Work Text:
Violet had chosen violence.
Not literal violence, Benedict reflected, though as he shifted the eleven-month-old higher on his hip for what must have been the fourth, no, fifth time in as many minutes, he was beginning to feel that the distinction hardly mattered. There was something deeply intentional in the way her small fist had tangled itself into the curl at the back of his neck, gripping with surprising strength, as though she had discovered it and immediately decided it belonged to her. He tried, not for the first time, to pry her fingers loose without upsetting her balance, though his efforts were largely ignored.
“Do stop that,” he said mildly, wincing just slightly as she tugged again. “You will find, eventually, that painters require their hair to remain attached to their heads.”
Violet responded with a loud, delighted babble that sounded suspiciously like disagreement, her grip tightening rather than loosening. Her dark auburn curls bounced with the movement, the small blue ribbon Sophie had tied so carefully that morning already slipping out of place. The curls framed a pair of wide blue eyes that sparkled with unmistakable mischief, paired with soft, rosy cheeks just like Sophie’s that gave her the appearance of innocence she did not, in fact, possess.
Benedict exhaled, adjusting his hold as she leaned forward with sudden interest. His attention dropped just in time to see her dip her entire palm into a generous pool of green paint. “…Yes,” he said dryly, watching as she examined her now-painted hand with fascination. “A bold aesthetic choice. We are not easing into the process, I see.”
They stood in the small painting room just off the library in Our Cottage, a space Benedict had claimed as his own the moment they had settled into the cottage. It caught the morning light beautifully, the tall windows opening onto a stretch of rolling green valley that softened into distant blue mountains. The air was warm, touched with the familiar scent of oil paint and linseed, mixed with the faint freshness of summer drifting in through the open window. It was, under normal circumstances, a peaceful room.
This morning, it was not.
Benedict himself bore clear evidence of that fact. His white linen shirt, open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, was streaked with paint in several places that had not been there earlier. His suspenders hung loose, and his forearms and hands had collected smears of green and pink as Violet explored her newfound artistic freedom. She seemed particularly pleased with the effect of transferring paint not only to the canvas, but also to him.
“Right,” Benedict said, attempting to reestablish some structure as he turned them both toward the canvas near the window. “We are attempting to paint that—” he gestured toward the calm, expansive landscape beyond the glass—“and not, ideally, dismantle the concept of landscape entirely.”
He had barely finished speaking before Violet leaned forward and pressed her hand firmly against the canvas. A vivid green handprint appeared squarely in what had, until that moment, been a rather respectable rendering of the sky.
Benedict stilled, staring at the mark before slowly turning his head to look at her. “…You did that deliberately.”
Violet squealed with delight, her entire body wriggling with pride at her achievement.
“Yes,” he said after a moment, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are clearly very pleased with yourself.”
She reached immediately for the brush in his hand, her ambition entirely undeterred. Benedict adjusted his grip, gently enclosing her small fingers within his own as he guided the brush toward the canvas again.
“Very well,” he said, his tone taking on a mock seriousness. “This is green. It represents grass. Grass is calm. Grass is patient. Grass does not—”
The brush jerked upward as Violet seized control, dragging it in a thick, uneven streak across the canvas with surprising force. The result bore no resemblance whatsoever to calmness or patience.
Benedict paused, studying it. “…have feelings,” he finished.
Violet gasped in delight before dissolving into giggles, entirely pleased with herself.
“Yes,” Benedict murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “You are working emotionally. Very advanced. Possibly revolutionary.”
They tried again, this time managing something that could, with a generous amount of imagination, be described as a stretch of grass along the bottom of the canvas. It slanted unevenly and refused to cooperate with any known sense of proportion, but Violet clapped enthusiastically as though they had created something extraordinary.
“I’m choosing,” Benedict said, studying it with a straight face, “to call that a meadow.”
Violet babbled in response, which he took as agreement, before promptly plunging her hand into pink paint. Before he could intervene, she pressed her palm into the center of the canvas, leaving a bright, unmistakable handprint.
Benedict froze for a moment, staring at it in silence. “Well,” he said, his tone calm but faintly impressed, “you have certainly made a statement.”
Violet squealed again, delighted.
“Bold,” Benedict continued. “Entirely unconcerned with tradition. Frankly, I’m threatened.”
Instead of removing it, he lifted his brush and began painting softly around the handprint, blending it into the composition with care.
“There,” he said after a moment. “Now it’s intentional. Which, as you will learn, is the key to most things in art.”
