Doctor’s Orders
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU
Summary: Someone decides to play doctor to ameliorate your bad day…
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, doctor/patient roleplay, dom/sub tones, ‘medical examination’ with use of stethoscope and latex gloves, voluntary breathplay, cardiophilia, vaginal fingering, edging.
Word Count: 4.5 k
Authors Note: this is a long-awaited (9 months!) request fill for the lovely @eleanor-bradstreet. My dear, I hope this is somewhat worth the wait. To anyone medically trained, yes, I know what he does is wrong/inaccurate, but that’s the whole point: he’s a somewhat clueless but enthusiastic roleplaying boy, not a real doctor. Thank you to @colettebronte for the read-through and suggestions. Enjoy! <3
It’s been one of those spectacularly shit days at work. When you get to your boyfriend’s flat, all you want to do is shower, crash out and watch brainless TV together.
“Bad day?” Benedict intuits, wandering over from the kitchen, casual in shorts and a t-shirt, as you drop your bag like a tonne of bricks near his front door and pout.
“Hate my job,” you whine, burying your head into his shoulder as he chuckles affectionately, pulling you into his arms and busses a kiss onto your temple.
“No, you don’t; you love your job. You just didn’t love it today,” he smiles into your hair.
“Urgh, fine, yes, Mr EQ, yes, that's true,” you huff his neck, enjoying his clean scent.
“Come with me, my stressed-out noodle,” he offers good-naturedly, withdrawing from the embrace and lacing your fingers with his. He backs up, pulling you along with him further into the flat.
“Where are we going?” you pout again.
“To eat, I made us dinner,” he smiles, something melting in your chest at the sweet gesture.
“Do I have time to shower first?” you ask, wanting to remove all physical traces of this workday from your skin.
“Of course, be my guest,” he nods towards his room, with the en suite bathroom beyond, and you drop a kiss on his cheek as you go.
—
Fifteen minutes later, you emerge freshly showered and wearing some of his clothes- a t-shirt that swamps you and jogging bottoms you have to roll up at the waist. You take a seat at the kitchen island and tuck into the amazing-smelling food he has laid out, even giving you a comedic bow as you reenter the room.
The food tastes like heaven, and you can't stop the appreciative moans at the flavour explosion on your tongue.
“Fuck Ben, this is delicious,” you assert as you swallow the mouthful.
His face lights up with that beguiling smile that hooked you in the first place all those months ago, and you can't help but lean in and give him a quick peck.
“So do you want to talk about the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? Or is this more of a big glass of wine and stfu sort of deal?“ he hedges amiably, assessing your needs.
You sigh as you finish your next bite. “Honestly? I don't know. I’m so stressed about it all I sort of don’t want to talk about it. I feel like I need to be one of those Regency ladies who is prescribed a trip to the seaside for my nerves, you know?” you jest, circling your empty fork in the air to highlight your point.
He barks a laugh. “Funny you should say that; I was just reading a book about hilarious historical cures.”
“Yeah…?” your interest piqued.
“Dorset left it out,” he explains, referring to his roommate, a junior doctor at Guys Hospital. “It's hilarious. But I don't think they would diagnose you with a trip to the seaside, at least not based on what I’ve read.”
You swivel on your stool to face him. “Oh no? Then what would I have been prescribed, Dr Bridgerton?” you jest, leaning your chin on your hand and arching a challenging brow. But you don't miss how his pupils dilate a fraction as you address him such.
He turns towards you with a laconic smile. “You likely would have been prescribed a course of pelvic stimulations.”
You are glad you hadn't taken another bite of dinner, as you would have sprayed him with food with that spit take.
“What?!? No!” you laugh incredulously.
“Don't believe me? Go look,” he challenges, gesturing to the book on the coffee table.
“So… Is that what I think it is? Women would literally be told, medically, to masturbate?” you giggle, disbelieving.
“Oh no,” he corrects. “You wouldn't do it; the doctor would.”
“What the…??”
“Yup… ‘to alleviate the female hysterics’,” he chimes, affecting an old-timely announcer voice.
“With what?” you ponder aloud, still utterly perplexed.
“Hands, I would assume,” he breezes. “Why? Would you like a helping hand?” he winks, wiggling his eyebrows comically.
“I mean….” you trail off, still laughing but feeling a tiny buzz between your legs at the idea. “I'm not going to say no… Doctor Bridgerton,” you banter back.
Benedict puts down his fork, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows his bite of food and turns slowly towards you, an enigmatic glint in his eye.
“Well, now, you will need a thorough medical examination before I can determine if such a prescription is even the correct one,” he throws out, still with a jovial air, but the dropped octave is decidedly suggestive.
