Bridgerton X Female Reader - Tumblr Posts

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Why do I have the feeling I’m going to hate Eloise this season??

Can you write an image in which Benedict is obsessed with Y/N and is always looking for reasons to touch her. However, Y/N knows that when it comes to women, Benedict quickly gets what he wants... sex. She keeps him waiting and doesn’t sleep with him until the wedding day.

Obsessed with you | I

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x afab!reader

Synopsis: Ton's most eligible bachelor is obsessed with the mystery lady in silver, and would do anything to have her

Warning: Reader's mother has issues, scandalous family, last name Rose for convience, Benedict being a smug bastard, some regency class differences, cute Polin, cute kathony, minor non-con touching, smoking cigar, lots of teasing and ofcourse obsessive and possession behaviour. Might be toxic! Benedict but please he's a cutie.

Dearest gentle readers,

While for sure we have seen former Rake now Kate's beloved whipped husband, and Colin bridgerton who is so smitten with his dearest wife that it will not come forward a surprise if he hasn't set foot out in all these days, but Benedict bridgerton is neither whipped nor smitten, he is, as the poets would whisper, obsessed. It will be amusing to know who this mystery lady is, with her dazzling silver gown and piercing eyes, sharp enough as she carved the gentleman's heart out.

Benedict was a man for art and muse so forgive him if he got so obsessed with you, the real question was, how could he not ? You were the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, clad in your most dazzling blue dress that he wanted nothing but to take off.

" She exaggerates." Anthony pouted, he shouldn't know that he had but he's been pouting a lot lately, it's called 'kateffect'

" No, you've been domesticated brother, just admit it, Kate has tamed you." Colin peppered, sprawling down next to Anthony who greeted him with the most glaring glare.

" Like you're any better." Anthony smirked, setting his gaze on Benedict who read the index again.

" Penelope doesn't know her name ? " Benedict worried his jaw, looking between his brothers.

" I take that back, Penelope didn't exaggerate, you're really very much obsessed." Anthony remarked, Colin nodded.

" Oi, she would've known your mystery lady's full name and history but—"

" Don't complete that, I'll duel you."

" In the middle of a ball ? " Benedict laughed, eyes amused, Colin turned a crimson red.

" Rather tempting—"

" Oi! " Anthony raised his brow, his mouth curving in disdain, as Colin staggered away, leaving Anthony praying to lord behind like he was any better.

" Oh dear." Benedict smiled when once alone, thumb caressing the index, as if it was the mystery lady in silver blue gown, accused of taking away the gentleman's heart.

" Who are you ? " He whispered.

_

" Ma'am, would you like something else ? " Mrs. Turner asked once you were seated on your dressing, playing with several glassy bottles with colourful scenty substances.

" In yesterday's masquerade ball, I was dancing with a Bridgerton—" Mrs. Turner tutted softly," He's Benedict bridgerton, i assume."

" Yes, indeed, the only bachelor bridgerton boy of age." Mrs. Turner pulled the corset strings and you gasped, feeling your internals squeeze in the process.

You smiled, thinking about the way Benedict looked at you, all stars in his eyes.

" I..it is not my place miss but as your well wisher, i would say.." she worried her jaw.

" It's okay Mrs. Turner, you should speak your mind." You assured her, feeling her fingers stop at your back as she looked at your reflection in the mirror.

" Benedict bridgerton's a rake, unlike any other gentleman... he's known to engage women with class and wits...artists, musicians, and other dimplomacy that are odd amongst our sex."

" Oh." You nodded, feeling stupid enough to think those were meant for you, like they were of real affection.

" I wouldn't want you any harm, after your father's death and your inheritance affairs, you couldn't afford another scandal, for a good match—"

" My virtue should stay intact ? " You raised your chin, examining the stain of rose on your lips.

" Your sister was a good girl madam, so are you." Mrs. Turner smiled, her eyes crinkling with deepest concerns.

-

Benedict's eyes were searching for you everywhere, he has been waiting for you since so long. Despite anxious mamas forcing introductions and dances, he was looking only for you.

" Miss Rose." Benedict turned to see his sister in law, smiling a smirk, followed by her husband in tow.

" You wound me Pen, it's Benedict bridgerton! " He laughed, much to Colin's dismay.

" Oh well your mystery lady is Miss Rose, daughter of late Duke of Blair field and lady bloom." Colin was one step away from clapping.

" Wow." Benedict's mouth curved in a delightful 'o'.

" Oh well they are rather scandalous, her sister was rumoured to be not a virgin which deceased all of her prospects of marriages, her mother is rather protective of her."

" Pen, did I tell you how you're my favourite sister ? " Benedict perked his gaze towards the entrance, hoping for you to bless him.

" Don't let Eloise hear that." Colin said, outstretching his arm that Penelope held as they swirled between the crowd, laughing.

_

" You shall not be unchaperoned." Your mother had a faraway look in her eyes, her hand was trembling and you surged the desire to just hold it.

" I understand, mama." You bowed your head once, trying to forget the trembling of her hands.

" Don't engage in gossips dearest, better keep to yourself and..." She forgot what she was saying, her lips trembling along, you looked at Mrs. Turner with a pleading gaze.

" Ma'am, we must make haste." She simply said, your mother spared a glance to you, her mouth tightening around the corners.

" You look beautiful child." She looked away, you pretended not to see the tear that glistented down her cheek.

After securing yourself in the carriage, with your dress squeezing the life out you, you finally breathed.

" I envy Gissele." You said softly, caressing the uneven glittering fake diamonds.

" She would say the same." Mary mumbled, she was Mrs. Turner's daughter who rather got scolded every often for being too blunt. You liked her alot.

" Oh wouldn't it be so wonderful to just lay in bed, reading a book and wearing simple soft dresses." You perked up at the idea of a life like that, a simple homely cottage, filled with warmth and sweetness and books.