Violet seemed to accept this logic immediately. She reached for another brush, examined it briefly, and then threw it across the room with impressive precision. It landed near the door with a soft clatter.
Benedict watched it go, then looked back at her, his expression composed.
“…Let us not tell Mama about that,” he said quietly. “Or she may never allow us in this room again.”
Violet regarded him solemnly for a moment, as though considering the terms of their agreement, before attempting to place her paint-covered fingers directly into her mouth.
“Absolutely not,” Benedict said quickly, redirecting her hand. “We are not eating the medium.”
The door creaked open just then. “…Am I interrupting?” Sophie’s voice, soft and touched with laughter, drifted into the room.
Benedict turned at once, his expression shifting almost instinctively. A crooked, slightly guilty smile formed as he took in the sight of her standing in the doorway, framed by light. Her dark hair was loosely pinned with a blue ribbon, strands escaping around her face, and her grey floral dress had been rolled neatly at the sleeves, revealing her forearms. There was something effortlessly warm about her presence that settled him immediately.
“We are having a very advanced lesson,” he said calmly.
Sophie stepped further into the room, her gaze moving between them as she took in the scene—Benedict, thoroughly marked with paint, holding their daughter who appeared equally decorated, and the canvas that bore clear evidence of their shared efforts.
“Oh,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. “I see she’s supervising you.”
“She’s resistant,” Benedict replied. “Strong opinions and limited respect for authority.”
At the sound of her voice, Violet twisted eagerly toward her, reaching out with a soft, insistent “mum, mum.”
Sophie gathered her without hesitation, pressing a kiss to her cheek and immediately acquiring a streak of paint in return. She did not seem particularly concerned.
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “You’ve aligned yourself with her.”
“I always do,” Sophie said lightly.
She leaned closer, her arm brushing against his shoulder in a way that felt grounding. Benedict inhaled softly, the familiar comfort of her presence settling around him.
“You’re enjoying this,” she murmured.
“Immensely,” he replied under his breath. “I’ve lost all control.”
As if determined to prove his point, Violet chose that exact moment to twist again, slipping just enough to cause alarm before Benedict caught her.
He paused. “…She’s damp.”
Sophie blinked. “Why is she damp?”
They both looked down. Violet had somehow dipped her leg into blue paint, which was now smeared generously across her, Benedict, and the surrounding area.
Violet kicked happily, entirely unbothered. Benedict stared at her. “You,” he said calmly, “are a menace.”
Sophie laughed then, bright and unrestrained, covering her mouth as she reached for a towel, though it quickly became clear there was very little to be done at this point.
“She’s very slippery,” Sophie said.
“Yes,” Benedict replied. “Like a well-oiled eel.”
Sophie laughed again, and Benedict found himself watching her for a moment, something warm and quiet settling in his chest.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Violet yawned. Her energy faded at once, her small body softening as her head dropped against Benedict’s shoulder.
“Well,” he said quietly, setting the brush aside, “I believe the lesson has concluded. The artist is tired.”
Sophie stepped closer, lowering the towel. There was no saving any of them now.
“And what did she learn?” she asked softly.
Benedict glanced at the canvas, the uneven strokes, the misplaced sky, the defiant handprints.
“That art,” he said, warmth creeping into his voice, “is best made together?”
Violet sighed sleepily.
Sophie reached for her, and Benedict transferred her carefully, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.
“Traitor,” he murmured fondly.
Sophie rocked her gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she settled her against her shoulder, entirely unconcerned by the paint now transferring onto her dress.
Benedict wiped his hands absently before stepping closer. He kissed Sophie’s temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, lingering just slightly longer than necessary.
“Later,” he murmured softly, his voice low and warm, “I intend to remind you why this room was not originally meant for instruction.”
Sophie smiled faintly, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Behave.”
“I am,” Benedict replied.
🖌️🎨🖌️🎨🖌️🎨🖌️🎨🖌️🎨🖌️🎨🖌️🎨
After giving Violet a warm bath and carefully cleaning the paint from her small, wriggling body, Sophie had settled her into her bassinet while the governess remained nearby, quietly attentive. Violet had resisted sleep at first—soft protests, tiny hands reaching, but eventually surrendered, her lashes fluttering shut as Sophie pressed repeated kisses to her temple. With practiced care, she tucked the light blanket around her daughter and drew the shades just enough to soften the afternoon light, ensuring the afternoon sun would not disturb her rest. The room dimmed into a gentle calm, the quiet breathing of the child settling into a steady rhythm that seemed to soothe Sophie in return.