“How long until I can get an appointment?” you shoot back, feeling the atmosphere in the room shift, the dynamic between you playful but with a definite undercurrent of heat now.
“The doctor is always in… for you,” he answers, a hand landing heavily on your knee. “If you are ready, please go wait in the exam room,” Benedict responds, signalling to the sofa, that hand squeezing slightly. “The doctor can be right with you.”
You giggle and shoot him a ‘Are we really doing this?’ look. When he nods, you wiggle off the stool and drift over to the sectional as he disappears down the hallway, your half-eaten dinners now very much abandoned. Little butterflies in your stomach as you perch, eagerly awaiting his return.
When he re-enters the room, you almost forget how to breathe. He has obviously raided his flatmate's room and come out wearing a white doctor’s overcoat, his shapely calves bare beneath the hem, a stethoscope slung casually around his shoulders. He has also dug out his reading glasses to complete the look. He is so utterly convincing you don't know what to think, except…. Oh fuck yes.
“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n,” he greets, stepping effortlessly into the roleplay. “I'm Dr Bridgerton. Tell me, what ails you today?”
He sits on the coffee table right in front of you, looking at you expectantly for your response.
“Hello, doctor,” you begin, stilted, still a little discombobulated by his appearance and how utterly aroused you are by it. “I… I am overworked in my job and don't know the best way to relieve the stress I feel….”
“Well, I am sorry to hear that. Let us do a basic examination so I can rule out any possible physical ailments and go from there.” Before you can respond, he produces disposable gloves from his overcoat pocket and snaps them on, your tummy fluttering at the sight of them pulling taunt around his long fingers.
Oh, he means it.
He leans in, his hands cupping your jaw, warm even through the latex. You whimper quietly, realising he is pretending to feel the lymph nodes beneath your ear for swelling. But he doesn't let go; he just stares you down, his eyes glittering in the lamp glow.
“Say ahhh,” he prompts.
You open your mouth instinctively, just like at the doctor’s. He pivots a hand so his thumb gently presses down on your tongue as he peers into your mouth.
“Hmm, I see no evidence of an oral infection. But I should check via other means too, to be thorough,” he murmurs, pupils dilating as you cheekily close your lips around his thumb and suck on it suggestively. The powdery flavour on the glove somehow just heightens the heat you feel spreading inside.
“Behave please, Miss,” he rebukes, but his actions say otherwise - extracting his thumb and trailing your saliva in a line down over your chin, your neck, resting it in your suprasternal notch as his fingers curl around your neck and tug you towards him.
His kiss is deep and breathtaking. His tongue unfurls into your mouth and probes yours as if this, too, is a thorough examination. You follow his lead, letting him dictate the terms, wanting to follow wherever he is going with this.
“I think we can rule out anything in your mouth being the problem,” he opines drolly over your lips.
“Thank you, doctor,” you respond coquettish.
“Let me listen to your lungs to ensure there are no respiratory problems. Remove your clothing, please,” he orders brusquely, sitting back.
“All of it?” you inhale sharply.
“I suppose just your top for now,” he revises, looking a tad impatient.
When you whip off the top to reveal you are without a bra, his eyes flash, and the tip of his tongue pokes out as your nipples pebble in the cool air of the room. A wave of something behind your ribs as he unfurls the stethoscope from around his neck and places it in his ears.
“Please keep your hands at your sides at all times. And beware, this may be cold,” he warns.
You squeak as the cool metal is placed onto the flesh above your left breast, your hands curling around the sofa edge by your thighs so you keep them as told.
“Breath in deeply for me,” he instructs, and you do, taking a deep inhale, feeling your body bloom with his proximity as his face squints in concentration. When he doesn't say exhale, you hold, unsure what else to do, your lungs feeling tight. It seems much longer than necessary. “And out”
He drags the bell over your sternum to the same spot on the right side.
“Again” he orders. You follow the instructions, taking a deep breath. “Hold it,” he alerts, as you start to feel the struggle for air. You do his bidding, feeling that trademark ache under your ribs under the exertion. “And release,” he instructs just as you want to disobey.
“Good,” he rumbles, “just one more.”
You pant lightly as he drags the scope down between your breasts, then jump as he presses it low into the sensitive spot where your ribs meet on your diaphragm.
“In and hold.”
As you do, he tilts forward and suddenly seizes a nipple between his teeth. You make a strangled noise in your closed mouth, a zipping thrill right down to your clit. The surprise makes air escape out your nose, fingers grasping the cushion.