" But the society has it's own fun, look at you, pretty dresses, pretty shoes, and all those prince charming lords." Mary took your fan and mimicked the motion, you smiled.

" Well you could always borrow a dress, have some fun." Your eyes glinted, Mary shaked her head.

" C'mon." You grabbed her wrist, shaking them, up and down profusely.

" No, mama will kill me ! "

" But the fun ?! No one would know, they haven't seen me, they don't know me."

" Well i can't pretend to be you, what would happen if somebody caught us."

" Don't then, be yourself ! Mary Turner."

" Sounds like a bad idea." Mary said, her smile deceived her.

" Lord Turner of Riverdales, be their relative, no one hardly pays attention."

" Whistledown does." Mary narrowed her eyes, you looked out to make sure you haven't yet reached.

" Well she called me a mystery woman who apparantly took a gentleman's heart."

" Oh Mr. Bridgerton's a known gentleman." You scoffed at that, Mary's brow knitted together as she studied you.

" What ? He's a rake." You brushed the tingling away, feeling the way Benedict's gaze lingered on you, the way he twirled you around like you were the only real thing, the way he flushed and stumbled through his words, attempting to know absolutely anything about you.

" I highly doubt that, never heard anything about him."

" Presumably he has a longing for accomplised women." You finger quoted it with a scowl that was too unladylike, Mary bursted into fits of giggles.

" What ? " You poked her, she shaked with her guffaw, chortling in her way.

" You fancy him." She said, chuckling the ' him' away, you frowned deeply, heart leaping at the ton that was gathered outside lady Danbury's exquisite ball.

" Utter rubbish. Do you still want to have fun ? " You asked, Mary smiled.

_

Benedict gaze perked up when you and Mary stumbled through the ball, Mary was almost shaking and you were sure her clothes didn't fit much to you, you felt your back prickling with burning gaze and you turned.

" Told you he's a rake. Don't be friendly to him." You whispered to Mary who was about to run when Benedict dropped his conversation with lord White, swaggering towards you.

" What if he recognises you ? " She mumbled and your lower lip trembled, but that's not possible, your mask obscured your whole face except your lips and eyes and certainly he hadn't painted you in his mind, afterall he shouldn't be that obsessed.

" My lady." He bowed, his gaze locking in yours as he kissed the hand Mary very reluctantly gave him, he was amused when Mary mumbled a hasty greeting, her manners mimicked.

" You look exquisite, more than the ball itself." He was clearly flattered when Mary blinked hard, looking at you for help.

You rolled your eyes when Benedict too, looked at you with a similar pleading as Mary.

" Forgive me my lord, my lady is tired—"

" We haven't been introduced i remember, Benedict bridgerton." He grinned, he actually freaking grinned as Mary glanced at you with the corner of her eye.

" Lady Mariam Turner." She blurted it quickly, looking at you for approval, " A pleasure." Mary smiled, you nodded.

" Forgive me Mr. Bridgerton." You cleared your throat, Benedict's gaze penetrated through you, he was setting you on fire and you couldn't do anything but to burn.

" My lady is tired, you must excuse us." You felt your throat dry, your whole body withering when Benedict narrowed his eyes, lingering specifically on your lips and treading down slowly.

" Indeed, I must not keep you." He cocked his head to Mary, humming along as you strode past him. You were sure he only whispered the ' not ' out of curtsy.

_

" That was bloody brilliant ! " You giggled while Mary shaked her head, clutching her bossom. Your footsteps echoing in the abandoned corridor, stiffling back your giggles.

" That was bloody scary and I can't breathe." Mary heaved, her breath easing when you patted her back.

" Lady Mariam Turner." You teased, bumping your hip as Mary looked at you, gasping scandalously.

" Shut up. I almost died." Mary pulled her dress that sticked to her skin, trying to fan in some air.

" Do you think he recognised me ? " Your cheeks blazed at the heat of the memory of him, his teasing glances and amused smiles.

" I...I think it was rather amusing that we were messing up, did you see how I trembled? " Mary shaked her hand, as you laughed at the display.

" No, my lady." You said, once your giggles subsided, " You were exquisite."

Mary wacked your arm, her smile unable to hide through the twitch of her lips.

" So, shall we go home ? "

" Would you mind waiting in the carriage ? "

" Don't tell me—" Mary glared, you pouted with puppy eyes.

" Please, you know it's my only way."

" Smoking is bad." Mary declared, " and for men." She added grimly, you nodded along, grabbing her wrist.

" Please, please, please."

" Only if you give back my clothes, i miss them." She touched the soft cotton of her clothes that you were wearing, you perked up eagerly.

_

You took joy at the puffs of smoke that ridiculed the air, the night chill freezing it into clouds of silvery mist.

Mary was dozing off in the carriage until it was time to go home, so early arrival doesn't raise any questions and your mother fast asleep, her trembling lipped questions saved for the next day.

" I thought your lady was tired." You almost dropped your cigar, jumping up the swing as it creaked at sudden outburst.

" Don't drop it, i don't have any with me." His smile was too big and smug for his face, his nonchalance dripped as he took the swing opposite of you. You stared, for some reason cigar still burning in intricate yellow blazing circles, dropping to ashes.

" Forgive me my lord—" you just remembered you were no longer in Mary's clothes.

" That's the only line you grasped so far ? " Benedict leaned on his swing, catching your wrist as he dragged you to sit.

You sat down with a thud, swing jiggling with your weight as you processed his smile.

" I..." You stammered, flushing in heat as he inhaled you in, you were back in your clothes, the one you were supposed to wear. And Mary was right, you couldn't breathe.

" I would say you look beautiful, in everything, in anything..or—" in nothing.

" I should leave." You throat itched.

" Stay." He was soft, almost a whine, a plead.

" Please don't tell anyone." You tried your best persuading smile, it worked on Gissele all the time, your lips pouting and eyes shining with stars.

