Bridgerton Netflix - Tumblr Posts
BRIDGERTON | SEASON 1 (2020)
BRIDGERTON | SEASON 2 (2022)
BRIDGERTON | SEASON 2 (2022)
PHOEBE DYNEVOR as DAPHNE BASSET | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 2 (2022)
BRIDGERTON | SEASON 2 (2022)
NICOLA COUGHLAN as PENELOPE FEATHERINGTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 2 (2022)
LUKE NEWTON as COLIN BRIDGERTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 2 (2022)
LUKE THOMPSON as BENEDICT BRIDGERTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 2 (2022)
LUKE THOMPSON as BENEDICT BRIDGERTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 1 (2020)
BRIDGERTON | SEASON 2 (2022)
SIMONE ASHLEY as LADY KATE BRIDGERTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 2 (2022)
LUKE THOMPSON as BENEDICT BRIDGERTON | BRIDGERTON: SEASON 1 (2020)
Alone Together // Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader
Summary: Some portraits are meant for private eyes.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.0k
Warnings: Smut. Minors, DNI. NSFW. My first attempt at full on smut. Oh lord.
Quick Links : Masterlist ; Request Guidelines
Benedict Bridgerton had learned several lessons about married life. He never wrote them down in fear of being chastised by his brothers about the way his marriage functioned, though he found relief in knowing that a structure had fallen into place that felt comfortable, realistic, and loving.
After all, that was what he wanted from a marriage where the decision to unite was made fairly quickly.
The first lesson Benedict had learned was that the space you both shared was not meant to be separated. Sure, he had a study that he used for work that had been designated as "Benedict's study," but you were never not allowed in. He couldn't count the times the desk had been christened or the sofa, or the bookcase. The first few months of marriage had been very eventful.
The second lesson that he had learned was you were not the woman he had been told he was going to marry. Society had told him to marry a woman who was reserved, knew the distinction between gender roles, and kept an average life–similar to how he saw Daphne fill her role as Duchess. Granted his sister was far from a dainty lady, she had made a staunch effort to become one. Much to his satisfaction, you were not going to fill those expectations. You had hobbies, liked discussing the world with Colin, hated playing the Piano Forte, and were absolutely enthusiastic about Benedict continuing his passion of art. There was never a time that you did not give him a critique of his work, or give him inspiration for a new piece... even if those would never see another pair of eyes.
The third lesson of marriage that led Benedict to believe this was the best situation he could ever find himself in was the honest that fell between you both. He never felt he had to walk on eggshells, and you never believed that you had to keep emotions reserved for the sake of marital longevity. If you disagreed with an action he made, he knew about it. If he did not enjoy the presence of one of your friends, you told him about their arrival far before they had agreed to make the trip to London. Everything was easy, even when it wasn't.
He had met his life match with you. Therefore when he sat in his study late at night with the fireplace lit and candles lining the mantel, he drew freely with thoughts of contentment flowing in his mind. Few worries plagued his creative brain.
There was one source of tension, however, that grew nearly nightly in the Bridgerton household helmed by Benedict: the man never went to bed at a reasonable hour.
Benedict would sketch and sketch and sketch the moment he was filled with inspiration. It did not matter if it was breaking dawn, he would not sleep until he was relatively satisfied with a sketch that would propel him into inspiration after his next sleep. You, on the other hand, waited, waited, and waited for your husband to come to bed nearly nightly. You would lie there, staring at the vaulted ceiling and the moonlight trickling through the curtains in thin strips across the light walls; with every movement of the space oddity, no reflection of light deterred Benedict in the room below your bedroom.
With a huff of subtle annoyance, you rose from bed, searching in the dark for your chiffon robe before giving up and lighting a candle. You hadn't wanted to waste a perfectly new wax, but it was worth it to get the man you loved back into bed. The door from the bedroom echoed a creek down the small hall, lingering by the steps before making its descent into the quiet home that was far too dark to make out any figure against the floor. The steps were cold against your feet as you made the trek, slowly taking the steps with one foot in front of the other while the small light from the candle helped you see.
