#benedict bridgerton x female reader
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Author is always me on this blog: @daydreams-magic01 .
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Anthony Bridgerton
Female Reader
“With all due respect, I would rather face your wrath than my wife’s.”
Benedict Bridgerton
Female Reader
off to the races // benedict bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: the royal ascot races take a turn when Benedict pulls you under the grandstand and let’s his artistic hands wander.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader (Bridgerton)
Word Count: 4.4k
Warnings:smut. minors DNI.
Quick Links: Masterlist
It was hot––unseasonably so.
The grass that surrounded the royal ascot fields was sweltering. The bits of water that had yet to dry up in the heat trickled down each blade slowly; creeping down its green stem toward the brown earth to be swallowed and drank. And welcome it was. The earth drank it greedily—an attribute the sprinted summers London had been experiencing as of late.
You fanned yourself rapidly at the fact.
Conversations that excited the ton filled the air. Debutantes and seasoned women whispering about the newly minted diamond, the drama of their neighbors but certainly not their own households. Mamas held their daughter’s arms tightly, smiling boldly at each suitor as if screaming “the wealth is in our pocket, no one else’s.” However, at some point, wealth was only so important. It’s the attraction–as the water to the grass–that influences the longevity of a match; the lust and love that grows when two people combine their beings like magnets unable to separate.
Any woman would fan themselves at the prospect. If only every season guaranteed a match so worthy of passion–scandal would surely ensue even if the mind pursued impure thoughts.
Lifting a hand to your eyes, you shielded them from the sun as it beat down on you. The fan doing little to relieve the heat, the looks on other guests’ faces was a testament to that. Women with rosy cheeks, men adjusting their kerchief’s wound tightly against their necks; the smallest beads of sweat building their brows with a sheen only seen during these trivial seasons of matchmaking. From the Featherington’s to Sharma’s–the latter of which was taking the London weather swimmingly–each family unit gathered on the fields of the royal ascot races to find their purpose but you, you already knew yours.
Time, however, was not always on your side.
Fourth season, fourth. Your reputation was beginning to take a hit and the time spent ignoring men’s advances was beginning to cause more harm than good. No one wanted a tease anymore; they wanted a wife to secure them a lifetime of riches and when each offer was turned away, fewer callers arrived at your door and the sofas had settled with dust.
And finally, Anthony Bridgerton, after years of declining to find a wife, decided that he would join the social season to do such.
While the eyes lingered on Anthony–the famed Viscount who defined the term “rake,” the other Bridgerton brothers were left to celebrate their final years of freedom before marriage and commitment came to them. But unlike Anthony, you knew one brother had already declared his intentions. The right moment, nonetheless, had to wait after the Viscount found his Viscountess.
The Bridgerton family arrived at the crux between the high noon sun and the serving of the furtive snack–refreshing cucumber sandwiches, fruits, and most certainly champagne to flow. Debutantes fawned; sticking their gaze onto Anthony Bridgerton as if he were meat for the picking while he searched for the diamond Lady Whistledown had informed the ton he was willing to wed. In his stead, Violet Bridgerton held the arm of Colin, while Eloise and Benedict followed in tow.
The dew from the grass reminded you of Benedict–the sweet drink, forbidden fruit so delectable that even the most parched would not have enough after one sip. His top hat high, the light blue waistcoat, and mustard kerchief that made each inch of him mysterious yet welcoming; delighting the slightest waver in your heart as it ached for a touch. You thought, for a moment, to leave the group of women you had been in conversation with for a brief time before fate appeared before you.
Eloise Bridgerton, clad in her signature blue bloused gown and beige fascinator, met your eye and the spark in her step set the events of the early afternoon in motion. She gathered her skirts, motioning for you to take her arm for a stroll as she swept you away.
“I believe I have cracked Whistledown’s place of publishing.” She spoke low, but excitedly in a giddy manner. You had given audience to her scheming during Daphne’s season–Eloise not ready to enter society yet and found herself in a bind with the Queen. Knowing she could trust few, she took a liking to her brother’s oldest friend as a secret keeper. Although you were less than enthusiastic about discussing the possibility of the one who may be Whistledown’s physical form, the additional visits to and from the Bridgerton’s were enough to continue.
“Ah, surely you could tell from the paper quality, right?” You joked, not truly realizing the accuracy of the statement. Eloise’s eyes went wide.
“Yes! That is exactly so! Have you noticed as well?”
“No… I was only joking… surely paper is the same everywhere.” You laughed, patting Eloise’s arm as it was looped within your own.