Benedict's mouth curved in a smile, he clicked his tongue as he attempted to speak but he found he couldn't. A pause, then—

" You love tormenting me, don't you ? " Benedict took the burning cigar from you, locking your eyes with his own as he brought it to his mouth, a sound escaped him as his lips curved around the warmness that belonged to you, he inhaled deeply.

" I don't know what you're talking about." You tore away you eyes from the erotic display of smoking, he hummed in a dry scoff.

" Ofcourse, you wouldn't." He offered the Cigar back, every word coated with sarcasm.

The breeze was so cold that you shivered, moon hanging low in the night sky and every star stared back, Sirius, Rigel, and all of them.

" I never meant to offend you." You took the cigar back, his fingers brushed, a electrifying wave rippling inside you, like the way he held your hand and danced with you in the masquerade ball.

You noticed his flexing but said nothing, heart beating too fast to be sane and alive.

" Miss Rose—" you gasped, how could he know your name, "—have you ever been kissed ? "

" I...Benedict..lord." you clamped your mouth shut, lips suddenly struck by a bolt as they buzzed.

He leaned as you felt your back touching the rope of swing, his face too close... would he kiss you ? Would it be as electrifying as the rest of his touches ? Would you survive it or simply burn like a pheonix ?

" It's okay, we would alot when we get married. " He took away the cigar and dropped it as it was so close to burn your skin, smiling all the while. Was that a proposal ?

" Go home, it's getting cold, Mrs-yet-to-be bridgerton." And he pressed his lips against your forehead, his smile caressing your heart.

Rigel's note 🪩: while I loved this idea especially the hilarious ' Benedict gets what he wants....sex ' but I needed to base it, so it doesn't come as pervy and non con as it might, to make it comfortable enough to write on my part, I have tried to break it into parts, this part is generally meet up and getting obsession with y/n ( no use in fic ) and other will be courting and marriage bliss. Gif not mine.

Obsessed with you 11

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x afab! reader

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

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

Dearest gentle readers,

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

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

The next morning...

" How was your evening ? "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While waiting for a caller...

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

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

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

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

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

The jokes weren't funny anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary deadpanned, sensing your dread, she tried again,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" We danced, only one time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Pleasant weather, is it not ? "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" I like to."

" Mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Should I call you Mrs.Bridgerton ? "

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

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

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

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

" Everyone knows that."

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

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

" I wished to make you a wedding gift."

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

" That's very kind of you."

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

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

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

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

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the language of flowers — part two, irises

warnings: more angst than part one which is great, also reader throwing stuff bc she’s a badass, and in character Anthony which is honestly more of a red flag than ooc Anthony but you love him anyway you nasty :)

word count: 1.4k (wow I impress myself sometimes)

author’s note: we love this part bc reader stands up for herself and Anthony is one major daddy issues boy.

read the other parts! — part one, daises | part three, peonies

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

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ii. 1804, iridaceae versicolor. irises, trust

Anthony paced the length of this study—which wasn’t all too large, but stress relieving nonetheless. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, a tempestuous mix of newfound worry and lingering doubts. Today marked one year, one year without his father, one year his mother was cast into a depressive state, one year since he had taken on the mantle of viscount, and become the father figure that his youngest siblings did not have.

It had been far too long since he had last spoken to you—days? Weeks? He had never gone so long without even seeing your face, and that was a stretch. He’d spent his last few months mourning, brooding, and perhaps being a tad overbearing on himself, but he had to, for the sake of his family’s honour, it’s prestige. 

There’s a sharp knock on his door, it’s most likely Colin or Daphne, who are frequent in irritating him. He makes no effort to open the door, and with a practiced gesture, he dips his quill into the inkwell, resuming his task of poring over the estate's financial matters. How often had his father sat here, absorbed in these very same calculations? A pang of longing pierces through him at the thought, his heart echoing the emptiness his father's absence had left behind.

Another knock.

It must be Colin, his eyes sparkling, attempting to irritate him once again. “I’ve got a job,” he snaps, “and I suggest you get one as well, one that does not involve vexing me at every given minute.”

The door creaks open, candlelight flickering over the stacks of leather bound tomes and haphazardly organized scrolls, casting lanky shadows over his face, playing upon the strong angles, highlighting the lines of exhaustion that marred his usually composed countenance. His normally impeccable attire was slightly disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through his hair in frustration, and his ink-stained fingers spoke of long hours spent in diligent work. He wasn’t in a position to meet anyone, much less usher yet another one of his young siblings out of his room.

“Oh, I vex you? Is that why you've been evading me like the plague?” Your presence was like a sudden burst of sunlight piercing through the storm clouds—startling, yet warmly welcomed. The quill slipped from his fingers as his eyes widened in surprise, locking onto your face, a vision that brought back a flood of memories and feelings he had attempted to suppress.

Your stormy eyes burned through his deep brown ones, and you crossed your hands across your chest. Your soft hair was tucked behind your ear, and your eyes were wide, as if staring directly into Anthony’s soul, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to become lost, to dream, and to gaze into them as if he was merely a boy again, holding you in his arms.

“Say something, Anthony! I’ve not seen you in weeks, properly, and you’ve barely held a conversation with anyone other than your butler, and frankly, I—” 

Anthony quickly wrapped you in a hug, burying his face in your shoulder, your cotton dress soft to the touch. He mumbles. “I missed you.” He can feel you stiffen, but soon gently relax into his arms.

“That is why I came,” you smile, and pull away, holding him at an arm’s distance. “Oh, and my brother is getting married. I wanted to invite you personally to the wedding.” Your oldest brother, twenty eight years of age, was getting married, Anthony recalled. He was, of course, to be the next Duke when your father inevitably passed.

