Work Text:
Benedict Bridgerton’s head is spinning.
The peculiar smelling leaf they smoke at Granville’s parties affects him far more strongly than tobacco. And this time, he has also tried that mysterious green concoction, absinthe. They said it brought about fascinating creative visions, but the bitter drink merely causes his body to flush with inchoate arousal. Several women nearby giggle when his cheeks redden. They offer their mouths to kiss while their hands slip into his clothing. He enjoys it at first, but soon he pulls away.
“I don’t belong here,” some part of his mind is shouting at him.
“I’m truly jealous. Is this your life?” That was what he’d said to Henry Granville on his first visit to his studio.
Tonight, he knows he’s not suited for Henry’s life after all. He doesn’t have the knack for it, just as he doesn’t have the knack for creating the type of art he truly admires. He can scribble, he’s learning to lay down a bold line, but the finesse eludes him.
He wanders from room to room. People dancing, flipping their voluminous diaphanous gowns into the air. Artists and models, as on his other visits, but the poses are more licentious.
The noise of the crowd crashes in on him. He stumbles and almost falls, thudding painfully against a closed door.
Perhaps there is quiet inside that room. Perhaps there’s a piece of furniture or a spot on the floor he could stretch out on, just until the dizziness recedes. He tries the door handle.
He’s not sure what he’s seeing at first. Then — ah. Two bodies are intertwined.
Clarity washes through him like a summer thunderstorm.
Henry Granville regards him over the shoulder of another man.
A man he has just been kissing.
Henry is bare-chested except for a pair of suspenders. Benedict sees his body with eyes he’s seemingly never used before — the muscles defining his arms and torso under a softer layer of flesh. The satisfaction and pleasure on his face. And — yes, it is there, though Benedict can scarcely believe it — the welcome. The startled look he gave Benedict when he first stumbled through the door has changed to a delighted grin.
He grabs the forearm of the man he’s been kissing, stopping the movement of his hand — rhythmic, silky — inside his open trousers.
The other man man is fully naked. Benedict recognizes him as one of the models who was there on his first visit. He spent some time trying to draw the dimple in the man’s arse. Henry had called him Justin.
Justin’s staring at Benedict too, his expression a mishmash of irritation and curiosity.
“Come in, Benedict,” Henry says. “Close the door behind you. Not all my guests appreciate these pleasures.”
“But…” Benedict begins.
“Remember,” Henry says. “You can feel free to be yourself here.”
The words echo. Henry had also spoken them on his first visit. But he hasn’t had much time to think about them, what with the awful matter of Anthony’s duel with the Duke, and Daphne’s subsequent misery.
The stress all crashes in on him at once. The fear that he will end up head of the household, crushed by responsibility. His dissatisfaction with his art. The way Henry has insinuated himself into his dreams, both waking and sleeping. His longing to do — no, to be — something different.
Eloise was less than sympathetic when he spoke of it to her. ”You’re a man, so you have everything,” she said. “You can do whatever you want. Be bold!” How naive her words had seemed at the time. He certainly could not do whatever he wanted!
But perhaps she’d hit closer to truth than he knew at the time.
Henry interrupts his racing thoughts again. “You must shut the door, Benedict,” he says, gently but urgently. “And so you must decide — I cannot choose for you. Will you shut it from the outside, or from the inside?”
Benedict takes one more step into the room, turns and shuts the door.
~~~
Henry mutters a word to Justin and then with one stride he’s by Benedict’s side. Benedict stares into his face, and then his eyes are drawn downward to Henry’s prick, still jutting out of his open trousers. Benedict’s palms sweat with the desire to grasp it, and his forehead sweats with fear of what it might mean if he does.
Henry pulls gently on his arm and leads him to a chair. Pushes him down onto it.
“What do you want to happen, my young friend?” Henry asks.
Benedict doesn’t know. He wants everything. It must show in his face, because Henry takes charge. He gestures at a sketch pad and some charcoal on a nearby table. A half-finished sketch is visible on the page — Justin’s legs and backside, that dimple suggested perfectly.