“But it is not, you see?” The young Bridgerton took a pamphlet from her purse and handed it to you, telling you to feel the paper quality between your gloved fingers. You rolled your eyes but complied.
“It is just paper, Eloise. Is there not more pressing matters at the moment?” You stopped walking, turning to face her with your back toward the racetrack. “Tis the third week of the season and Whistledown has barely dipped their toe in the waters once more. Should we not enjoy the spectacle before things become… complicated?”
Eloise held her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked at you. Her eyes were judgmental, calculating in a way only Eloise’s could be. But she knew you were not Whistledown. Part of her early assessments were ruling out members of the ton who were close to her family in various ways–knowing that Anthony and Benedict’s activities would be far more detailed if you had written about them. You had been their friend for far too long to lose it over silly gossip.
“Do you not wish to take part in this anymore? Finding Lady Whistledown?”
“No, El… Sorry–” You chuckled nervously, patting your forehead with your white-gloved fingers. “I just find my mind wandering elsewhere.”
“Heavens, has a caller finally piqued your interests? You’re surely blushing.”
“Tis the heat, Eloise.”
“I have seen this look before! Daphne, Miss Edwina! Whistledown has not written a word either! How did you evade her, tell me so!”
“Eloise,please.” You scoffed, fanning yourself a bit more aggressively and keeping clear of her beady eyes. They pierced, just as all of her sibling’s eyes did. “Not all of us are completely consumed by the thoughts of a jealous woman.”
“No, perhaps not. But you are consumed with something far worse I fear.”
She continued to gaze at you, trying to figure out how the events of the previous season may have changed things. You avoided her stare by watching the people around you–filing toward the grandstand and jovially enjoying the summer festivities without a worry about Whistledown, reputation, or want. Beyond the hordes of Lords and Ladies making their way to their seats, the Bridgerton brothers stood in a circle talking to Will and Alice Mondrich. Benedict was smiling brightly at the boxer, Anthony’s attention was diverted, and Colin stood listening intently before joining his elder brother in laughter of Will’s joke.
And then he looked.
Benedict Bridgerton broke from the conversation and let his own eyes assess the crowd before landing on his sister and you–the ardent piece of his puzzle called life that had been lacking. For four seasons, his gaze met yours with a promise. A silent notion that once Anthony marries his Viscountess, the season will be his and yours for the taking–running with hands intertwined finally able to publicly proclaim the passion that had ensued for years. Afterall, there was a reason you had denied every caller that came flocking to your home.
There was something about the look on your face that drew him away from Alice, Will, Anthony, and Colin. The way you dabbed your forehead with the tips of your gloves; a strained, uncertain smile in the presence of Eloise. The qualities of a conversation gone sour, and his stomach turned at the possiblities. He had not read the latest Whistledown and he knew of Eloise’s endeavor, but the writer knew the darkest secrets of every soul in the ton and there was an urgency to find out why you had pulled that face.
You were hot; waiting and anxious as the feelings of lust in the summer heat began to overtake your proper mind with thoughts of hands roaming and breathless whispers. Perhaps Benedict could sense it to–the need to be together when society said it was improper. You needn’t care what the ton spoke in their callous phrases. No other man would worship your body beside the painter who sculpted the belief that you were a sensual, exquisite beauty.
Your mouth turned into a frown when he began making an urgent haste toward the two of you. Inside, your stomach was doing the same summersaults as Benedict’s–for a much different reason, however. The sweltering heat and the thought of being beside Benedict in a moment where your mind had already lingered to that unsavory place was itching. Every step and every stride brought him closer, begging to be swept away to an intimate cove.
The intrusion broke Eloise’s hardened gaze.
“Brother! To what do we owe this unwelcome addition?” Eloise gave Benedict a closed-lip smile and jested as she always had. Benedict nodded at Eloise before ignoring her completely. It made your heart beat a little faster. And somehow, in Eloise’s mind, she did not make the connection.
“I could see you pestering Y/n, Eloise.” He scolded but never looked at her. His crooked smile fluttered the butterflies who you thought died during the heat. “And I could see that while you lead her mind to boredom, Penelope Featherington sits waiting in the wings for your attention.”
Eloise took a second to glance beyond your shoulder, seeing Penelope wait patiently beside the white grandstand curtains for her. Sighing, Eloise slapped her brother’s arm with a scrunched nose.
“I shall see that this conversation is not over, Miss L/n! The search only continues!” She set off for Penelope without another glance and left you and Benedict alone.