Anthony rubbed his eyes. “My sisters will come, of course, but I may not be able to.” Your invitation was tempting, and the prospect of seeing you again filled Anthony with a mix of excitement and trepidation. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed you until this moment, when you walked in the door. But his responsibilities as the viscount weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he feared that leaving the estate at this crucial time might jeopardize his mother’s already precarious emotional situation.

"I wish I could attend, truly," Anthony replied with a hint of regret in his voice. "But with the estate's financial matters in such disarray, I can't afford to be away for long. I must attend to my duties here."

You frowned slightly, concern glazed across your soft, delicate features. "Anthony, you can't carry the burden of the entire estate on your own. There must be someone who can assist you, even for a short time."

"I've considered that," Anthony admitted, his mind aching from the internal struggle. "But finding someone trustworthy, capable, and knowledgeable enough to handle the estate's affairs is not an easy task. I fear leaving things in someone else's hands might cause more harm than good.”

You crossed your arms, frustration evident in your expression. "Anthony, you can't keep shutting yourself off from the world. Your family's honor and prestige won't matter if you run yourself into the ground!"

He takes a step back, feeling defensive under your stern gaze. "I am taking care of things. I'm doing what I need to do to ensure the estate's survival, which is all that matters to me, at this point in time."

"Are you?" you snap, your voice tinged with disappointment that Anthony could see etched in your face. "You've barely spoken to anyone, including me, for weeks. You're burying yourself in work, and for what? To prove some sort of point? That you’re fit to be the man of the house?"

"I don't have a choice," Anthony replied tersely. "As the viscount, it's my duty to oversee everything. And after losing my father, I can't afford to let anything else slip through my fingers."

"You can't live in the past, Anthony," you urged, taking a step closer to him. "Your father's gone, and while it's natural to mourn, you can't let grief consume you. Of course, you have responsibility—"

His jaw clenched, and he shot back, "Responsibility? What would you know of responsibility? You don't understand the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I can't just leave everything behind and go gallivanting off to weddings, like an immature child."

Pain flashed across your face, but Anthony was much too in his head to take a look at his surroundings. He continued, as if possessed by some spirit. “You’ve never had to work a day in your life. You’re spoiled, and the only thing your family has ever thought of doing for you is getting you married.” He spit. “So why don’t you worry about your responsibilities, and I’ll worry about mine.”

A single tear fell from your eye, and in that moment, Anthony wished he could take it all back, swallow the poison he had thrown at you so mercilessly. “I…” you bite your lip, and he wanted to take you in his arms, comfort you, and hold you.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m sorry for whatever sin I’ve done to have you treat me like this.” You quickly wipe your tears and rush to the door. Anthony wanted to stop you, to scream about how he didn’t mean any of the words he said.

You quickly turn around, revealing a bouquet of irises, the specific ones Anthony had commented on the last time he visited your estate. He could barely remember when. “By the way, I bought you flowers. I thought they’d cheer you up,” you retort, before throwing the delicately tied bunch of flowers straight to his head, hitting his nose.

The door slammed, and Anthony was once again left alone, only this time, he’d have done anything to bring you back. Slowly, the petals of the irises cascaded down onto the ground, fracturing the flowers, and Anthony noticed a small piece of paper.

The Guide for Flora for Debutantes: In the quaint world of botany, the charming iris blooms have long been regarded as symbolic emissaries of trust and faithfulness. Like an ancient scroll unraveling before our very eyes, the iris, with its alluring hues and delicate petals, unravels the story of steadfast devotion and allegiance. Just as an honest man's handshake vouches for his sincerity, the iris bestows its trust upon those who approach with an open heart and gentle touch, and a receiving of this gentle bloom from either gender discloses that the gifter trusts you with their whole heart. Its regal demeanor, reminiscent of a gallant knight in armor, instills in us the assurance that this flower is a beacon of loyalty and constancy.

Trust. You had trusted him, and what had he done with that? He’d tossed it away, and your gift had broken. Anthony wasn’t usually one for symbolism, but these broken irises were pretty damn apparent.

the language of flowers — part three, peonies

warnings: angst, less than usual though, and arguing between Anthony and reader bc what did we expect from our fav couple??

word count: 1.5k (im totally on a roll)

author’s note: hi pookies! anthony is a total charmer in this one, and it’s a bit rushed?? idk personally i feel like it’s really bad but whatevs i guess.

read previous parts! — part one, daises | part two, irises

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

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iii. 1807, paeonia lactiflora. peonies, regret

The sight of your second brother’s engagement ball should have put your heart at peace, and the familiar sight of the most eligible bachelors and debutantes dancing in the hall comforting, but today, strangely, was the opposite. Gold decor and soft yellow candlelight was one of the things most known to you, yet you were uneasy, glancing around the ballroom fervently, looking for something—someone—you desperately wanted to avoid.

Or perhaps it wasn’t strange at all. You knew precisely what was causing your nervous pacing, and it might have had something to do with the fact that your mother had invited her best friend, who just happened to be one Violet Bridgerton, and her children to your brother’s engagement ball.

You fiddle with the clasp of your bracelet unconsciously, and look up to see them. The ton’s perfect family, of course, the Bridgertons. And what made your heart pang even more was the sight of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton with a bouquet of flowers in his hand—peonies…?

Ever since that fateful argument in the dark-haired boy’s study, your contact had been limited to necessary formalities and a peculiar bouquet of peonies that mysteriously appeared on your doorstep each week, on Wednesday, without fail. Why Wednesdays, you truly had no idea, but he had made no effort to apologize to you, or do anything other than pretend everything was fine for the past two years, so instead, you had unintentionally gotten closer to the second Bridgerton brother, Benedict.

You quickly approached the latter, fingers twitching, head pounding, only to be intercepted by Anthony Bridgerton on a day you most certainly did not want to deal with his egotistical, narcissistic arse (you were being a bit too harsh, but of course, he deserved it). His typically confident and charismatic demeanor was on full display as he gracefully stepped in front of you, a smug smile playing on his lips.