Each creek drove you closer to the destination. Its door was shut, a soft orange glow emitting from the small crack at the bottom—heat from the fireplace igniting the floor in warmth just beyond its reach. With a careful knock, two knuckles jutted hard against the wood before you turned the cool, golden handle. The man of the hour was lounging in a chair across from his desk, casually draping one arm around the back of it as the other sketched quickly in his sketchbook.
Based on his current position, you believed he hadn’t heard the soft knocks or the door open. His attention solely focused on his work, the unruly tussles of hair or relaxed shoulders neglected to flinch at the sound of the candlestick being set carefully upon the fireplace’s mantle. You moved toward him as he lounged on chair, a finger tracing the ornate decoration of its edge as your presence was surely felt then. Crouching down behind its back, your negligée and it’s silk vestment pooled around you as elegant as possible and Benedict sighed heavily as soon as your intoxicating scent reached his nose.
“It’s quite awful, don’t you think?”
He was talking about his drawing, though your attention was set on him. Your head resting against the back of the chair, you had a perfect position to admire his profile. In his element, Benedict was glowing with the soft, near-yellow light of the room. His judgement of his piece crafting a crease in his brow line, a slight frown on his perfect mouth.
“Whatever you choose to draw, Mr. Bridgerton, is the most spectacular piece of art I’ve ever seen.” Your smile couldn’t divert his attention, neither could the fingers from your right hand coming to run through the bottom of his hair.
“You only say that because you’re my wife. It’s hideous. Look at the hands! My gods they look absolutely ghastly.”
“Ghastly… perhaps that is a proper indication of a day spent? It is well beyond a descent bedtime and I’ve been waiting.”
Whatever you could have implied by the simplicity of stating you were ‘waiting,’ Benedict’s head popped up comically as he glanced to the side and to the clock on the mantle. Very well past a proper bedtime and suddenly he realized it was the fourth time that month you’d come to gather him and his scattered mind for bed. The pad of paper, followed by the roll of the stick or charcoal, found itself quickly placed on the floor as he turned his head to yours.
“Darling—“
“All I ask is my husband to come to bed with me…” your voice was soft, soothing against his immediate thoughts of possible anger, resentment from you. “Your passions do not bother me in the slightest, Benedict. Though I would appreciate a husband who showed a little excitement in retiring to our room at night.”
“Do not think I do not want to sleep in the same bed with you, my dear, because I do. I am simply… stuck. That is all.” His offensive was sincere, which you knew to be true anyway. There was no vicious bone in Benedict Bridgerton’s body. He was all parts good of both Rupert and Violet, built into a man of great renown and artistry. Although you were exhausted, you couldn’t help but inquire about his problems.
“Stuck? How so?” Your husband sighed once more before grabbing the sketchbook, turning in his seat to show you. The pages he flipped through contained various portraits of Grosvenor Square, London, and believe it or not, his family.
“I do not see the problem, Benedict. These are beautifully done.”
“No, no. You see—“ he pointed to the lines of faces, hands that were imperfect to him. “It’s all wrong. I don’t have any inspiration.”
“Inspiration?”
“Yes. Nothing sparks an interest. I can draw my mother’s face one million times and no matter how it resolves itself, it’s always wrong.”
“And you wish to continue drawing your mother?” Immediately upon his confession of a ‘lack of inspiration,’ an idea popped in your quizzical little mind. Perhaps, if all were to go well, you both could end the evening—early morning rather—with multiple complaints and needs satisfied.
“What do you suppose I do? Lady Featherington just bought a dog! Do you think she’d let me sit with it for a bit? I’ve never drawn an animal like such before.” His eyes lit up at the idea, but you shook your head and stood from your position.
From the look in his eyes, Benedict could easily lie about his conflict regarding inspiration… you were a vision. A perfect amalgamation of his dream wife. From the color of your hair, the softness of your skin, the gentle touch of your hands, Benedict was enamored. Positively captured in the sight of you.
"Well, you've drawn birds before, as well as swans at the lake..." As you began your turn about the chair, Benedict could only watch the way your body moved. The languid, fluid lines of your arms–the one in question moved along the back of the chair until it met the air with grace. A posture near perfect, an illuminated glow against the outline of your face was angelic.