Hesitated he did not, Benedict offered his arm and a twinkle in his eye.
“Care to promenade, Miss L/n?” You gladly took his arm.
“I’d thought you’d never ask, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Between the white tents the attention of others was limited. Needn’t the care of the Bridgerton spare and a woman who was nearing spinster-territory with each denial. Every stride you continued to fan yourself, breathing in deeply as the cool wind met your sticky skin and the grip on Benedict’s arm grew tighter. The man said nothing, waiting for you to breech the silence with a sparkling eye and wicked smile–he knew, he did. The two of you had been playing this game for years and it was reaching the threshold of inescapable need that could only be met with stolen glances, grazed fingers, and a rendezvous scandalous enough to bring shame to both your names.
“The weather is quite scorching is it not?” You broke the silence with a simple question that begged a deeper meaning.
“Very. Though, the weather is not the most torrid topic of the afternoon.”
“Do tell, Mr. Bridgerton, I am intrigued.” Yes, to keep your mind away from finding that secret cavern of ambiguity–a spot to fulfill the desire. Benedict steered you clear of the crowd ahead, turning off the gravel path and beside the edges of the tents, not the fronts.
“That dress, Miss L/n. Indulge me here.” He continued to lead, responding with a crooked smile when your grip on his arm tightened and Benedict made his way toward the back of the grandstand.
“Do you enjoy tormenting me?”
“Surely, I do not know what you mean?”
“The red. You know the color suits you well and while we can discuss the color, it’s the stain on the hip that brings back more fond memories.”
“What do–” You let go of his arm, looking down at your dress and turning slightly. Blue, the color of the sky in early April, painted on the side with a thumb printed perfectly pointing downward. “Oh, heavens.”
“Do you remember how you got that?” Benedict stepped an inch closer, closing in as your head remained downward and observing the painted thumb print. Of course you remember–how could you not? It was the second time he had shown you his paintings in nothing but unbridled confidence in his work. It is what he should have been all along, confident in his work. Whether that be his devotion to his family or the pieces he paints, the passion he put into everything was spurring. It spurred the deepest respect from you and that was paid through the use of his beautiful artist hands.
“How could I forget?”
“Care to relive the memory?” He whispered lowly. His right hand fondling the very lightest of your dress’s fabric at the side–teasing. Every second he gathered more. Soon, scrunching enough to ball it into his hand, the heels and stockings on your feet beginning to see the light.
“I am not sure there are sturdy walls here, but I am certain there are wooden poles underneath these stands.” You titled your head upwards, gazing into his eyes with the twinkle he was waiting for. Benedict scoffed, looking over your shoulder, his shoulder, and then proceeded to lift the fabric that covered the stands and whisked you inside.
Without truly knowing where he was taking this, you found yourself flush against a wooden support with your back nearly digging into the painted wood with a thud. Benedict launched himself on you when the space was deemed clear of any possible intrusion and his lips were aching for more. The longing you felt on his fingers as they cupped your face, his lips nearly missing their target in a frenzied movement. The moment he centered himself is when he felt your hands on his chest, calming him as the passion he felt for you was exposed from its protected mask–here, under the grandstand of the Royal Ascot Races, Benedict Bridgerton could let go and be free and love you as you were meant to be loved.
Soft lips, breathing unsteady and rapid, he was panting far before you were. Benedict longed to be in your embrace and imagined he was the dew on the stalk of grass, ready to be drunk on you but at the same time, all he could imagine was how he could worship you. The boldness of your red dress, the memories of an evening well past yet, still, he recalled the declarations and touches, the plush skin begging to be relieved of its aches and lips so desperately to be claimed.
Benedict broke the kiss–backing away just enough to see your face though his body was against yours.
He swallowed. It was as though what he was trying to say was too much to declare; the words pausing in his throat, in his mind, before he could physically make the sound. Words held weight. They held a deeper meaning and far more promise than a stroke of one’s hands or the touch of one’s lips. Benedict’s eyes flickered from your own to your lips, begging to be met yet still lingering in purgatory.
“You— “He huffed a breath that sent shivers down your spine. The hot air meeting your mouth; slightly agape, waiting patiently for his. “—consume my every thought. My soul— “One of his hands gripped your waist tightly, leaning you into the wooden support underneath the stands. The other began bunching your dress upwards and into his palm. “—belongs to you. Only you and your irritatingly perfect being.”
“If I am perfection, Mr. Bridgerton, then I wished to be ruined.”