“No,” he gruffs into your breast, not looking up at you. “I told you to hold. You hold your breath until I say you can release,” he lectures. “Now breath in and hold it,” his voice taking on a steely edge that makes your pussy constrict.
Wordlessly, you do as told, and this time, he swaps to your other nipple, biting down, then lathing with his hot tongue as you struggle—tight lungs, intense pressure behind your cheeks. The thronging pleasure around where he teases you makes it an almost impossible task; starting to struggle a little, your body twitching, fingers and toes flexing.
“Let it out,” he permits, and you open your mouth, the air escaping in a loud ‘pahhhh’ sound.
“Well, I think your lungs sound very healthy,” he breezes nonchalantly as if this is just how a doctor does an exam.
“That’s good,” you defer to his faux expertise even as you feel his saliva drying on your areola.
“Now, let's test your heart,” he proceeds, pulling the stethoscope from his ears so it rests around his neck. “Remove the rest of your clothing now, please, Miss.”
“Is that strictly necessary, doctor? Just to listen to my heart?” you waver, even as your hands go to the ties at your waistband.
“I am the doctor here, am I not?” he counters, raising a brow.
“Yes,” you demure, a pulse around your clit at how thoroughly he inhabits this role.
“You may find it easier to stand,” he chuckles as he watches you shuffling, struggling to remove your bottoms while seated.
So you do as he suggests, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin around your belly button as you push the loose jersey material over the swell of your hips. He growls at the other surprise lurking—you wear no underwear, your bare slit inches from his face as the clothing pools around your feet, now utterly naked.
“Is this okay, doctor?” you simper, looking down at him sitting on the coffee table as he finally tilts his head to look at your face.
“Lay down on the exam table,” he commands, his pointer finger jabbing towards the chaise.
“Make me…”
Your tongue rebels before your brain can engage, wanting to see how much he will take control if you act out. He springs to his feet, towering over you, inches from you, and grasps the nape of your neck, forcing you to look up at him.
“Are you questioning my methods?” he interrogates, his hold strong but not hurting.
Oh, yes, Benedict, well done.
“No, Doctor,” you simper, attempting to look innocent but knowing your eyes must be fully dilated by now, distracted by the pulse you see in his throat.
“I need to be very thorough before I can diagnose you accurately, Miss,” he cautions. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Good. Now lay down,” he instructs brusquely, releasing his grip.
You drop to the sofa and lay out for him, a thrill zipping over your skin. He places a large cushion beneath your neck and head so you are tilted up and can see down the plain of your naked body.
“Now be very still and be very quiet. Keep your hands at your sides. Whatever I do to you is to ensure your heart is healthy. Do you understand me?” he tutors, his eyes roaming your body covetously.
“Yes, doctor,” you confirm, knowing your chest is rising and falling rapidly, the anticipation burning in your being.
He places the stethoscope directly over your heart and loops it back into his ears, the cool metal now a balm against your flushed skin.
“You have a good strong heartbeat,” he states casually, “But it is a little slow for my liking….”
His gloved hand loops around the leg closest to him and hauls it wide into his lap, your knee brushing a prominent bulge under the overcoat that makes your insides clench at the very thought of his cock.
“Stay still.”
His clipped reminder is delivered as he trails his fingertips along your inner thigh, his other hand still holding the stethoscope against your chest. Your breath stutters as his latex-covered fingers nudge your folds, already weeping.
“Well, I see there is certainly no problem with your ability to get aroused,” he intones smokily with a tantalising brush over your clit.
His moves are unrushed, his touch maddeningly light, not nearly enough, barely a glance over your soaked flesh, making you ache for more. After a few moments, you whine and defiantly attempt to push into his touch.
“Did I not tell you to be still and quiet?” he arches an eyebrow, and you pout but still yourself and fold your lips inwards under your teeth. “That’s better. Now let's see what happens when I….”
He expertly plunges two long fingers into your pussy, your arousal leaking over his gloves as he does so. He hisses his approval at your heated cling, pushing deep as you swallow your gasp, biting your lip to prevent any more sound from escaping. His fingers hook, and his wrist twists in slow corkscrew turns, dragging thoroughly over your walls as if giving you an internal exam. You crave more: more fingers, movement, friction, more of anything, your fingernails scratching against the fibres of the sofa, keeping them at your sides as told, even as you itch to grab his wrist and direct his motions.
“Interesting,” he mutters, his fingers swirling slowly, probing inside as he drags the scope fractionally on your sternum.
You utter a silent curse, your body already quivering. The room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing and the sodden noise from between your legs as he leisurely rocks his gloved fingers into and out of your pussy, you suctioning around his knuckles, the stretch with each stroke making you want to beg for him to make you come.