"May I draw you?" Your husband spoke with laced confidence. Inspiration truly struck when his muse was right in front of him. The slight perk in your chin and ghost of a smirk against the enchantment of the room.
"Draw me? Aren't you afraid of making me look like... well... I don't know... a sorrowful sow?"
"My dear–" Benedict took the opportunity to hastily rise from his seat and inch by inch, his presence was felt. The sensation of the tall man hovering behind you, the way one hand gently skimmed the small of your back before grasping and dipping too low on your hip. His other hand began with one long finger tracing your lightly covered arm.
Struck with an arrow shot by Cupid himself, Benedict was not going to let this fantasy escape the room unfulfilled. Was it not every artists dream to draw their lover with nothing but their eyes to witness both its sensuality and beauty.
"–not even on my worst days would you be anything less than magnificent... and, if I may be so bold, only my hands could do you justice." The feathering of his lips and hot breath against the shell of your ear was plenty enough to fulfill the reason you had made the trek to his study initially. It was true, however, his hands were the only ones who could do you justice not only on paper, but every unspoken place too.
"I suppose there is only question left to ask then." Your voice a mere octave of what it once was. Intoxicated by his sensual touch, Benedict unwrapped your soul as if he were the kindest devil you had ever met. "How do you want me, Mr. Bridgerton?"
Not a beat later, he replied:
"On the chaise, Mrs. Bridgerton."
And before you could move a step, his fingers tugged on the lace of your dressing gown.
"Without these."
His attraction to you and your body could be pushed aside for a moment while he dictated how you laid, the position of your head, arms, as well as gathering his materials onto the small table next to the chair. Pushing up the sleeves of his poet blouse, its deep neck and exposure of his arms were enough to brush those anxious thoughts away.
"Are you ready?"
His voice alerted your eyes to gaze at his face, not chest. An eyebrow raised expectantly waiting for your reply.
"Isn't that up to you?" Clearing his throat, Benedict nodded, adjusting his drawing pad once more.
"In that case, lie pretty and stay silent darling."
You needn't reply to his demand. However taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, the words made the hair on the back of your neck stand a little straighter than they had been before.
Then, he began.
The sounds that filled Benedict Bridgerton's study were the light cackling of the fire accompanied by the periodic jutting of a charcoal stick. From his position, Benedict focused on the nothing but the beauty before him. The way your eyes rarely left his own, allowing him to shamelessly stare at the parts of your body he worshiped in the privacy of your home. He considered the woman before him.
Soft features glowing from the yellow light. With the way your neck had been turned toward him, a muscle formed a perfect line to your collarbone that led to the swells of your breasts. Each flawless with pert nipples at their center, teasing his senses with a need reserved for him. Following them down toward your stomach, the space he loved to rest his head on in the early morning light before the chambermaids disrupted the private moments you shared together.
Under his gaze, you weren't ashamed. Benedict's careful dissection of you never allowed those feelings to surface. Positivity, embedded in praises for every inch of your skin was his church. Singing his blessings, his righteous sanctuary where he submerged himself with a beatified appetite. Cascading past his most amiable place of rest, your legs gave him only a hint of the place his whole being was aching to be. An unbelievable center of pleasure, its sheer exposure to the room sending endorphins to his brain to the precipice; the charcoal in his hand nearly crushed by an iron grip.
Then your right leg–the one that had been resting on top the other–moved barely an inch, sending his eyes back to your face where he knew his thoughts were heard even if they hadn't been spoken aloud. Benedict wavered not as your stare unraveled him now, both trying to ignore the sensations building.
A trivial growing tightness in his trousers, a light twitch and uncomfortable in his current position; the restrained, measured wanton feeling thriving in that pocket he so desperately wanted to devour.
Those ticking seconds felt as though they were hours lingering. Hand unmoving, model static against the fabric of the chaise; two sets of admiring eyes voicing much more than words could say.
"I love you."