She lingered there for a moment longer than necessary, her hand resting lightly against Violet’s back as if to reassure herself that the warmth, the softness, the peace of it was real. Only when she was certain her daughter was deeply asleep did she straighten, smoothing the blanket once more before stepping away. The governess gave her a small, knowing smile, and Sophie returned it before slipping quietly out of the nursery, easing the door closed behind her.
The house felt different now, hushed, as though it too had exhaled.
As she walked down the corridor, Sophie glanced down at herself and could not help but smile faintly. Her dress, once neat and carefully chosen, now bore streaks of green, pink, and a particularly stubborn patch of blue along the hem. A trace of paint lingered along her wrist as well, half-forgotten in the chaos. She would need to change, and likely bathe, though the thought of washing it all away felt strangely bittersweet—evidence of the afternoon’s mischief and laughter.
Still, before any of that, she turned toward the painting room.
When she entered, she paused.
The earlier chaos had been transformed. The room was once again orderly, the brushes cleaned and laid out to dry, the paints closed and arranged neatly on the table. The canvases had been returned to their places, and the air—though still faintly scented with linseed—felt calmer, restored. Only one thing remained unchanged: the easel near the window still held their daughter’s masterpiece, displayed with a kind of reverence that made Sophie’s chest tighten slightly.
Benedict stood near the window, repositioning the settee to catch the light just so. He paused when he noticed her, straightening slightly as his attention settled entirely on her.
“Do you need any help?” Sophie asked as she approached, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her tone light but warm.
“I was rather hoping you might say that,” he replied, a familiar smirk lifting at the corner of his mouth as he held up his hands for her inspection.
They were, unsurprisingly, still a mess.
Paint clung stubbornly to his fingers and along the creases of his palms in a spectrum of colors that told the entire story of the afternoon without need for explanation. Sophie let out a soft, amused breath and stepped closer, taking his wrists gently in her hands.
His hands dwarfed hers, warm and steady despite the chaos they had just endured. She turned them slightly, examining the streaks of color with quiet focus.
“You missed a spot,” she said softly.
Benedict let out a quiet laugh, though it faded as his gaze lifted to her face. There was a shift—subtle, but unmistakable—as his attention settled fully on her, and Sophie felt it immediately. Heat rose gently to her cheeks, the familiar awareness blooming beneath his gaze.
“So it would seem,” he murmured, though he made no real effort to correct it himself.
“Let me,” Sophie said more quietly, turning to retrieve a cloth.
She dipped it into the basin, wringing it carefully before turning back toward him.
He had moved closer.
Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him before she fully registered the distance between them. Close enough that his presence filled the small space in a way that made her breath catch just slightly.
“If you would,” he said softly, offering his hands again, his voice low and unhurried.
Sophie focused on his hands.
Gently, she took one palm and began to wipe at the paint, careful and deliberate in her movements. The cloth moved slowly across his skin, lifting some of the color, though not all of it. Traces remained, faint reminders pressed into the lines of his hands.
“I finally managed to put her to bed,” she said softly. “She protested at first, but she’s asleep now.”
“I’ll go and kiss her in a moment,” Benedict replied. “I tried to put things in order here… though I suspect it shows only slightly.”
Sophie glanced briefly around the room, her lips curving faintly. “You’ve done more than slightly.”
“She is rather unruly,” she added, her tone touched with quiet affection.
“Just like her mother,” Benedict murmured.
He stepped closer still as he spoke, his presence shifting from near to unmistakably there. Sophie stilled, the cloth pausing in her hand as his nose brushed lightly along her temple, the contact soft but deliberate.
The movement was enough to still her entirely.
Her hands lowered slowly, the cloth forgotten as she set it beside the basin without quite looking. The space between them had disappeared completely now, replaced by something quieter, heavier, charged with the kind of familiarity that had long since lost its uncertainty but never its intensity.
Sophie’s breath caught—not sharply, but enough that she noticed, hoping he didn’t notice, but could see the devilish smirk on his face.
His hand lifted slowly, as though he were giving her time to step away if she wished. She did not. His fingers brushed lightly against her jaw, tilting her face just enough that he could look at her properly, fully, as though he had been waiting for this exact moment since she left the room earlier.
“Sophie…” he murmured, her name quieter now.
She met his gaze, though it took effort. There was something about the way he looked at her, steady, certain, that made her feel as though she had been seen too clearly.
“You are staring,” she said softly, though there was no real protest in her voice.