Benedict pressed his lips to yours feverishly. Every fiber molded for you as you welcomed him in and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, greeting the crown of his head with a trail of your fingernails sending a surge through him. His tongue memorized itself with your own, not fighting, but languidly he caressed your own as his hand hitched higher and higher until the skirt of your dress is bunched, and his hand could feel the clasps of the garters which connected your stockings to your shift.
“A bit of a hot day for these, eh darling?” He broke away, having looked down to unclasp one before reclaiming his lips to yours.
As his mouth re-familiarized itself with yours, your mind raced to where his hands were: gripping, grazing, and getting nowhere out of sheer respect. Moving one hand off of his head and out of the hair he knew you loved to weave those delicate fingers in, you grasped his hand that was left on your thigh and brought it up.
Inching agonizingly slow and steady to your breast as the dresses design help heighten the cleavage. You shifted his palm to one breast—sucking on Benedict’s lower lip before releasing it with an indigent pop.
“The only thing to cool me down is your touch, Mr. Bridgerton…” He squeezed your breast tightly, moving a thumb over the fabric right above your nipple to feel it bud. You lulled your head back against the post as his eyes watched his hands movements. “…and I am so very hot at the moment.”
Your words made him squirm, building the sensation he always felt in your presence even if he tried to quell it. Shifting to where there was no more space between you, the fabrics of your clothes combining into one, Benedict pressed himself into you. Continuing to grope and inhale deeply, the artistic Bridgerton placed his head on your shoulder, his nose in your collarbone.
“I won’t ruin you.” Your heart plummeted, having waited for this very moment to be free of the lustrous torment the man has driven you to with nothing more than a glance and a stroll. “But I can make you sing, if that is what the Miss wants?”
He placed a kiss on your collarbone, lifting his head enough to nudge his nose against your chin as you recover from his words. He could make you sing. Sing high for his inspiration to be recovered; Benedict Bridgerton had his muse—one he could not paint, but play.
“Let me cool you. Let me show you that art comes in many forms. My masterpiece—you come in many forms.”
“As does your art, Mr. Bridgerton.” You whispered, watching as the sun that streamed in from the slotted stands above you trickled lines of bright, golden sun onto your rendezvous.
“Now…” Lifting a single, manicured finger to his chin, you lifted his head with no restraint. A pair of eyes glistening; the pupils blown in lust as he let you command.
“Show me what an artist’s hands can do.”
Benedict slotted his right leg between the two of yours and gave your dress room to sit above his knee. It was a matter of convenience to let his hand go, leaving it to travel to his lips, waiting inches from yours. He locked eyes with you, the hoods ever-so-lust heavy and put his index and middle fingers to his lips and licked, letting it tug on his bottom lip for a brief second before leading them south.
“Benedict–” You began, the butterflies making their way back to your stomach as the crowds began to move their feet above you; the wood creaking as his hand inched lower and lower until you could feel his fingertips break the space between your slip and your skin. In the heat his hands were warm, with the grateful mouth of his they had turned cold.
“If you do not want them to hear darling–” He continued, his fingers inching closer until they breeched the space they were looking for. He barely grazed the aching bud when your breath hitched, and he smirked. “–they I suggest you stay quiet.”
Then he pressed on your clit, slowly refamiliarizing himself and watching your breathing go unsteady as your shoulders rolled back against the column. Your hot breath on his face, he moved his hand off your breast and splayed it on your lower back, drawing the lower half closer to him, rubbing his two fingers in delicate circles as the strain of keeping a sound in was tense in your throat.
“This here–” He sighed, overwhelmed himself and each feel of your flesh begging him to lose decorum and take you here, “–is the thing I long for most but you, you make my heart feel alive.” You wanted to tell him to be quiet just as he had you, but Benedict just watched your face, moving his fingers faster and faster until you squirmed in his arms to do something about it.
“You,my masterpiece, writhing in my arms.”
“Benedict.” You huffed, not moaned. He had told you to be quiet and you complied, but he, he was begging to be directed. If he was the artist, then you were the composer. “Why have me writhe when I can shudder? Stop teasing me with your bloody fingers and give me what we both want.”
Benedict captured his lower lip in between his teeth, finger never slowing and rested his forehead against yours. “Your wish is my command, darling. One day you’ll beg your husband for more and I will happily oblige that day, but for now, I’ll give what I can.”
His fingers slipped from your clit and into your cunt with not a moment’s hesitation and you gripped the back of his head to bring his lips to yours to silence the sound that was aching to come out. He worked his fingers in and out gingerly, not slowly but just the right pace to savor the moment and let his mouth explore yours as his tongue slips through your lips that had been fighting. Your fingernails scraped at the hair on the back of his head, pulling the brown locks as he filled you with his fingers to his knuckles.