“A pound for your thoughts, darling?” He held out his hand, as if attempting to offer a dance, perhaps in the only method he knew how. You ignored his hand, opting instead for a curt, chaste curtsy, and quickly righted yourself.

You bite the inside of your lip, restraining yourself from pinning this man to the ground and beating the life out of him. “Viscount Bridgerton,” you nod, your voice clipped. “What is the reason for you to talk to me? And, if I may ask, what are you doing here? Do you not have other responsibilities you must tend to, and as such, you are far too busy to gallivanting to weddings or engagement balls?” You sneer, referring to the last proper conversation the both of you had. One might even say that it could be regarded as less than a conversation.

“Why won’t you just let it go?” He sighs, exasperated. “I told you that my words were not true, so why are you holding this against me?” He gestures to the peonies in his hand. “I even brought—”

“Presents and flowers for the married couple-to-be will be placed on the table adjacent to the orchestra,” you say absentmindedly, waving your hands in that general direction.

He takes your wrist, a sudden heat feeling certainly enveloping you. “You know damn well what these flowers are,” he clenches his teeth. “What more do you desire from me? Would you like me begging for your forgiveness, at your feet, right here?”

Your eyes widen. “Do not do that, or I will make it my personal mission that I will never speak with you henceforth.” You bite your lip nervously. If Anthony truly does this, it would seem as though there had been something romantic between the two of you, which would be a nightmare to handle.

Anthony grinned. “Then why don’t you accept the flowers, and we can both get on with how we used to be, alright?” He seemed nervous, his eyes blinking far too rapidly, his fingers fiddling with his cufflinks and the lapel of his jacket.

“What?” You had thought it wasn’t possible for your eyes to widen further, but clearly, you were wrong. “How we were before? Do you even have the bloody idea how much your words hurt me?” Your words were quiet, but this was two years of rage ebbing inside you. You stuck a finger on his clothed chest, (regrettably, only to find rock hard muscle), and quickly pulled back.

“How did my words hurt you?” You looked at his face, of which pain was cast over. His eyes were looking at you as if you’d committed some grave deed, that he was responsible for.

The audacity of his question left you momentarily speechless. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself to keep your composure. "I don't believe it's necessary to discuss personal matters at a celebration, Viscount Bridgerton. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

In this moment, you were reminded of Anthony’s hand around your wrist, in the sense that he gripped it tightly and heaved you into a nearby hallway, his palm sweaty, and his eyes flashing with hints of both anger and annoyance. He placed you against the wall, breathing deeply, and his hands resting firmly on your hips.

“What is the meaning of this?” You snap. “What are you doing? It’s my brother’s engagement ball, and I do not have the mental capacity at this moment to deal with whatever plan you have concocted in your mind to try to win me back, or anything, alright?”

Anthony's eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration and sincerity evident in his gaze. "I'm not here to win you back with some grand gesture, if that's what you think," he replied, his voice a touch more gentle than before. "I'm here because I genuinely want to make amends, darling. I can't keep pretending that everything is alright with me, when it clearly isn't."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze, searching for any hint of sincerity. It was hard to believe that the man standing in front of you, who exuded confidence and charm to the outside world, was capable of admitting his mistakes and showing vulnerability.

"I've been carrying the weight of those words for two years," he continued, his voice earnest. "And I can't bear the thought of you holding onto that pain any longer. Pain caused because of me, and the fact that even a single tear shed your eye because of my carelessness is not something I can live with, do you understand? I…” he looks at you, inching closer, till your faces are merely inches apart. “I care for you, and I cannot have one more thought of you feeling this way due to my actions.”

You can smell his breath, and surprisingly, you don’t find a hint of whiskey, or any alcoholic substance that might have forced this long overdue confession out. Instead, you’re met with the familiar scent of citrus, and the musk of sandalwood from his body.

“Words have consequences, Anthony,” you say, sighing, “you cannot merely throw them around like knives and expect one not to be wounded.” 

Anthony's expression softened, and you could see genuine remorse in his eyes. He took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself, and his hands on your hips loosened their grip, becoming more tender. "You're right," he admitted, his voice laced with regret. "I've come to realize the weight of my words, the damage they've caused, and I can't undo the past, but I can try to right things now."

And suddenly, like someone, or something else was speaking for you, you said the words you’d been longing to say for the past two years. “I forgive you,” you say, smiling softly. “But just answer one question.”

“Yes?” His face is hopeful, his eyes sparkling and his demeanor lit up like you hadn’t seen before in a long while. “Ask me anything, whatever you need.”

You bite your lip. “Why did you send me peonies every week? And don’t try to lie to me, and say that it wasn’t you.” You look up into his eyes, finally about to ge the answer to the question plaguing you for the past two years.

Instead of nervousness, he stifled a chuckle. “I though you, queen of flowery symbolism, would understand. When you gave me the bouquet of irises, you had included a paragraph from a book, the guide for flowers, or something of the sort. I perused the book to see anything I could give you, and eventually chose peonies, for regret.”

Your face fell. “So you’d been apologizing all this time? And I was merely ignoring you?” You squeezed his hand tightly.

Anthony shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that we’re each other’s best friends again, and believe me, I am not letting you out of my sight.” He mischievously grinned before picking you up, just as he had all those years before, in his arms. “How does a cup of lemonade in the garden sound, darling?”

”Will I ever go to a garden without you carrying me in? Nevertheless, fine, alright.” You smiled against his biceps, finally at peace with both your restless heart and your yearning mind, in the arms of the man you loved all too much, and whom you had left all too long.

taglist: @misscaller06 !

I love your Anthony stories!

thank you!! this gives me so much validation <333

could i be added to the tag list for your anthony story? i’m excited to read the next one!

yes ofc !! thank you so much love <333

mind blurbs

I am such a slut for Anthony Bridgerton it is a problem

hi everyone! i’ve been writing an anthony bridgerton fic for a WHILE, and i needed someone to proofread and suggest some things for me. while this person would best be in the Bridgerton fandom, anybody can read it if they wish.

please dm me if you want to and thank you!