“Your heart is definitely strong,” he declares, “but I think we need to put it to the test properly.”
His thumb presses onto your clit, and it's like a lightning bolt through your being. Something about the fact it's not his skin on yours lends an extra frisson. You can feel the warmth of his pad behind the latex barrier as he flicks against your swollen nub.
“More, please, Doctor Bridgerton, please,” you entreat desperately, attempting to tilt your pelvis to ride his hand.
He groans at your use of his name, not chastising you for vocalising. His rigid cock brushes your knee held in his lap as he surges his hips fractionally, your legs spread obscenely wide as he finger fucks you, his stethoscope leaving a circular imprint on your chest, almost bearing his weight into your skin. God help you both if his flatmate cuts his night shift short.
“Your bpm is rising,” he reports as his fingers move faster, wringing filthy noises from your body now, pushing harder with every stroke, his thumb circling your clit with unerring pressure. You just moan a litany of ‘Dr Ben’, and ‘yes’ and ‘please don’t stop’ as you spiral higher.
“That's it, yes, that's what I like to hear,” he encourages, “it's like music.”
Even you can tell your heart is thumping now, hearing it loud in your own ears as the blood rushes to your head. Just as you are about to crest, he suddenly stops his ministrations and withdraws his fingers. You cry out as he rests the soaked glove on your lower belly, pressing down softly from the outside on that spot that aches for more, your own juices dripping down between your bum cheeks.
“Shhh shh,” he pacifies, the scope he still holds with his other hand feeling heavy on your flesh as his prideful gaze travels up your panting body, gleeful at his ability to do this to you.
You plead with your eyes as his eyes finally reach your face, silently asking him to finish.
“Wonderful, your heartbeat is so strong in my ears,” he sounds almost wistful, dreamy.
Your breathing slows, even as you feel the burn of an orgasm so denied, your pelvis throning, your clit painfully engorged.
“Hmm, let’s go again, shall we?” he smirks.
That’s all the warning you get before he plunges his fingers back inside, this time using three, the latex glove squeaking slightly around his palm. You scream and cant your body up off the sofa to the point he briefly lets go of the scope; his glove presses down on your diaphragm, forcing you back flat so you cannot ride his fingers like you want to.
“Please, doctor…” you beseech, voice reedy and wanton, uncaring about anything but being hurled over that divine edge.
“The more you ask, the less I am inclined to deliver,” he menaces. “I will just edge you all night and listen to your heart thumping so hard for me it sounds like it wants to break out from under your ribs.” he jerks the scope pointedly over your breastbone.
You close your eyes and bite your lip, resigning yourself to obey. That he might keep you on edge for so long, you cannot bear—you need to come like you need air.
His handsome face is smug as he once again probes your body from inside, almost experimenting based on the tiny whimpers you make. He jabs a spot that makes your entire body spasm, and a crooked, dangerous smile spreads over his features.
“Oh, look what we have found,” his chest resonant with pitch, the tone dark and sweet.
Once again, you beg silently, but he indulges in the tease. Tapping gently on the spot rather than rocking into it, a slow, gentle touch that makes every nerve jangle, like an itch you cannot scratch hard enough.
“I love to see you like this,” he admits breathily as he keeps us at that vexing pace. “So strung out and desperate to come. You would do anything I told you to right now, wouldn't you? If I just promised to let you over the edge.”
You are nodding vigorously before he even finishes his sentence, his triumphant expression almost galling if not for the desire writ large on his face.
“Good,” he snarls and starts to jab on that same spot. Desire roars fire in your veins, and you scream, your body trembling. He leans over and captures one of your nipples in his wet, warm mouth, and you scream again, uncaring what any of his neighbours may think.
You are dangling on the edge, reality bleeding into pleasure when once again he stops, and the noise that escapes your lungs is feral—a wretched groaning wail as an inferno licks around every edge of your being.
“Listen,” he growls, roughly yanking the tubes from his ear and placing them over yours. The noise is almost deafening, a thumping rhythm so fast it is virtually interpolating and looping upon itself. It's fascinating and life-affirming even as your body cries out, your clit pulsing in tempo with the thrumming beat. Greedily, he grabs them back and places them over his ears again, moving the bell to the right, his breath gusting hard.
“Touch yourself,” he orders gruffly.
It doesn't take moments for your hand to slide between your legs and catch your clit, a hardened, searing nub so wet you can hardly find grip and so distended it doesn't even feel like your body.
He leans possessively over you, a vein in his neck pulsing as he listens intently, his eyes pinging between your face, the scope on your naked chest and your hand between your legs, rubbing vigorously.
