with the easy detachment of a man who had convinced himself he would never need it.

And then she walked back into the world as if no time had passed. As if seven years hadn’t folded themselves over like pages in a book and left him dog－eared and half－finished.

Lady Eliza Langford.

Eliza.

He said her name in his head as he watched her glide through the crowded ballroom, her gloved hand resting on the arm of the Viscount Henry Aldridge. The name alone made something inside Benedict curdle. Aldridge—too clean, too polished, too smug in his own decency. A man who smiled too often and meant none of it.

Benedict sipped his champagne to avoid spitting out the taste in his mouth.

The last time he’d seen Eliza, she was barefoot in a summer field, swearing she’d never marry anyone who called her “charming.”

She was thirteen. He was fifteen. She had paint on her hands and a leaf tangled in her braid. They’d spent the afternoon lying under the trees, arguing about whether or not God had a favorite color.

And now she was engaged.

To that man.

Aldridge leaned down to whisper something in her ear. She laughed—gracefully, not loudly. It was a laugh trained for society. Perfected. Painless. Hollow.

Benedict’s hands tightened around the glass.

It should have been him.

He shouldn’t care. He hadn’t written. She hadn’t either. They’d had years, lifetimes, whole countries between them. But that didn’t change what was his. And Eliza had always been his—even if he’d never had the courage to say it aloud.

He forced himself to move, to cross the room. He wasn’t going to hide in corners like a spurned lover in a bad novel.

He was going to greet her. Civilly. Casually. Like he hadn’t been dragging around the ghost of her for the better part of a decade.

“Eliza,” he said, when she turned to face him.

She froze. Then her mouth parted in surprise, and he saw it—the real smile, the one that cracked just slightly too wide on the left. The one that meant something.

“Benedict Bridgerton,” she said, as if tasting the words.

“It’s been a long time.”

“Seven years.” She tilted her head. “I kept count.”

So did I.

“You look different,” he said.

She laughed softly. “Older?”

“Beautiful.” he said before thinking.

A pause. Not awkward. Just thick.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You look well.”

He did. He looked well, and he hated it. Hated that he’d spent so long pretending to be fine when she had vanished without warning, without letters. Without so much as a final summer. She had been gone, and that had been that.

“May I ask how long you’ve been back?” he said.

“Just under a fortnight.”

“Planning a quiet return, were you?”

“Not quite.” Her eyes flickered sideways—to Aldridge, still chatting up some viscountess who looked thrilled to be near a title. “It was… strategic. My aunt thought it best we return just before the season. For the engagement, you understand.”

There it was.

The word. Engagement.

It thudded in his chest like a drunk pounding on a door.

“To him?” Benedict asked, too sharply.

Eliza arched a brow. “Yes, to Henry.”

Henry. As if she’d ever said that name when they were younger. As if it fit in her mouth.

“I see,” Benedict said, voice flat.

“He’s kind,” she added, and that alone felt like a confession. Kind, not passionate. Not electric. Just… kind.

“And you’re happy?”

She hesitated.

That was all he needed.

“Benedict,” she said, softer now, “you have no right to be cross with me.”

“I’m not cross.”

She stared.

“I’m not,” he insisted, and gods, he sounded like a child.

“I didn’t choose—” she started, then stopped. Her expression shifted. “You were never mine to wait for.”

No, but he had been hers. Every ruined sketchbook page, every woman he didn’t truly see, every brushstroke that fell short of what he wanted—it had always been her shadow behind it.

He glanced across the ballroom. Aldridge had returned, two glasses in hand, smiling like a man who’d never tasted bitterness.

“Eliza,” Aldridge said pleasantly, “your aunt’s asking for you.”

“I’ll join her shortly,” Eliza said, too quickly.

Benedict felt the words forming before he could stop them. “Aldridge.”

“Bridgerton.”

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Aldridge beamed. “Very kind. Yes—we’ve known one another for years now. Family friends in Vienna.”

“Is that where she lost her laugh?” Benedict asked, cool as a razor.

Eliza stiffened.

Aldridge blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Eliza used to laugh like thunder. Now it sounds… rehearsed.”

“That’s quite the remark.”

Benedict smiled. “I’m an artist. I notice detail.”

Eliza stepped between them. “I believe that’s enough.”

“I agree,” Benedict said.

She held his gaze, and for a second, they weren’t in a ballroom. They were seventeen again, in a field, daring each other to tell the truth.

“Excuse me,” Eliza said, and turned to go.

Aldridge followed, but not before giving Benedict a polite nod.