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."

★ summary — after his fathers death, anthony finds solace within an unexpected someone ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x sibling!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. mention of death, description of grief & death, teenage anthony being in shambles after edmunds death (rest his poor soul) ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.9k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. angst, so much angst. smidge of fluff, hurt/comfort? ★ authors note: anthony's story is actually so sad but i wanted to see more of how he dealt with everything and a deep dive onto what he felt of so... (also there are NOT enough anthony x sibling reader so here we are!!) ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ requests are open !!

Anthony had always believed that a profound sadness enveloped the body like a condecending fog, delving deep into the bones and clawing recklessly at the soul until it was a suffocating weight with no escape in sight. Yet now, as he stood amidst the bouts of chaos, he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, no frustration. Just a vast, empty numbness that swallowed his entire being whole.

It were as if the world around him came to a grinding halt, and he had stopped with them—unable to escape the grasp of the coldness trickling up upon his spine. It felt as if his physical body had been frozen, but consciously, he had not—a distant observer in a weary state of forgery. The sheer oddity of it all left him out of it; an unsettling sense that he was lost in a dream too overwhelming to even comprehend was vastly disheartening. It felt like... a storm, a thunderstorm brewing inside of him, circling through and around his every vein and nerve until it ceased to exist.

He can briefly reminisce, pinching himself over and over until his skin turned blotchy red and had grown irritated in the area. The pain was a sharp reminder to him that it was a futile attempt at an escape, that it was not just some dream that he could simply wake up from. Yet, it could not be; Anthony wanted nothing better to do than just refuse. Laugh at the servants that crowded him with questions that he could not answer—the questions that he should not be worrying about at his age.

Their voices seemed to be distorted in a way that Anthony could not quite make out—a dissonant chorus, overlapping under the distinct rushing and ringing in his own ears. It was as if it went in through one ear and out the other, like water through a funnel. None of it made sense, despite it being more than natural common sense. He still isn’t sure how he managed to even utter a single coherent word; Anthony couldn’t even hear himself over the cacophony that tumbled through his mind. He couldn’t hear himself over the concious noise that screamed in his head and translated all the way to his entire body until it was the only thing radiating through his pumping blood.

In the mix of what seemed to sound like if someone had put all the most horrid sounds a man could hear and mixed them all together, jumbled and overwhelming, he could faintly hear his mother. His poor mother, screaming and crying, the sound so haunting and raw that Anthony wishes he could never hear again in his life, yet it lingered upon him like an uninvited shadow in the corner of his room. Even when it was not presently there, when he was stuck alone at night, his siblings sent off to bed by the maids, his mother nowhere in his line of sight, did he stare at the ceiling of nothing—hearing those cries replaying in his head again and again and again. It’s as if he wanted himself to go mad and Anthony must say, he was very close to so.

But the sounds were only a singular part of his torment. Lord, have mercy on his miserable soul; nothing could’ve prepared him for the sights that awaited him, that he was forced to face by nothing but himself.

His mother sprawled across the staircase, a flurry of maids assisting her but to no avail. There was no ending to her constant misery, and for a brief moment, a moment that Anthony must regret, he wished that his mother had an off-switch so he could just stop it. For her sake or his, he couldn’t quite say. 

His siblings, on the other hand, were a mix of emotions that Anthony was not qualified to handle nor care for. Was that not what maids were for? Daphne cried silently, dabbing at her tears cascading down her cheeks that failed to subside. He silently wonders to himself how many tears a woman could cry before her very essence would be evaported, while Colin and Benedict, although undeniably upset, managed to hide away their sentiments, at least towards Anthony. Well, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear roll down Benedict’s face, but there was nothing he could say nor do about that except pat him on the back a couple of times as a comfort of sorts before he’s again whisked away to care for something he knew little about. He wasn’t prepared for this; he wasn’t qualified for this. He was just a child. 

At least the younger ones were mostly oblivious to the situation that had wrapped around the mourning family. They all gazed up at Anthony, more confused than upset, and he must think that they would wonder why all their older siblings suddenly all looked so remorseful, cloaked with grief, and their mother a distant entity that was soon regarded as unapproachable. In the recesses of his grief-sorrowed mind, a feeble thought flickered for a moment's notice: how, he pondered, for any way to describe the gravity of their weighted reality. Could he even explain to them? Shield them from the truth, or perhaps let them burden down the knowledge that would take away their youthful innocence as it had done for Anthony as well? He felt like an abonomibal creature for even thinking about it twice.

One in particular, suggested to be more curious than the others. Y/N, her name was. Her curiosity stood out like a sore thumb, perhaps like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but to wonder at how she seemed so upbeat despite the dark and grim reality that faced her angel of a soul. She didn’t ought to know the truth. Each time Anthony called for her, the name rolling off her tongue with gilded ease. These times, unlike others, a gentle plea was slowly woven upon his voice that could speak no more as he edged her away from the chaos with a simple “Get away from there.” or “Come over here, Y/N.” In these instances, he always sounded so diminished that Benedict would end up swooping in and picking her up for some other sort of entertainment that was not so utterly upsetting.

This night couldn't be any different.

The thunderclap erupted like a cannon shot in the wild—a deep, profound, and resonant roar that rattled the air around them, the windows shuddering with every harsh punch of wind. It was, perhaps, a night of sorrows. As the rain splattered upon the house as if it were a hose, the wind howling in the near distance. Anthony swears for a beat that he can faintly hear the rain-shooken birds finding solace in their chimney. He wishes that he were a bird; at least he would be able to have some place to find tranquility that was not just the dreadful drag of the house, each lamenting moment drowning all the cheeriness that once stood in this very place.