“I am,” he replied, without apology. “I find I have not quite had my fill of you today.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them—low, warm, threaded with something deeper—made her breath falter.
Her fingers, which had only moments ago been focused on cleaning the paint from his hands, now rested lightly against his wrists, forgotten in their purpose. She could feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, the faint movement of his pulse.
“You have had quite enough of me,” she whispered, though the faint smile at the corner of her lips betrayed her. “Remember this morning, the way you woke me up..”
“Not nearly,” he answered. “Not enough.”
His thumb brushed softly along her cheek, slow and deliberate. The room felt quieter now, leaving only the sound of their breathing. Sophie swallowed, her gaze dropping for just a moment before returning to his.
“You should go and see her,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “You said you would.”
“I will,” Benedict murmured, though he did not move. “In a moment.”
His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, then settled gently along the side of her head, the way he always held her, as though he feared she might slip away. The touch sent a quiet shiver through her.
“You are covered in paint,” he added softly, his gaze drifting briefly over her shoulder, down the line of her sleeve, the faint streak of color along her wrist.
“So are you,” she replied.
“Yes,” he said, a hint of amusement returning. “Though I suspect mine was less deliberate.”
Sophie let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh, though it faded quickly as his hand slid down to her waist, drawing her closer to him.
“Stay still,” he murmured.
Before she could ask why, he leaned in, gently brushing her wavy curls away from her neck. His lips grazed the skin just below her ear, where a faint streak of green paint still lingered. Sophie’s breath caught at once, her fingers tightening slightly around his wrists.
“That,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough, “was rather distracting.”
“You are impossible,” she whispered.
“I have been told,” he replied.
Sophie did not give him another moment. Something shifted in her. Before he could react, her hand rose to his collar, fingers curling into the fabric as she pulled him toward her. Her lips met his with a suddenness that stifled whatever words he had been about to say.
She felt his smile against her mouth at first, faint and surprised, before it faded into something deeper as he eased into the kiss. His hands found her instinctively, one settling at her waist, the other at her back, steadying her as she pressed closer. Her fingertips slid upward, brushing along the line of his neck, feeling steady rhythm under her fingertips.
Sophie rose slightly onto her toes, deepening the kiss with a quiet urgency. Her lips parted, tongue darting and he met her instantly, unrestrained. A soft sound escaped her as she pressed closer, and his hand tightening at her waist, drawing her firmly against him. There was a growing urgency in the way he held her.
Her breath mingled with his, soft and uneven, the rhythm of their kiss breaking as the sounds escaping her grew louder and more urgent. His hand tightened at her waist, drawing her closer, and she felt the firm press of his needy cock through the layers between them. He wanted her. Sophie smiled faintly into his mouth, as she leaned into him, savoring the attention.
“Careful,” he murmured against her lips with amusement.
“You should not provoke me, then,” she replied, before she kissed him again.
His mouth caught her breath, the kiss turning uneven as urgency took over. There was a brief clash before his teeth grazed the edge of her lower lip in a way that made her inhale sharply. And somewhere between one breath and the next, without breaking their lips, Benedict reached back pushing the door closed.
With a gentle insistence, Sophie guided him backward until the back of his legs met the settee. There was a brief pause, and a devilish grin spread across Benedict’s face as she pushed him down. He went willingly, falling back against the cushions, his hands never leaving her, pulling her with him.
There was nothing particularly dignified about what followed.
Sophie gathered her skirts just enough and moved over him, straddling his hips. Benedict’s hands moved, sliding along her legs feeling her stocking that sent shivers down her spine, before returning to her waist, then upward, trying to memorize her body.
He reached for her face, drawing her down toward him, reclaiming her lips with his tongue insisting on finding hers. Sophie’s breath grew heavier as she leaned into him, her wetness grew between her legs, and she started gyrating against his hard cock, unthinking at first, but then more deliberate. There were too many layers between them that needed to be peeled. She felt the way his lips curved, tightening his grips and almost being proud of her.
She responded with soft bite at his lower lip that earned a low, quiet sound from him.“You see,” he murmured, his voice lower now, “this is precisely why the room was never meant for instruction.”
Sophie did not let him finish the thought. She silenced him with another kiss. Her fingers moved to his shirt, tugging at the fabric, and he happily acquiesced lifting his arms for her to peel it off him. Meanwhile his hands shifting to her back, searching for the fastenings of her dress desperately. His lips left hers only to find her neck, his tongue circling around the sensitive nape that sent shivers down her spine, and all over her body. His lips moved down as he pushed her collar down trying to find her sensitive nipple. The place he loved kissing the most.