The gall of that man. To walk away with her like he knew her. Like he could hold her attention with chess and compliments and weekend hunting trips. He would bore her to death.

Benedict downed the rest of his champagne.

He was halfway to the garden doors when a hand caught his arm.

Eloise.

“You’re sulking,” she said.

“I’m brooding.”

“You’re both.”

He said nothing.

“She doesn’t look happy,” Eloise added.

“No.”

“And you do?”

He looked away.

Eloise sighed. “Do you still draw her?”

Benedict didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Go tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s engaged, Eloise. Because I waited too long. Because her fiancé is so insufferably pleasant that it would be a scandal to hate him—and I still do.”

Eloise blinked. “That may be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She softened. “Go tell her. Before someone else paints her life in colors she hates.”

He didn’t move.

But her words clung to him.

Later that evening, when the ballroom had thinned and the music softened, Aldridge approached him again.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said, smiling like a man proud of himself.

Benedict wanted to punch that smile off his face.

“I’d like you to paint her.”

His heart stopped.

“A portrait,” Aldridge clarified. “As a wedding gift. She mentioned once that you used to sketch her. I thought it fitting. Sentimental, even.”

Sentimental.

The word nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

He wanted to scream, She was never sentimental. She was fire and storms and the first frost of winter. She was color, wild and defiant. She was everything you will never understand.

Instead, he said, “Of course. I’d be honored.”

Because he would paint her. Not for the Viscount. Not for anyone.

For himself.

Because if he could not have her, he would keep her in color. In oil. In canvas. In something real. Something honest.

Even if it killed him.

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: none, just pure fluff

The gardens of Aubrey Hall were in full bloom, and yet Benedict Bridgerton found himself utterly unmoved by roses.

A dozen young ladies fluttered about the main lawn, dressed in spring’s best pastels, their laughter floating through the air like birdsong.

Footmen carried lemonade. A quartet played something light and lovely. Children tossed hoops in the distance.

It was all perfectly charming.

And terribly dull.

He had lasted longer than usual, even managing polite conversation with three mothers, two debutantes, and one lady whose name he’d already forgotten. That was enough social heroism for one day.

Benedict excused himself with a smile, slipped through a break in the hedges, and headed toward the quieter part of the grounds—the part his family rarely fussed over. It was wilder there. Less sculpted.

Trees were allowed to grow as they pleased. Grass danced past ankle height. Daisies had claimed the edges of the path with gentle rebellion.

He preferred it.

Tucked under his arm was his sketchbook. In his hand, a pencil. In his chest, a familiar ache that always appeared this time of year—the pull to create something, anything, that wasn’t bound in manners and expectations.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was seated on a worn stone bench beneath an old elm tree, set slightly apart from the trimmed lawn and its polite society.

A book rested open in her lap, though her eyes weren’t on the page. Instead, she looked upward—at the canopy of branches above, the fractured sunlight, something only she could see. Her expression was soft. Thoughtful. Entirely unguarded.

He froze.

He didn’t recognize her.

That wasn’t unusual—plenty of guests had arrived with cousins and distant relations—but this girl didn’t fit into the world he’d just escaped.

There was no fan in her hand, no calculated posture. Her gown was buttercream yellow, simple but lovely. Her gloves were crumpled beside her, forgotten.

Naturally, that made it impossible not to notice her.

Benedict lowered himself onto a patch of grass several feet away, using the wide trunk of another tree as cover. He opened his sketchbook, set pencil to paper, and began.

She became lines first. The arch of her neck. The angle of her cheek. The downward curve of her lashes. Her posture was regal without effort. Her hair, though pinned, had wisps falling from it—sunlight catching on those strands like threads of gold.

He captured her mid－thought, gaze tilted toward the sky. There was something curious about her stillness—an air of waiting, or watching, or both.

Benedict wasn’t sure how long he sketched. Time blurred when he drew. He added shading to her collarbone, the suggestion of a breeze tugging at her hem.

Then—she looked up.

His pencil stilled.

Their eyes met across the space between them, and Benedict braced for it—for the wide－eyed offense, the indignant flush, the scolding.

Instead, she smiled.

Not coyly. Not flirtatiously. Just… knowingly.

And then she looked away.

He blinked, stunned.

She’d seen him. And she didn’t mind.

Later, the garden grew quieter as the guests were called inside for music and dancing. A few stragglers lingered, but the performance of the day was done. The sun slipped lower, gilding the trees in honey. Still, she didn’t move.

And neither did he.

When she finally stood, Benedict pretended to study his sketchbook. He wasn’t ready for the spell to break.