Anthony taps his quill absently upon the polished wood of his late father's table, the designs that were so intricate, swirling under his fingers like echoes of the past that he could no longer reach but yearned for. It must’ve taken months upon months to create it. He found enjoyment in running his sullen fingertips around the smoothness of the edges, a contrast to the jagged edges that traced along his heart. Anything that wasn’t entirely dejectful felt like a cruel mockery of how he felt.

It was late—far too late for anyone in the house to be up, him included. And yet, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to indulge in the luxury of being able to forget it all, even for a few fleeting moments. He had tried, laying upon his father's old bed in his old room, which smelled all too much like him, enveloping his entire being. A bittersweet waiver of worn fabric and a mixture of odd colognes and papers that had been burnt from days ago. It was haunting in a way that Anthony couldn’t quite place, as if his father were still next to him—an unseen presence, watching his every move. Every time he squinted his eyes shut, the image of his father in the garden flooded his mind, lying so freakishly still. It coursed through his thoughts. He had been well surrounded by vibrant blooms of the spring-induced flowers, which seemed much too cheerful under the circumstances, and Anthony disantely thinks if those were the flowers to be used for the funeral.

Those were no means to sleep, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He isn’t quite sure why he slips into his study rather than any other place for some sort of solitude. Anywhere would’ve been far better than his father's study; nonetheless, he finds himself sitting in the very same chair his father once sat in. Would he be proud? The words ring into his mind, digging as if it were like a tattoo within his brain. He had thought about it a select number of times over the course of a couple of days, yet the question remains unsolved. Anthony respected his father more than anyone else in his life, and putting words into his mouth that he could not say only made him feel bitter rather than better.

The silence is deafening—as if all of a sudden, the thoughts and ringing that took up his every moment had just chosen to dissapear. A harsh push back into reality is what Anthony would’ve guessed. 

Tap

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, knitting together to crease over his squinted eyes. The new, unfamiliar sound is something that he briefly wonders. He strains to listen for any hint of noise beyond the relentless screeching of the wind and the staccato rhythm of rain pellets up against the window, each drop intensifying as time dragged on. When there is nothing to hear to follow up with his thoughts, enveloping him in a wooful silence, Anthony, for a chilling interval, genuinely believes that he might be going insane. As far as-

Thump, thump.

He could no longer deny the truth that it was in fact, not his mere imagination. Anthony was more certain than the flourishing green of the grass outside the house that the sound echoing through the darkness was real and not just a byproduct of his sleepless night or the weight of horrors from the days that lay behind him pressing down upon his consciousness. He stands up willfully, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that was met with a creak reverberating from the old wood panels. The candle that he had lit for comfort wavers precariously, the flame teetering on the edge of extinction from the sudden movement. It is no longer than a mere count of seconds before the light flickered back to light, casting an ominous glow throughout the room.

“Hello?” 

Anthony was a bit ashamed to admit it, but his words wobbeled as he spoke. A mirror reflection of how he truly felt. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady and ground himself to the so little he had. The silence that he was met with was perhaps even more unnerving than before—not even a sinned whisper to break the heavy stillness.

“Who’s there?” He proclaims, this time louder, his voice firming itself as the time passed by cautiously slowly, like it was moving through sticky molasses. Anthony is a moment's reach away from venturing out of his study and investigating for himself, curiousity gnawing at him. It was soon deemed unnecessary when a familiar little head popped up from the right frame of the heavy wooden door, wild tufts of hair jutting out from all directions in a way that resembled . He can’t help but to let out a huff of relief when he notices that it is only Y/N and that he was, in fact, not crazy.

Relief then morphs into confusion within a snap of a finger. His eyebrows are met together again, except this time, not from any sort of paralyzing fear but in question. “Y/N, pray tell, what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour?” Anthony is quick to step away from his desk, taking 3 large steps towards the younger sibling, looking down upon the half-shamed, half-curious look that had crossed her face.

He shook his head yet, bent down far enough to pick the little girl into her arms. She doesn’t protest, instead, nestling herself into his bigger body as if she were seeking some sort of comfort that Anthony could not find in himself to give. He had never been the best at offering solace to other people, nor himself, and especially not now, when his own heart felt too dim and restless to share.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbles, the words lost into the warm crook of Anthony’s neck. He sets the little girl onto one of the chairs that had been meticulously placed in front of the tidied desk. As he stands, his gaze drifts upward to the Renaissance painting hanging on the wall, overlooking the study—an eye-striking masterpiece from an era long before either of them had taken their first breaths. In truth, Anthony wasn’t quite sure how they even managed to get their hands on such an exquisite masterpiece, but it had been his father's favorite painting, so he didn’t dare ask. Every time he turned to face it, the vibrant colors and intricate details felt like a worn ghost from the past, fluttering memories that stung with longing. The image reminded him far too vividly of his father, pulling him into a clouded reverie that soured his mood.

Anthony’s lips are pulled into a drifted frown, eyes gazing over to the uncurtained window where darkness stared back at him, reverberating how the moment felt of. He unknowingly presses his fingers up against his hair, as if he were to adjust how it looked, although he never quite cared for how his hair stood. Is it the storm that troubles you?” He questions meticulously, knowing how fidgety Y/N got during those periods of weather; she never seemed to be a big fan nor curious of it, rather burying herself into a bundle of blankets in pillows. “You have nothing to fear from it.” 

The girl tilts her head to one side, as if she were pondering her answer. There is a brief moment before she slowly shakes her head to the side. “A bit, I suppose.” She mumbles, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown, the silk fabric one that was cooling rather than heating her up. She always preferred the material. “But…” 

His eyebrow arches in surprise at the answer, a rumble of perplexity stirring inside of him as he pondered what could be bothering her at this time of night. “Then what might it be if it is not the storm?” his tone softening as he addressed his younger sister, the usual edge in his voice fading into something gentler than usual.