Three words, forever yours from his lips. Benedict watched as your chest hitched, perhaps taken by surprise at the moment of his declaration.
"I love you too."
The most beautiful smile appeared on his face from a reply he had heard a thousand times. His wife, his forever home, answering his call with a sincere adoration he only wished for in his childhood dreams. A love like his parents now a reality in a home he built with you. Dropping the drawing stick onto the table and the pad of paper falling to the floor with grace, Benedict nearly launched himself out of the chair and toward you with a purpose. As you made time to sit up on your elbows, Benedict grasped the back of your head with both of his hands, planting his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.
The force of his body colliding with yours sent ripples down your spin, hands shooting up as his drip held you steady and latched themselves on his billowing shirt. The kiss was messy, teeth and tongues intertwining, sloppy, but all the same as passionate as ever. Benedict broke the kiss to pepper just as careless kisses on your jaw and neck, feeling your fingers fumble with his shirt when he moved to straddle your body.
“Just take the bloody thing off.” He mumbled, grabbing one of your hands in an effort to help pull it over his broad shoulders. Once flung onto the ground, your fingertips lightly trailed his torso to rest on the very edge of his trousers. With a quick grasp and pull, he trapped your body against the chaise with his own.
A heavy breath, Benedict lowered his mouth again as his hands began groping every part he could reach. “I cannot—“ a kiss below your ear, his hands tight on your sides; “—have you—“ a kiss with his teeth scraping the column of your neck, hands hovering lower towards your hips; “—as a model—“ another just above your breasts as his head dipped below your own, both of his hands now finding your thighs between his spread legs, and a swift movement with a slight separation of your bodies brought yours out and around his waist; “—because you drive me absolutely insane.”
Benedict’s pupils blown wide, his arousal evident against your growing wetness. As he descended back down, he ground into you with a fervor, sending a sound he loved out of your mouth from the very depths of your soul.
“If I knew—“ your breath hitched once more when he ignored your comments and latched his mouth onto your left breast. Taking his tip to mark the delicate skin, he swirled over the nipple with his tongue—to which you replied with the arch of your back and jutting of your hips. “—that posing for a portrait was all it would take to get you to devour me, I would have left bed much earlier.”
Benedict let go of your breast with a pop, looking up at you from his position. His look was absolutely sinful, taking a moment to find one of your hands and bringing it to his head of hair, encouraging you to rake through it, to pull if need be.
“You needn’t pose for a portrait to get me in bed. Your presence is more than enough. Now, if you’ll stop trying to make conversation, I’d very much like to fuck my wife.”
Even in his crudeness, Benedict managed to make it sound most appealing. Besides—you had dove off the deep end of lust minutes ago and no amount of boorish language would send you running in the other direction. A part of you enjoyed Benedict like that: in control, demanding. He was so kind and amenable that his inclination to be dominate in his artistic element was exciting.
“Your wife has all but one objection.”
“That is?” His eyes were half-lidded, fully intent on focusing his attention on your other breast as his hands moved back up to stroke your sides and brought your legs hitched around his waist. With a rotation of his hips, it sent your mind spinning. No objection sprouted, a breathless groan took its place.
“I’m waiting for your objection my dear.”
“Mhm, I-I-“
“I’ve rendered you speechless with a touch?” You could feel his smirk against your skin, his teeth grazing over the other nipple slowly before running his tongue, then mouth over it.
“Ben—“
“Oh it is Ben now? I’m afraid I have been neglecting you. I swore enacted a very similar situation not but a week ago.” While his mouth continued to work your chest, his hands caressed the remainder of your body. The hand he had encouraged you to latch in his hair pulled as his own began to trace alongside your inner thighs. Every inch growing closer to the spot where you wanted him most.
“Jesus Christ.” This was a mumble in partial exaggeration over his boasting of himself and the familiar undoing of his touch.
“My dear, I’m certain I’m not a prophet but if you’d like to call me that, I have no complaints.”
“My gods Benedict! Just take your trousers off and fuck me already!”