“I started sketching and became distracted,” says Henry with a laugh. “You can take up where I left off, if you wish. Shall Justin and I model for you?”
Benedict’s forehead creases and he opens his mouth. How can he say it? Words crowd his mouth, vying to be first to leave.
“To begin…” he starts.
Henry’s smile grows soft and hungry.
“Yes. Just to begin.”
He pulls a large round ottoman out of a corner, covers it with a drape of cloth, and arranges himself and Justin upon it as Benedict picks up the sketch pad and charcoal.
~~~
“I’ve only got one page left,” Benedict tells them.
He’s been sketching madly, but capturing only small portions of what he sees, because Henry and Justin only hold a pose briefly before moving on to something else.
The curve of a mouth open in pleasure. The straining of a muscle. A tongue against a nipple. A hand enclosing a prick. Beads of perspiration on a forehead.
“Then I’m going to finish him now,” Henry says. He casts an eye at his lover. “Are you ready, my dear?”
“Please,” Justin whispers hoarsely.
Benedict draws one line, the curve of Justin’s neck as he throws his head back, offering his throat for Henry’s mouth. Then he can only stare in transfixed desire. Henry kisses and bites his way down Justin’s slender torso. He can see the thrusting of the man’s hips. His beautiful, long prick enclosed in Henry’s fingers. The way his seed spurts out, landing on his belly, spilling over Henry’s hand. He cries out in pleasure.
Benedict doesn’t try to sketch what comes after, their tender embrace as they exchange murmurs of praise and affection. It is too intimate for the page — or at least for his unpracticed hand. But he dreams of one day capturing Henry’s face in those lines of smug satisfaction.
“And now your turn,” Henry says.
~~~
“I beg your pardon?” Benedict isn’t sure he can trust his ears, so exactly do they reproduce words he longs to hear.
“Justin would like to sketch while you and I…” Henry makes a delicate hand gesture that speaks volumes. “…while we model.”
“Er…my face…” Benedict stammers.
“…will not be recognizable,” Henry assures him, exchanging a glance with Justin.
The glance makes Benedict feel shame for his cowardice. He ought to be bold, as Eloise had exhorted him. Some rebellious part of him wants his face in ecstasy, on display in the new wing of Somerset House for all to marvel upon. But that is impossible now. His family has endured too much gossip in these recent weeks.
But his thoughts are forgotten, because Henry is standing over him, offering his hand, pulling him up, leading him to the ottoman, upon which Benedict drops heavily, shaking his head, because he can’t believe the evidence of his eyes:
Henry is kneeling at his feet. At his feet. His face turned up to Benedict’s, eagerness in every line. His hands are deftly working the knots in his cravat, then the buttons of his coat.
“Henry,” Benedict says in a whisper. He glances over to where Justin is sitting, on the same chair he’s just vacated, his hand flying over the page he’s sketching on.
Henry glances over at Justin and they exchange a smile.
“Forget about him,” Henry urges. “For now, pretend it’s only the two of us here.” He returns to his work on Benedict’s clothing, far too formal for this affair. Opening. Loosening. His fingers brush the bared skin of Benedict’s throat, making him shiver.
Benedict dares to raise his hand and stroke Henry’s hair, then his cheek. It’s the first time he’s touched a grown man in affection.
It feels right.
Henry leans into his hand. Turns his face to kiss his palm. He locks eyes with Benedict again. His gaze is hungry.
“I want you, young Bridgerton,” he says, his voice gruff. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you eviscerated my painting. I burned to prove to you I’m not the cold, soulless creature you imagined me to be.”
“You know I don’t think that,” Benedict protests.
“Yes, I know. But I intend to prove it to you all the same.” His lips brush Benedict’s briefly. Benedict chases after him, but Henry moves out of range, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Do you want me too?”
“By all the gods, yes!”
“Show me,” Henry demands.
The final shred of reluctance falls away. Benedict seizes him, yanks him close.