When his fingers sink back inside you, your knuckles cradled in his palm as you strum your clit, it hurtles you instantly over. You grasp his bicep as you crest the wave, your whole body held taught then snapping, shuddering and pulsing forcefully around his fingers as you tumble down that abyss, his stethoscope almost bruising your breastbone as you writhe, him singing your praises. You don't recall the next few moments, floating far away as everything is fuzzy, as if behind a gauzy filter.
“Oh, that was perfect,” he attests sotto voce as you return to yourself, shaking with tony aftershocks. “You should hear how alive your body sounds when you come like that. Fuck that was amazing…” he seems almost dazed, his fingers dormant inside you.
As he withdraws from you, you emit a mewl, overwrought and shaking from the intensity.
“Well, Miss,” he begins, slipping back into his roleplay. “I can say without a doubt you are very healthy, so no concern there. I can also tell your stress level is much lower now. Thus, I shall be prescribing you a minimum of two orgasms a day. Purely for your health, you understand,” he adds with a knowing smirk.
“Yes, doctor,” you nod drowsily, slurring slightly. “Should I administer them mysel…?”
“No,” he cuts in. “I'm afraid it requires a medical professional such as myself to ensure correct dosage,” his tone gravelly, snapping off the gloves from his hands, balling them up and tossing them aside. “You will need to see me morning and night for at least a month until I can properly assess whether the treatment plan is effective.”
“Yes, Doctor Bridgerton,” you purr sibilant, too strung out to do anything but languidly agree to everything he says.
As you go to close your legs, he grabs your kneecap, preventing you.
“Oh no, we are not done here,” he intones with a tinge of menace.
“No?” you stutter.
“No, I need to be very thorough,” he counters, his voice rich like velvet. His bare fingers trail ticklish patterns over the crease of your knee as he smiles perilously, enjoying keeping you on tenterhooks. “I am nowhere near done with your treatment for the day. You have only had one climax, and I do believe I said you need a minimum of two per day," he reminds you, his stare blistering.
You watch, almost stupified, as he removes the stethoscope and swivels to kneel between your legs, grabbing them and pushing them high and wide apart, the burning stretch along your inner thighs making you gasp.
“Now, are you going to do exactly what your doctor tells you to do this time?” he grills, his fingers digging into your flesh, his gaze intense.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Good,” the word resonates through his being as his hungry stare slips over your body, down between your legs. “Now I think you need something more substantial than fingers, don't you?” he smirks playfully.
“Please, yes, please, Doctor Bridgerton,” you implore, canting your breasts up towards him, your eyes covetously sliding down his body as he hovers over you. Your breath quickens when you see the clear outline of his cock bulging against the overcoat. Oh god, is he naked under there? The thought makes you clench again.
You raise your hands and tug at the collar of his overcoat until the first popper opens, revealing his constellation of freckles. When he doesn't stop you, emboldened, you pull again, each popper relenting, a larger slice of his naked torso revealed with each ping. By the time you are down to the last two, you see the trail of hair from beneath his belly button and moan.
“You have been naked this whole time, doctor?!” your voice hitching almost scratchy.
He grabs your hand away, pressing it into the cushion above your head as he bears you into the sofa with his weight, one of that last fastened poppers snagging cold metal against your swollen clit.
“I cannot ask my patients to be naked if I am not as well, surely?” he rumbles, hot in your ear, his warm chest covering yours. He grabs your other wrist and guides it to the same place. “Now, hold onto the cushion under your head and don't move your hands until I say so,” he orders, his smoulder turning lethal as you do as told.
He pulls up slightly and yanks the rest of the coat open, throwing it aside, giving you only a fleeting glance before surging his leaking, heated cock right over your slit.
“God, Ben, fuck me,” your errant internal monologue slips from your tongue before you can stop it.
“Who is Ben?” he quips duskily, rocking in a distracting manner, his tip glancing into your folds. “There is only Doctor Bridgerton here tonight.”
“Doctor Bridgerton,” you amend, fingers curling into the seam of the throw cushion, fighting the urge to grab him, “please fuck me.”
He smiles triumphantly and lowers himself over you so you are swamped by him.
“Well, as you asked so nicely…”
Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies
Dividers credit: @/firefly-graphics
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My Dearest
Pairing: Duke!Bucky Barnes x Lady!Reader (Regency Era AU — Bridgerton Inspired )
Summary: On the night of Lady Maximoff’s ball you find yourself in the gardens, troubled by your emotions. As if by fate, the rain pours down reuniting you with the one who is the very object of your troubles.