His lips stopped moving, along with his hands, and he looked up at you once more. Marginally shocked by your tone, Benedict saw the seriousness in your lustful face and did not need to be asked twice. Sitting up between your legs, he began unlacing his black trousers with his sight not on the laces, but on you.
“Do you know how bloody hot that was to hear you say that?” His voice was low, a rumble compared to his usual light tone. “That you, this beautiful creature before me—“ the laces undone, he moved backwards instead of forwards on the chaise, looking unabashedly at your exposed body before him, and laid against the other side; “—wants me to fuck her?” You couldn’t even shake your head. Your heart was pounding, blood in your head agonizingly bursting with a need so great only one action could sooth it.
“But I don’t want that now.”
You sat up quickly, the blood rushing almost making you dizzy and furrowed your brows at him. He had no right, husband or not, to get you all worked up and do nothing about it. It wasn’t fair, which was something you had established early on in your relationship. Equals in this partnership, in the home, even if the world didn’t do the same.
“What—“
“I want you to fuck me.” Oh.
It was something you had only done once before. Innocent before marriage, Benedict had awakened an entire side of you that had gone unnoticed. Therefore with every passing month of your union, the two of you had explored more options than once but comfort was always something he resigned to you. Anxiety over pleasing your husband was always a worry; ingrained in you since your initial social season had begun, the pleasure of the husband came first. With Benedict, he made clear that wasn’t going to pass under his roof.
And the position had been something that spurred an unknown power within you. You controlled it. The situation was yours, he was under you. Benedict may have had the reigns working you up, but he gladly handed them over when the time was right.
Bounding up from your position, your maneuvered yourself over his long legs and into his lap. Although the ties were undone, Benedict remained covered as he took your hands in his, intertwining their fingers and helping you into position. His actions were subconsciously made. No matter the circumstance, Benedict always strove to help make it easier for you.
“You are so marvelous like this.”
“Are you going to continue singing my praises or must I finish what you’ve started alone in bed?” Benedict’s cheeky smile made his eyes shine.
“You’re in charge now, my love.”
Humming a reply, you worked one hand out of his grasp and brought it down to your hip. An artist always had a fascination with hands, fingers, the sensual lines they drew. Benedict watched as the one he was no longer holding peppered the hair on his chest, drawing a line down to the edge of his trousers and threatening to go further with one, gentle swoop. Agonizingly slow, your hand worked at pulling the fabric down to which he gladly lifted his hips to help. And then he was free.
Under those heavy-lidded eyes, Benedict could barely function as your hand wrapped around him, squeezing and pumping meticulously, rhythmically. The sensation of your hand moving upwards, it’s thumb diverting to swipe at his tip, smearing the pre-cum that beaded from the top. Not working him for long, you rolled your hips along his length, the sensation of him against your wet slit sending a tremble through your body.
This was all you had thought about in the forty minutes he had been drawing you. Benedict would be lying if the moment you were laid in the perfect position he hadn’t thought of anything else either.
Lining him up, you sunk down with an astounded moan as his hands held tightly to you. The ones intertwined aching from the force of pleasure. The heat of the room growing against the flames of the hearth; a sheen of perspiration surfacing on each of your bodies while you continued to roll your hips, lifting up only to be brought back down and filled once more.
The sounds of staggered breaths, arranged separate from his own. "Benedict... Gods..." Your forehead came to rest upon his own; slim, manicured fingers gliding against his skull sending goosebumps rising on his skin. His curls were easy to grip in the evening, the temperature in the room encouraging them to loop.
There was no rush in your movements or his response. The unhurried movements making your hearts beat as fast as if you had been running a race, as gentle as intimacy could be. Lit by luminescence of fire, burning deep within you both, Benedict could feel the pressure building within you, within himself. During the first year of this marriage, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to read you as well as he wished. Now, as you near year two, he knew every sign; each breathless moan acting as a marker, the quiver of your fingers against the base of his neck where his shoulder began when your hands had been parted out of sheer need to hold onto something more sturdy.
"Come on, Love. Let go for me." Although your foreheads were resting against one another, you opened your eyes to his stormy blues so full of affection and adoration for you. Those feelings were reserved for you.