Her hands returned to his, fingers tangling with his as they managed unfastening the back of her dress. Sophie lowered the fabric over her shoulders just enough in giving him access as he took a nipple into his mouth. The sensation sent a jolt across her body, her vision blurred and she held his head there. She could hold it forever there, if she could. Benedict knew how to make her see the stars.
He groaned against her skin as he alternated in licking and sucking between her nipples. Sophie moaned, as her hips moved overtime unable to contain the need of him any longer.
Then she moved.
Her hands dropped between them urgently, her fingers fumbling briefly unbuttoning his pants, and he sure helped her eagerly as they giggled struggling with the fabrics. Benedict let out a low breath against her skin kissing her chest, then up her neck.
“Sophie…” He breathed into her. Her name suddenly felt heavier than she remembered.
Instead, she lifted herself just enough, the air tightened, the light dimmed, and the room pressed as her skin felt like expanding. He was absolutely too big, and always had been. Slowly, she sank herself over his thick, and eager cock.
They moaned into each other’s mouth and momentarily stopped to catch their breaths. She wanted to keep him inside her forever.
A sharp breath escaped her, her hands bracing against his shoulders as her eyes fell shut, her head tipping back just slightly as she adjusted, as though trying to steady herself within the overwhelming closeness of it. Benedict’s hands came to her at once, firm at her waist, grounding her, holding her as though he understood exactly what she needed before she could say it.
“Sophie,” he said again, softer now.
She leaned into him, her forehead brushing his, her breath uneven as she found her rhythm slowly, then with growing confidence. The urgent was all consuming, as his grip tightened, guiding her hips that needed to be moved, as if she would burst into million stars if she didn’t continue feeling him.
“I love watching you paint,” she breathed, her lips brushing his temple before drifting back to his ear. “The way your arms move..”
Benedict’s grip tightened slightly at her waist, his head falling back for just a moment before returning to her, his breath catching in response, his eyes staring right into her.
“And your hands…” she moaned, almost in pain. Her fingers slid down his arm as though to emphasize the thought. “I love your hands… what they make, what they do to me…”
Benedict’s grip tightened. He met her rhythm with less control, and reclaimed her lips with his hands holding her head, his lips biting, sucking and licking at her lower lip, devouring her like a wild animal. Perhaps he truly liked the way Sophie admired his arms, biceps, and those stupid blue eyes. She loved the way he was becoming undone underneath her.
“I love this,” she whispered. “I love you like this… ”
Something tightened deep within her, something coiling and gathering. Her breath faltered. Her hands slid from his shoulders to his face. Benedict met her instantly, his hands firm at her waist, anchoring her there.
“Sophie…” he murmured.
She shook her head faintly, unable to answer, her breath breaking as the feeling built stronger now, undeniable. Her forehead dipped toward his, her eyes slipping closed as the world had become too much to hold all at once, and not at all.
“I—” she tried, but the words were replaced with a loud and long moan.
He let her find her release, moving his hips to meet her there, as he lifted himself just enough to keep her close. His lips found her face. A kiss to her cheek, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth.
“Stay with me,” he murmured against her skin.
That was all it took.
The feeling broke through her then, sudden, consuming, her body tensing before it softened all at once. Her fingers dug into the skin of his shoulders, her breath catching sharply as she leaned into him, unable to hold herself upright any longer, her face turning into the warmth of his neck as she inhaled him, salt, skin, something wholly his.
Benedict held her through it, steady and certain, his arms tightening around her. “Sophie…” he said again, quieter now.
She exhaled slowly against him, her body still trembling faintly when his lips found her neck, seeking, pressing, lingering. The sensitivity there made her shiver again, her fingers tightening reflexively in his shoulders.
And then she felt his shudder. It came in the way his breath changed first, deeper, uneven, in the way his hold on her tightened almost instinctively. His forehead pressed briefly into the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as if in pain. Then, he groaned into her neck, unrestrained, as he spilled inside her, the warmth engulfing her. She held him, her arms wrapped around his still straddling him. He buried his face against her skin, his breath breaking, his body tensing and then releasing as he continued groaning into her.
Sophie kissed the side of his temple, then his hair loving the taste of salt and skin.
“Sophie…” he breathed again.
“Benedict,” she replied, loving the warmth of him inside her, with a satisfied smiled curtain against his hair on her lips. They were still wrapped against one another on the settee in the quiet of the afternoon.
Neither of them moved, and only the sound of their breathing remained.