Word Count: 3k
Warning(s): heartbreak / angst / longing / implications of cheating / rejection / creative liberties for this era (yes I did do research, but bear with me if there are any inaccuracies in this piece of fiction 🤍) / PDA -> stays at a TV-14 level / a surprise cameo / female reader
a/n: This little piece has been in the works since I got into the Bridgerton series. Binge-watching the spinoff Queen Charlotte this weekend gave me the motivation to finish this piece. Thank you for reading! 🤍 Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!! ❤️
for ambiance 🌧️
Your fingertips poked at the surface of the water in the fountain. Unstemmed red carnations danced along the water to the rhythm of the ripples. The faint music of the ballroom was ever so slightly drowned out by the stream pouring from the fountain at the center of the garden. You were sitting on the edge of it, hoping to ease your nerves with some fresh air. You wished you had brought a coin with you to throw in the fountain and wish your worries away.
Wishes, however, were for children and the fairytales they believed in. You were no longer a child nor were you in a fairytale—much to your dismay. Your father made sure you knew of this, reminding you of your duties at every possibility. As the only child of the one and only Earl L/n, you were expected to marry into a higher status. Your mother, on the other hand, wished for you to marry for love and nothing more.
You thought you had found both—you almost had both.
Unfortunately, the one you truly desired broke your heart before he even fully had it. You pushed the thought of him away, for he was the very reason your emotions were an entangled mess.
You looked down at your ball gown, its baby blue color muted by the lack of lighting in the approach of nightfall. You tugged at the ends of it lightly, wanting nothing more than to be at home wearing your nightgown instead. One of your favorite romance novels in hand, basking in the warmth of the fireplace. You always dreamed of having your own happily ever after, and for a while, you thought you had. A love story any poet would be over the moon to muse over.
You were sadly mistaken.
A few droplets of rain plopped themselves onto your arm. You scanned the sky above you, the once royal blue evening turning a smoky grey. A clear sign it would soon start to rain. It was only a slight drizzle, making you realize a few of those fallen droplets weren’t from the clouds above, but from your very own eyes.
You couldn’t let the prince see you like this.
You rose from your spot and searched the garden for a place to compose yourself. In the near distance stood a greenhouse decorated with overgrown ivy, obstructing the view of the inside. A perfect place to hide away from your troubles and the rain.
You lifted the ends of your ball gown, making sure to not muddy or tear any part of it, as you made your way to the greenhouse. You stepped inside, immediately enamored with the various flora surrounding you. You knew Lady Maximoff treasured her garden, but never in your wildest dreams could you have conjured up the breathtaking view before you.
You strolled along the path, taking it all in. The rain started to come down in a pour, ridding any outside noise from coming through. Thus making it harder to hear the footsteps that were approaching you.
“ Y/n? My dearest, what are you doing here?” You froze in your spot, recognizing the voice of the one who broke your heart. You turned to see James Buchanan Barnes the Duke of Brooklyn standing a few feet away from you, drenched from head to toe. It seems he too was caught in the rain.
“ Your grace, my apologies. I did not know you were here. Please excuse me,” you attempted to remove yourself from the situation, but he wouldn’t let you. Stopping you by your hands, holding them delicately.
A frown overtook his features,“ Why do you address me so formally? Have we not grown past this?”
You swallowed hard, not wanting to dwell on this topic of conversation for long,“ We did, but like anything that grows, there comes a time when it withers. We have withered.”
You yanked yourself from his grasp, his mouth parting in disbelief, “ Y/n, what are you saying? Is this because of the prince? Have you indeed traded your love for me for the status he can bring you?” He threw the accusation in your face with such disdain you felt as though he had struck you.
A rage bubbled within you.
“ How dare you? Do you truly think so little of me? I would have given up the world for you. You, however, would never have done the same,” you turned to walk away again and he swiftly maneuvered his way in front of you, blocking your path. You felt tears prickle at your eyes, but you forced yourself not to cry in front of him.
“ I apologize. I did not mean to insult you. It is only that you have been so cold toward me lately, and I do not understand why. At tonight’s ball, all I wanted was to have you in my arms once more and instead, I had to stand there like a fool watching you dance with the prince. I left for the gardens when the incessant rumors of a marriage between you two were all anyone could talk about,” his eyes searched yours for an answer, resentfulness lacing his every word.
You looked down, not being able to meet his eyes, “ I do not have to justify myself to you. And those rumors. . .are not rumors. I believe the prince should propose any day now.” By the end of your sentence, you feigned what little confidence you had left and fixed your posture, ready to face James with a steady gaze. However, as soon as you met his eyes you found yourself taking a step back.
James looked at you like he had taken a bullet to the heart.