But she walked toward him.

He looked up, startled. She approached with graceful purpose, hands folded at her waist. Up close, he could see that her necklace was a small locket, and her gloves—still held loosely—were embroidered with tiny flowers.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said. Her voice was warm, clear. A touch amused.

“You know me,” he said, finding his footing. “That hardly seems fair. I was hoping to sketch you anonymously.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

His mouth twitched. “Ah. So I’ve been caught.”

She tilted her head, her eyes flicking briefly to the edge of the page still visible in his lap. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You should,” he said honestly. “But I imagine you’re too clever for that.”

That drew a quiet laugh. “Maybe.”

She reached into the small reticule at her side and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

“For you.”

He took it without question. Their fingers brushed.

“Is this a calling card?”

“A fair exchange,” she said, turning to leave. “Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton.”

And just like that, she was gone—moving with unhurried elegance through the tall grass, back toward the house, her yellow gown catching the dying light.

Benedict looked down at the parchment in his hand.

He opened it.

Inside was a sketch.

Of him.

Seated under the elm, sketchpad in hand, brows furrowed in focus. She had caught him mid－thought, his posture relaxed but alert, pencil to paper, a hint of concentration at the corners of his mouth.

It was excellent. Better than excellent.

And beneath it, written in delicate script:

“It seems we’ve both been watching.”

Benedict’s breath caught. He laughed, low and disbelieving.

He folded the drawing and placed it carefully between the pages of his own sketchbook.

Later that night, as candlelight shimmered off crystal chandeliers and violins spun their golden melodies into the corners of Aubrey Hall, Benedict stood just beyond the ballroom’s threshold, eyes searching the crowd.

He didn’t see her at first.

Then—there.

She stood beneath the glow of a candlelit sconce, half－shadowed, watching the dance floor as if she were observing a painting rather than waiting for an invitation to step into it.

She wore a pale lilac gown now, the color of twilight, and her hair had been re－pinned with something small and silver at the crown. Her locket still hung at her throat. Her expression—serene, curious—hadn’t changed.

Benedict’s steps carried him forward before he’d even decided to move.

She noticed him approaching and smiled before he spoke, as though she’d expected him all along.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said softly, offering his hand.

“I thought you didn’t enjoy balls,” she teased, placing her hand in his.

“I don’t,” he replied. “But this evening has given me reason to reconsider.”

They stepped onto the floor as the music changed—something gentle and slow, the kind of song that asked for no words.

They danced for a full minute in silence. Just movement. Just breath. Just the hum of something unspoken between them.

Then—his voice, just above a whisper:

“You never told me your name.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” she said, her gaze lifting to meet his.

“Would you?”

She smiled—not shy, not bold, just the sort of smile a woman gives when she already knows the answer.

“Lady Evanthe Calista Lysandell.”

Benedict blinked. “Evanthe… Calista… Lysandell.”

“You look overwhelmed,” she teased, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“I just wasn’t prepared,” he said honestly.

She laughed then, soft and musical. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers. “It suits you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly in his, their dance forgotten, the music fading into background.

And there, in the glow of a thousand candles, beneath a name he could barely pronounce but would never forget, Benedict Bridgerton smiled.

Because Lady Evanthe Calista Lysandell wasn’t just a name.

[maaeveeee]

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: angst

Author’s note: a very short fanfic of Anthony’s pov

The ballroom was suffocating.

The air was thick with perfume and violin strings, with laughter sharpened by ambition. Anthony Bridgerton stood near the edge of the crowd, wine untouched in his hand, offering the occasional nod, the practiced smile. Another season. Another parade of curated smiles and clever lies.

Until she entered.

Lady Juliana Rosethorne.

She didn’t glide. She moved with a sort of stillness. Poised. Grounded. Beautiful—but not loudly. Like the softest chord in a symphony you only notice once it’s gone.

He noticed.

His breath hitched.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

He tried not to stare, but he did.

She wasn’t dressed to be noticed. Her gown was modest, a dark green satin that whispered rather than shouted. But it was the way she carried it—the way she didn’t ask for eyes, yet drew them.

She greeted an elderly countess with a gentle touch to the arm. Tilted her head as she listened. Laughed once, barely, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆

Anthony realized his glass was still full. That his hand was trembling slightly. That he was watching her—truly watching her—in a way he hadn’t watched anyone in years.

She moved again, further into the crowd.

He followed.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

He didn’t mean to.

He told himself he wasn’t—until he was standing too near the terrace doors, just close enough to hear her decline a dance with a quiet, firm grace.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

She glanced over her shoulder then, and their eyes met.