And you chased those feelings. The building, bottomless sensitivity that had been protected from your virginal mind per societies standards. The periodic sensations of you clenching around him threatened his demeanor in letting you fall apart first; your skin on fire beneath his fingertips. But you reached that end before he had a chance to lose his own. Your mouth going slack, eyes closing, and nails digging into the parts of him that you could grab.
Benedict watched your face which consigned him into his own oblivion ten seconds after your own. That utter intoxication, dazed euphoria that followed led you to both catching your breath and sluggish against one another. Benedict let you slump into his chest, his lower half still buried, softening inside of you, as he caressed your back gently.
If the chaise hadn't been digging into his back, he would have stayed like that forever. Content, happy in a blissful post-coitus for period of time.
"Did you truly sketch me or was your mind occupied with other thoughts?"
The coarse sound of your tired voice drew him back to reality. The fire dimming, signaling the end of one night and the early dawning of a new day in the household of Mr. and Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton. The sketchbook lie upside down with its leather cover pointing upwards instead of the drawing. He did draw you, though his confidence may have been fleeting when he claimed he could be the only one to capture your essence. Benedict's chronic sheepish response to his ability crept up on him.
"It is not as perfect as you deserve... I'll draw you at tea Sunday with Kate or Daphne instead." The softness of his tone couldn't cover the subconscious self-consciousness he had. You shook your head, sitting back up and lifting off of him. Immediately grabbing your robe, you made for the sketchbook against his vocal objections.
"No, please darling, it is not... the sketch is not..."
"Is not what Benedict? Finished? I care not if it is an outline of my eyebrow, it is still from your hand."
"It is not finished." The words came too late to protect his ego from the opinion of the person who motivated him more than life itself.
Delicate hands flipped the sketchbook over, feathering across its back. Your white silk covered body did nothing to distract him from your face. Not ten minutes ago it had been twisted in a sinful pleasure, now slightly wide-eyed and agape from the charcoal image before it. He tried to look away, but couldn't.
He cared about your opinion–no matter how stinging it may be.
"This is what you did in... forty minutes?"
"I told you it–"
"It's gorgeous, Ben."
Benedict's heart fluttered as his stomach did the moment he caught eyes with you across the ballroom floor two social seasons ago. A clichéd 'love at first sight' emotion that weaved its way into every inch of bone, every neuron of thought. Standing against the dying flame of his study, proclaiming his mere sketch a piece of art was gorgeous.
"Please do not lie about it because I am your husband."
"Have I ever lied to you about anything?" You let your eyes leave the paper, quirking a brow in his direction as he shuffled back into his trousers. In all honesty, you believed he captured your likeness as well as a mirror did. Perhaps more flattering than you thought yourself to even be. "You flatter me well with these lines."
"It is you who is diminishing the source of the materials beauty. Your lines are perfect. Your hair, eyes, and lips are perfect." Benedict approached you, taking the sketchbook away to throw it on the chair he had been drawing in.
"No drawing from my hand or another captures how lovely you are."
"You sure know how to make a woman swoon, Mr. Bridgerton."
"Only one matters."
Benedict was tall, towering over your figure as his arms wrapped around your shoulders and he placed a kiss on your forehead.
"I believe you had come to fetch me for bed..."
"Yes, well, I suppose the universe had other plans."
"Surely the bed has gone cold now... it would be a shame to leave it empty for the night." A dimpled smile emerged on his face at the suggestion. Benedict Bridgerton could be the two sides of the same coin, though this one, where he joked and prodded amusement with veiled hints at what he wanted to do in the privacy of your bedroom was your favorite. He could make you laugh, make you swoon, make you melt, but remain the man you so dearly loved.
"If only you'll lead the way, my dear husband."
"Anything for you, my dear wife."
Soap and Lilies
“He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, hoping it would clear his head. Instead, he simply got an intoxicating whiff of her scent, which was an odd combination of exotic lilies and sensible soap.”
I need more Simon basset in my life.
Bridgerton (2020-)
BOOK BRIDGERTON MEMES...it works for the series too but the book dynamic is different 😂