“ And what of us? My dearest, I do not understand what I have done wrong. Tell me, so that I may fix it. I cannot bear to lose you,” his hand reached for yours to pull you in closer. You side stepped his advances, his hand recoiling at your relentless rejection.
You took in a deep breath, a sigh escaping your lips,“ You already have. The moment you decided to entertain other women while claiming your heart was mine. I am the fool for believing your grace was honest about courting me.” Irritation crept its way back into your heart at the memory.
This caught his attention as he stared at you with a puzzled expression,“ Is that what this is about? Y/n, you must know that was merely for diplomacies—for business. ”
You bit the inside of your lip to refrain from insulting the man in front of you. “ Then that is what I was then, merely a means to a business transaction between you and my father. Did you think I would not find out? My father would have never invested in that mine of yours if it were not for him believing we were courting. It was no coincidence that as soon as the papers were signed you were seen with Lady Natasha alone in your home,” you paused for a moment, realizing you had raised your voice at James, causing you to take a deep breath before continuing, “ You should be grateful my father is not holding you to any responsibilities since he is now focused on assuring I become royalty.”
James’ fists were clenched at his sides,“ How could you doubt my honor? How could you ever doubt that my heart is anyone's but yours? My business with Lady Natasha is nothing but a misunderstanding. I swear on my honor.”
You scoffed, “ Your honor means nothing to me. Your reputation of being the most prolific Rake in town precedes you. I should have believed everyone when they warned me.” His lips formed a tight line, an impatience overtaking him, “ You should know by now my darling, I do not care what others whisper in the shadows. You are all I care about, and if that is what you truly think of me then—you wound me.”
You shook your head, ready to retaliate once more with your words when he swiftly made his way to you and held you by your shoulders. “ I love you. I am certain what fuels this frustration and hatred toward me is the love you feel for me,” his voice was gentle, his features softening. His eyes held you in your place, as your body longed to be closer to him. A mere touch and a part of you was already screaming at you to forgive him.
The two of you stood there for a moment, staring at each other’s eyes not saying a word. You had no strength to pull away from his grasp, “ Your heart will move on. It will find love in another,” your response was reduced to a whisper by the end. You weren’t sure if you were trying to comfort him or yourself with your words.
He shook his head, “ My dearest, the heart here has no say. I cannot say I love you with all my heart for it will one day stop beating. I love you with my entire soul, for my love for you will live on with it for all eternity. I am forever bound to you.” James’ declaration tugged at your heartstrings.
“James. . .” his name dropped from your lips in a pleading whisper. Whether that was for him to stop or keep going—you weren’t sure anymore. You were left speechless. Any protests or rebuttals that were initially in your mind were gone with one declaration. He pulled you in closer—if that were possible—and embraced you, planting a passionate kiss on your lips. You returned it with as much intensity.
You melted into each other, the reciprocated love burning into you. This one kiss ignited within you all of the feelings you were trying so desperately to extinguish. James tasted of wine and smelled of sandalwood, a combination you found strangely addicting.
One of James’ hands slipped down your back, your own gravitating to the nape of his neck. He pressed his body against yours, a small gasp escaped your lips allowing him to deepen the kiss. The continuous kisses he bestowed upon you grew needier by the minute. If his words weren’t getting through to you, he wanted to make sure his lips did.
His mouth moved down to your neck, continuing to show his devotion to you. Your body betrayed you as it leaned to the side giving him easier access. You held in a breath at the sensation. It was evident no one could make you feel the way James does.
This was the opposite of what you had been striving for these last few weeks. Your father made it clear to you how important it was for the family for you to rise to the status of a princess. The prince had been kind and charming, but he was no match for James. You knew there was no argument to be had with your father since now that a prince was interested in you, there was no way in hell he was going to accept a Duke as his son in law. You didn't care and figured that in time he would forgive you once he realized how in love James and you were. You hoped he would see what your mother saw and accept this path to your happiness.
That was before the incident.
A month ago you took a carriage ride to James’ home accompanied by your Lady’s maid Kate. The purpose of this escapade was to confide in James over your father’s intentions. Unbeknownst to you, his true intentions would be brought to light instead.
Your carriage was merely a block away when you spotted them. They were laughing as James’ footmen escorted both him and Lady Natasha inside. There was no one else in sight and no one else entering the home with them. This meant they were in there alone and unchaperoned. Only impatient lovers would resort to such means knowing a scandal could break out if they were caught.
You clutched at your chest, overwhelmed with the way it ached. You felt as though James had come up to you and ripped it out of your chest, exposing it to everyone to gawk and laugh at. To laugh at how stupid Lady Y/n had become in thinking the biggest Rake in town had truly, madly, and deeply fallen in love with her.