Only a second.

But it carved itself into him.

𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

The following morning, he found her name on a guest list for his mother’s upcoming dinner.

Coincidence, he told himself.

Then he requested to sit near her.

He told himself it was strategy. Conversation. Social nicety.

But when she arrived in soft lavender and offered him a single, nodding greeting—something cracked open in his chest.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚

Juliana was not like the others. She did not giggle or flatter. She didn’t perform.

She observed.

She listened.

She spoke rarely, but when she did, it was with intent.

Anthony found himself watching her more than he listened to anyone else.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒚

He began to notice the smallest things: how her fingers flexed when she was uncomfortable, how she always carried a tiny notebook in her reticule, how her eyes flitted upward just before she laughed—as if checking whether the moment was safe to enjoy.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚

They spoke more often, always among others.

But the world around them began to dull.

He knew the precise moment she entered a room. Knew it from the shift in the air.

She haunted his thoughts.

He began to wake with her name caught between his breath and his dreams.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚

He never told her.

He didn’t need to.

Because she began to watch him, too.

When she thought he wouldn’t notice.

But he did.

𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

They passed each other at the opera, at dinners, in gardens between dances. He began to arrive earlier, linger later. Always hoping. Always waiting for just a moment more.

She gave him those moments.

But never anything more.

One evening, he caught her in the hallway of a house party, adjusting her glove.

Their eyes met.

She paused.

But then she turned away.

And he stood in silence, hollowed out by her absence.

𝑶𝒉, 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆?

His breath caught.

He said nothing. Just watched her disappear through the archway.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆.

It became a madness.

He no longer heard the name of any other woman.

No longer felt the pull of duty.

He sat beside Juliana at supper and could not remember what they ate.

He remembered the curve of her fingers around a wine glass.

The way her lips parted when she was about to speak—and then didn’t.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔

She began to smile at him less.

He did not know why.

Perhaps she had seen too much.

Perhaps she was trying to protect them both.

But the ache settled in. Low. Constant.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒂𝒌

At a spring garden party, he saw her with Lord Heatherton.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Juliana laughed politely at something the man said, her face composed.

But her eyes were searching.

And when they found Anthony across the lawn—just for a second—

The air shifted.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆

He looked away.

Jealousy was unbecoming.

And useless.

He had no claim.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

But he hated the idea of anyone else knowing how she smelled like rosewater and old books.

Of anyone else seeing her in moonlight.

Of anyone else touching the skin just above her glove—

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒂𝒌𝒆

He should’ve turned away completely.

He should’ve stopped thinking of her.

But instead, he went to her.

Again.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

And every time she looked back at him with that unreadable expression—

𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖

Weeks passed.

Her laughter became rarer.

Their exchanges became brief.

And he began to feel her slipping.

He woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding.

He could still feel her hand brushing his arm from three days earlier.

Still hear her say his name.

He tried to read.

To work.

To ride.

Nothing helped.

𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖’𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝑰’𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆

One night, he found her on the terrace, alone, wrapped in a shawl.

She didn’t turn.

He stood behind her, silent.

Rain threatened the horizon.

And in that stillness, he realized—

He was hers.

In every way a man could be.

𝑰 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆

He rode past her house the next day.

For no reason.

Twice.

He passed the bookshop she favored.

Paused outside.

No sign of her.

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆

His chest ached when he woke.

He couldn’t explain it.

He didn’t try.

He just closed his eyes and imagined the slope of her shoulders. Her hands in her lap. Her smile, when it was real.

𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆

He went to her home.

Stood in front of it.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t leave.

Just waited.

For hours.

She never appeared.

He whispered to no one.

𝑰 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆

The next day, she came to him.

No warning.

No fanfare.

She stood in his study like sunlight cutting through stormclouds.

“I tried not to come,” she said.

𝑶𝒉 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆?

He stood.

“But you did.”

She nodded.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. “But I can’t breathe without it.”

He crossed the room.

Stopped inches from her.

“I’ve been drowning in it.”

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔

They didn’t kiss.

Not that day.

But they knew.

Everything had changed.

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

Weeks later, in the rose garden behind his family estate, he kissed her for the first time.

No audience.

No music.

Just her sigh against his mouth, and the way his hands trembled against her back.

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆

They married.

Quietly.

Not for society.

For themselves.

And when she walked toward him in white and sunlight—

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Because every inch of her felt like fate.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒂𝒌𝒆

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

𝑰’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖

[maaeveeee]

𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 － 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x oc!fem!