“I…” She lets out a soft exhale, as though she were afraid of saying it aloud to Anthony. It struck him as odd, as well; Y/N was always more open towards him than any of his siblings, although he never understood why. He never brought it up in conversation, simply accepting her willingness to share with him. “I was thinking of father.”

The words spill out hesitantly, and Y/N looks up at her brother in a way that he could only describe as ashamed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Anthony’s breath catches into his throat, a reflex that had become all too familiar in recent days. He runs a hand over his face, appearing more dismayed than ever. “Whatever for?” He asks cautiously, unable to help the bittersweet modulation that came along with the sentence.

Y/N looked down, legs swinging over the edge of the seat, the motion that was so kid-like, reminding Anthony of the innocence of his little sister, how he needed to protect her from the cruelty of the world. “I miss him.” She finally says, though not confidently as she usually had been, as though she had chosen her words carefully, placed diligently. “Where is he?”

Where is he?

The words chime in his head persistently, the sensation of a dagger being strung into his heart. Anthony swallows the hardening lump in his throat. He had been able to answer questions and answer to orders his entire life, and yet– this simple question, was enough for him to falter in his step. He could not just simply tell her, Oh yes, our father. He is dead. Because, well, she was a child, and at her young age, Anthony would not know of what death was. It was the furthest thing possible from what he would’ve thought of, and yet, this was Y/N’s truth. She had to face the ridicule of death, not even knowing what it was than a melancholic goodbye.

“He-” The word floundered in his mouth, unable to correlate the thoughts in his brain to the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s…” 

“Is he dead?”

Anthony almost chokes out a laugh, because what the fuck? Where did she learn of such? She was still so young; he didn’t get it. He was sure neither Colin nor Benedict would directly say it towards her, and Daphne wouldn’t have the heart to do so. None of the other children had much of a clue of what was going on, so it could not have been them either. “Y/N, I-” And yet, he is still unable to speak. He doesn’t know if it is because of the absurdity of the conversation, or if it really is the sleep deprivation messing with him, and if he’s being honest, Anthony doesn’t have it in him to care for the reason. Not when he had... this to worry about now.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” He’s unable to refrain from noticing the quiver in her lip as she spoke, albeit the even cadence. 

Anthony dips his head down, eyes gluing to the floor because he’s unable to look his sister in the eyes. Unable to break the news and her heart at all the same time. She loved Edmund dearly; she loved everyone dearly, and that was her problem. Letting go was always the hard part, for even just a couple of moments—how could she let go for an eternity? Y/N is far from stupid though, and she’s quick to get the message. She too, looks away, this time to somewhere that Anthony can’t quite place. Her eyes are distant, as if she were not there presently, and it scared him a great deal.

“Are you sad?” Y/N inquired, the question so basic yet so meaningful for Anthony, and he can feel the strings tugging at his heart. It’s almost laughable to him; a young child who barely understood the severity of the situation, was the first one to ask him about how he felt. Not his siblings, not the maids, not the butlers, and certainly not his mother. No one doubted him, and while Anthony knew his family cared for him deeply, it underwent as if no one really did. 

“I suppose I am, yes.” He answers honestly, given that he was tired of lying to himself and others. And well, he was sure Y/N would figure it out eventually. 

“It’s okay to be sad.” She whispers gently, her head inclining to the left, and then up to meet Anthony’s gaze. For a brief period of a second, he wonders if she could read him that well. If she could see right through his facade, and knew what he needed to hear to the brink. He refused to acknowledge it, but he was aware that the words had some sort of effect on him. In a manner that had hardly ever moved him before. 

He can do nothing but nod slowly, hesitant to speak upon the matter at hand. "You truly ought to be sleeping, Y/N.” Anthony breathes out, pressing his hand against his subdued jawline, an uneven beard already beginning to form from the days he hadn’t shaved. It was the only response he could come up with, the only response he could say without directly speaking on the matter. 

Y/N bounces up, and off of the chair, landing on her two feet that were padded with socks that went up to her knees. Her favorite pair that she refused to let go of despite the many holes that had broken into the fabric. She stood much shorter than Anthony, still in the very early stages of growth. “Maybe you would be less sad if you talked.” She states woefully, her eyes holding only the sincerest of truths to the point where even Anthony knew that she did not lie. 

“I’ll be okay.” Is his respondance, his words cutting sharp into the heavy air that had filled the room. Because deep down, Anthony knows that his sister is partially right, that he truly needed to talk to someone. The only problem that he now faced was his honor and the fighting fact that he had no one to talk to. “It will all be okay.”

It’s hard for him to even believe his own words. He hadn’t had a clue how Y/N, in all her young wisdom and pureness, could believe him either. In spite of what he thinks, she only agrees with him, already beginning to walk towards the door again, this time with Anthony trailing a meter behind her. He knows well enough to at least tuck her into bed this time, to make sure that she gets some proper rest for the day ahead, although there is hardly anything to do other than funeral planning, which she had no part in.

Before she managed to walk out, Anthony ruffled his sister's hair in affection, something they now both lacked tremendously. He wished upon those days when he was Y/N’s age, able to curl up in his mother's lap, or next to his father in his study, where none of these adult problems affected him and it was just pure bliss. A perception which he could no longer relish in at this point in time. 

“Will we talk tomorrow?” Y/N promptly solicits, something that Anthony could finally answer that wouldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sure of it.” Perhaps for the first time in days, it’s a truthful answer in what he regarded. He says it, not as an entire answer, but as a promise for himself, because although he could be the mouthful of things that his brothers had constantly reminded him about, he never truly broke his promises for those he loved. And as Anthony slips his way out of Y/N’s, his sister falling into a light slumber that he’s sure will keep her down for a number of hours at least. Her eyes fluttered with the weight of sleep, her breathing steadying as the rainfall began to die down during the late night turning into early morning. 

God, maybe he could finally get some much needed sleep.