Henry is just as eager. He growls into Benedict’s mouth, and then they’re lost to everything but each other. Benedict is enveloped in Henry’s scent, hints of leaf and absinthe, sweat and sex and masculine arousal. Henry’s kisses are alternately demanding and tantalizing. Henry’s embrace is strong, as if he wants to crush their bodies together into one. He lifts Benedict to his feet, turns them both to give Justin a different pose to sketch. His hand slips downward, cupping Benedict’s cock through his trousers, making him gasp. It’s not the first time another person has handled him — that was at the brothel Anthony took him to, performing his brotherly duty to rid Benedict of his virginity. But that experience hadn’t felt anything like this, the way Henry’s fingers are relentlessly searching his groin.
“I want to touch you,” Henry purrs into his ear. “May I?”
Benedict can only manage a nod, but that is all the agreement Henry requires. He’s on his knees again, mouthing the fabric at Benedict’s crotch where his hand had been, unfastening the suspenders, the trousers, the shoelaces, removing the shoes as Benedict stands on one foot at a time.
“Take it off,” he demands. “Take it all off. Be free.”
Benedict does.
When Benedict is completely bare at last, his toes sunk into the plush carpet, Henry turns him to face Justin, who’s sweeping the charcoal over the page in front of him, putting his whole arm into the movement, glancing briefly up at his models and then drawing another line. Henry moves behind him, and Benedict feels his hands on his shoulders, his teeth on his neck. Then the hands slide lower, fingers dragging against his nipples, palms spreading over his belly. Henry presses against him from behind, his hard prick nestling in the crease of Benedict’s arse.
“I want to bring you off like this,” Henry says, his voice rough with desire. His hands wrap around Benedict’s cock. He’s stroking, squeezing, pulling. Cupping his balls, his fingers tickling the hair.
Benedict groans his name loudly.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Henry encourages as he continues to work, to touch and caress and tease with the same confidence as when he lays an oiled brush to canvas. “Zounds, your cock is so…so gorgeous. So handsome! I love how he’s twitching in my hands.”
“Henry,” Benedict moans again when a sensual squeeze brings him close to the point of no return.
“Look at Justin,” Henry prompts him. “He’s mesmerized by you. His eyes are round as saucers.”
“Please,” Benedict begs, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He knows if he looks at the willowy naked man sketching what Henry is doing to him, he’ll lose control.
“When you come, you’re going to ejaculate so hard you’ll ruin his drawing,” Henry teases, continuing to manipulate him with knowing fingers, grinding against Benedict from behind so the length of his cock slips deeper between his arse cheeks. “Or perhaps add the perfect finishing touch.”
“Fuck! Henry!”
“Mmm,” Henry growls into his ear, his voice low and full of animal satisfaction. “Let yourself go. Let it all go. All but the pleasure I’m giving you. Come, Benedict Bridgerton. Come into my hands. Come now.”
He’s coming, and it’s like he’s being turned inside out. Henry crows “Yes” and “Oh, you beautiful boy” and other words of praise. Each utterance jolts him to the root, pulls another spasm from his overwhelmed body.
At last, his legs give way and he starts to collapse. Only Henry’s strong arms, catching hold of him, prevent him from falling in a heap on the floor. Henry sets him on the ottoman and perches beside him, pulls him into a gentler embrace, presses his lips against Benedict’s forehead, strokes his sweat-soaked hair.
“How do you feel?” Henry asks after some moments of silence.
Benedict opens his eyes and lifts his head. Justin is nowhere to be seen. But the sketch pad lies on the chair he was using. The drawing shows a man’s naked form, bowed back, his mouth open, another man’s mouth on his neck, hands around his prick and swollen balls that seem to pulse right there on the page. There’s a smear marring the sweep of line suggesting the man’s upper thigh, where something wet fell on the paper.
“By all the gods, it’s beautiful.” Benedict reacts purely to the artistry of the drawing, forgetting that he and the man rubbing his back, his mentor, his lover, were the models.
“That it is,” Henry agrees. “That it is.”