Kate took you in her arms and ordered the coachmen to take the long way back home. You sat there, crying into her shoulder throughout the entire journey. You vowed that day to never fall for James’ charms ever again.
The memories of that day hit you full force and knocked the air out of you. Your body caught up to your brain and with as much strength as you could muster you pushed James off of you. He looked shaken by your reaction, staggering back almost tripping over a cluster of purple hyacinths.
With your anger at his betrayal still fueling you, you lifted your chin in the air and spoke your final words to him,“ You cannot water what has already withered and believe it will come back to life.”
You didn’t bother to look at him this time, knowing too well the expression on his face was one that would make your resolve crumble in an instant. You quickly turned and ran out of the greenhouse and back into the garden. The rain was still coming down in a pour, soaking you from head to toe. Tears were streaming down your face and the ends of your ball gown were now covered in mud. In spite of that, you continued to run to the furthest part of the garden closest to the carriages and farthest from Lady Maximoff’s manor.
You were yearning to be home—to be in your mother’s arms and bask in her comfort. To have Kate prepare you the warmest cup of tea and sugary scones to indulge in. Anything to remove the taste of wine and the smell of sandalwood that was now deeply imbedded into your senses. This in hopes to forget the events of tonight ever happened.
“ Miss Y/n, you are soaked to the brim, we must get you home. I shall fetch the Marchioness at once,” your coachman draped a blanket from the servant’s quarters over your shoulders and helped you into your carriage. You hugged it tightly against you as the coachman walked away to get your aunt, the Marchioness of Syracuse. You had completteley forgotten she was the one who accompanied you tonight. How were you going to explain your current state to her?
“ Miss Y/n?”
That voice—you know that voice. It belonged to the person you least wanted to see at this moment. A lady should never let a prince see her like this.
“ Your Highness, I beg of you not to look in the carriage. I was caught in the rain and I am not proper,” the door of the carriage was wide open, the prince’s emerald green attire coming into view. You angled your body so that he could only see the bottom half of your ball gown, hiding your face from him.
“ Your wish is my command, my lady,” he stood by the entry of the carriage facing froward, his side profile visible to you. Your shoulders relaxed, relieved he didn’t have to see you at your worst. His personal attendant was beside him, holding an umbrella above him to ensure his royal highness was not touched by the rain.
“ I must thank you for bestowing upon me the pleasure of dancing with you tonight. I regret we did not get to spend more time together. You looked absolutely breathtaking in your dress,” he complimented you, bringing a smile to your face. “ You flatter me, your Highness—thank you. I will make sure to not get caught in the rain next time, so that our dances may continue.” You made light of your situation, bringing out a soft chuckle from him.
“ No matter if there is rain. I would gladly charge right into the storm of it if it meant I could have you by my side,” he stated, a warmth overtaking your cheeks. Any flirtations coming from another man other than James were foreign to you and flustered you easily. James’ flirtations were inviting and expected, while others were far from it. They felt wrong to hear and to accept. In doing so, it was as if you were being disloyal to James.
You would have to keep reminding yourself there is nothing more to be disloyal to.
“ You’re too kind, your Highness. I am not sure it is worth catching an illness over this weather for a dance,” you responded, trying to keep your voice gentle and light. You didn’t want any negative emotions to take charge just yet. They could do so once you were in the privacy of your bedchambers.
“ For me it is. You are worth it, Miss Y/n,” the prince had never confessed his love to you, but with this sentence, it was clear his feelings toward you were much stronger than you had previously believed. Many proposals were given on attraction alone—to have a proposal based on love was the rarest of blessings.
You stilled in your seat, his words making your heart skip a beat. From the bottom of your heart it was clear to you, you were not in love with this man. Nonetheless, you thought, maybe in the future you would. Maybe if you tried hard enough your heart could move on even if your soul refused to.
“ Oh! Prince Loki, your highness, what a pleasure to see you here with my niece. . .” your aunt arrived just in time, saving you from having to respond. Your mind wandered off, your aunt’s voice and the prince’s getting lost in the background as they spoke to one another.
You draped the blanket over your head to cover the stream of tears that refused to stop flowing. If you pretended to be asleep than you could avoid all of your aunt’s pestering questions on where you had snuck off to while the prince was waiting for you.
No, you did not love Prince Loki.
Yes, you were in love with James Barnes the Duke of Brooklyn.
However, for the sake of a love lost along with fulfilling your duty, you would have to learn how to love another.
Rake: A rake is a 19th-century term for a womanizer or a man who flaunts their exploits with women and avoids any real romantic attachments.
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