He hadn’t been inside for three minutes before a bell sounded from above and nearly made both your souls jump out of your skins.
“Fuck…” Benedict laughed, crinkling his eyes at the side and pausing his fingers for just a moment. “I nearly thought someone had found us.” You could not help but smile, your chest heaving for a moment of air, but your mind was clouded–waiting for him to continue and certainly not ready to be complete without reaching the goal.
“The horses are nearly off, Benedict.” You whispered, grabbing his elbow of the hand currently deep inside of you. You tugged, grunting at the sensation it sent shooting through you, edging him to continue as your eyes pleaded. “I do not like to believe you’d have them finish before me?”
He shook his head like a little boy caught eating sweets past bedtime. “Can’t have that now, can we?” and the bell sounded again. This time, Benedict sped with the sound of hooves meeting the sweltering grass. His hand moved rapidly, curing the tips to reach the pillowy flesh swollen and wet. Instead of kissing you again, he leaned his head toward your ear.
“You bewitch me…” His breath was staggered, his own arousal pressing hard against your opposite leg as he nearly straddled you against the post. “You consume my every thought, my every waking moment.” You could hear the hooves draw closer, the rallying cries from above. Your leg began to give away, shaking from the sheer pressure of standing and being stimulated. “I dream of you, the family we will have.” He imagined the future. How these fingers would be replaced with all of him and in the comfort of the home you shared, he could do everything he imagined.
“I have seen you so full of me you can barely move.” He huffed, wrapping the arm from your lower back around you, pulling you close as you clutched his arm and chest. It had taken all of your power to stay quiet. Your teeth indented white onto your lower lip. “You have entranced me, body and soul, and you say my name–” He grunted, trying to relieve the pressure he had not been able to expel and rolled his hip against yours.
“–You–”
“Benedict, I–”
The hooves had lessened momentarily before the rumbles began to reverberate from the grass to the dirt. You could feel it in your toes, and you were so close. His fingers moving quickly, his confessions burning desire into your heart and pulsing points of passion that could only be cooled by one man, the man whose name you spoke.
“Benedict.” You whimpered, breaking the bite on your lip and finally giving way when the crowd above began to silence the rumbles of the horses. “God, Benedict, I am so close.”
And he knew what to do. Taking his thumb, he continued his pace but pressed harsh circles onto your clit as the horses grew louder and louder. He kissed your ear lobe, pulling the skin with his teeth and letting it go with a lewd pop. “I am yours, and you mine. Love, let me see my work.” He turned his head to yours, watching the way your mouth went slack as the cheers grew stronger. He thought he would lose, that the horses would run too fast, and it would take longer under the circumstances, but he knew his fingers did the trick the moment the screams of the crowd corresponded with the bell and you had grabbed the back of his neck, not meeting his lips but seizing your back and curling your toes against the grass in your delicate shoes with a moan that had sent him to meet his maker.
His masterpiece, you, letting go of all expectations and giving into exhibition under the grandstand of the Royal Ascot Races. Benedict’s hand stilled, letting your release slowly work down his fingers and settle with your breathing as the time began to steady. You lulled your head back, closing your eyes to relish in the brief moment of relief before the chaos began again–being held by the man you love while he cared about you, not asking for anything in return and not forcing you to do something you do not.
You felt him dip his head, placing a light kiss on your shoulder. The short sleeves had fallen and neither of you had bothered to notice. Benedict slowly removed his hand instead of wiping it on a handkerchief or on the shift underneath your dress, he brought his two fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. You watched his fingers bathed in your release come clean from his swollen lips unable to formulate a proper sentence at the sight.
“Still sweet in this dreadful summer heat.”
But he could, and that broke the lustful tension that correlated with the descending feet from above.
“Such a poet, Mr. Bridgerton… I do wonder what inspired it.” You smiled, twisting a strand of hair at the nape of his neck with a single finger.
“You, darling.” He smiled, not thinking of the hordes of people beyond the stand preventing a clean escape or the suspicious looks Eloise, Anthony, and Violet would give when they saw his flushed cheeks and your hasty exit.
“You are my greatest muse, my love.”
A/N:
Thank you very much for reading. As always, likes, reblogs, comments, and reactions are always encouraged. Those are what keep me writing and mean so much to me when interactions happen.
Also not fully edited—sorry for any errors in spelling, etc.