Warnings: Mild Suggestiveness, Passionate Kissing, Flirty Banter, Family Teasing

They stayed like that, still and suspended in something too quiet to be just affection and too loud to be anything less than falling.

Then—

Knock knock.

Eleanor froze.

Benedict’s lips paused just against her throat.

The door creaked open. “Benedict, Mother wants to know—OH my God.”

Eleanor practically leapt off his lap, skidding backward and nearly knocking over an easel. Benedict didn’t even flinch — just leaned his head back against the chair and sighed.

“Hello, Eloise.”

Eloise stood in the doorway, expression caught somewhere between scandalized horror and delighted mockery. “Well. This is certainly the most entertaining thing I’ve walked in on today.”

Eleanor’s face was on fire. She scrambled to smooth down her skirts, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and seeing the slight red flush on her chest and neck. Benedict. Bridgerton.

“I—I was fixing his collar!” she blurted, flustered beyond repair.

Eloise blinked. “With your neck?”

Benedict snorted.

“You!” Eleanor turned and smacked his shoulder, eyes wide. “Say something helpful!”

“I did offer to pose again tomorrow,” he said, unbothered, stretching slightly. “That’s helpful.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Mother sent me to ask if you’d be joining us for tea, but now I’m going to pretend I never saw this and simply not be the one to tell her what you were doing instead.”

“I was helping with the portrait,” Eleanor mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Eloise said brightly. “It’s always very important to straddle the subject to capture the jawline.”

Benedict stood, far too amused, and came to stand behind Eleanor, resting a hand gently on her waist. “Don’t tease her,” he said lightly. “She’s still adjusting to the family.”

“You just kissed her neck like you were trying to summon a thunderstorm and I’m the problem?”

“I said don’t tease,” Benedict said, squeezing Eleanor’s waist gently. “Not don’t observe.”

Eleanor buried her face in her hands. “I am never coming back here again.”

“You say that now,” Benedict said lightly, placing a hand on her lower back, “but I suspect you’ll be back tomorrow to touch up the painting.”

“I’m touching up nothing unless you start behaving.”

“Lies,” he whispered. “You like me just like this.”

Eloise groaned. “You two are insufferable. Benedict’s smug, and you—” she looked at Eleanor, “—are clearly under some sort of spell.”

Eleanor peeked out from her hands. “…Would you believe me if I said it was paint fumes?”

“Not even slightly,” Eloise said with a wicked grin. “Anyway, I’ll go tell Mother you’ll both be down shortly… once you’ve finished whatever this is.” She wiggled her eyebrows and vanished through the door before anyone could protest.

Silence.

Eleanor turned toward Benedict, who was still reclined like the embodiment of smug serenity. “Say something. Helpful. Now.”

“I thought I looked very dignified.”

“You had lipstick on your neck.”

He reached up and touched the spot with a satisfied smirk. “Ah. So I did.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet—here you are,” he echoed, teasing again.

She swatted him.

He caught her wrist mid－swing, and instead of releasing it, brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, then her wrist, then the inside of her forearm — slow, soft, maddening.

“Benedict.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re going to undo me.”

He looked up at her with none of the usual teasing — just something quiet. Something certain.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m already undone.”

Eleanor trailed behind Benedict as they entered the drawing room, trying very hard not to make eye contact with anyone.

Colin smirked. Gregory nudged Francesca. Hyacinth was watching like she was preparing to write a five－part drama.

And Violet—sweet, gentle Violet—was sipping her tea with the faintest smile that suggested she knew everything.

“Eleanor, darling,” Violet said sweetly. “So lovely to have you again. Was the lighting in the studio to your liking today?”

Benedict snorted into his teacup.

Eleanor, blushing furiously, slid into the chair beside him. “It was… bright.”

Colin leaned forward. “We heard you were working very closely on a portrait.”

Benedict didn’t even blink. “It’s called creative intimacy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, please,” Colin muttered. “You were draped over each other like you were rehearsing a scandal.”

“Semantics,” he said with a wink.

“Honestly,” Francesca said dryly, sipping her tea, “at this point, I’m just wondering when we’re all supposed to start calling her ‘sister.’”

Eleanor blinked.

Violet smiled faintly into her teacup.

Benedict reached beneath the table and took Eleanor’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

No teasing this time. Just quiet warmth.

And Eleanor, for once, didn’t mind all the attention. Not when his thumb brushed her knuckles like a vow. Not when his smile turned soft and real just for her.

[maaeveeee]

I need longer fanfics of your bridgerton stories! They are too good to only be one part!

Oh thank you so much!! I’ll make more parts on each fanfics :)