Work Text:
“The others have gone,” Henry says. The candles have almost all gone out by then, staging an eerie shadowplay around the chamber, “though stay as much as you desire.”
Benedict is uncertain about the double meaning of this proposal. All evening, with the increase in drink and the paralleled loss of tension in his limbs, he was keenly aware of the painter’s glances thrown in his direction. He attempted to hide behind his sketchpad, feign interest in the details of his subject’s bared bosom, yet whenever he thought himself unobserved, casting a furtive look at Granville, the man had been staring right back. It was unnerving, though similarly tantalising.
However, with his liquid courage waning, Benedict readies himself to leave. “A generous offer that may be, Henry, but-” The other man’s sudden appearance beside him, and his hand so firmly planted on Benedict’s shoulder, scurries the Bridgerton’s words like a flock of anxious birds, with all the flutter accompanying such a spectacle. Benedict’s heart, as such, is racing.
“Let me paint you,” Henry Granville says, then. His pupils are dilated, an emptied pool that nevertheless appears to pierce Benedict’s gaze for deeper connection. “A gift, from one acquaintance to another. A sketch you can relay to Mrs Benedict Bridgerton upon your return home. From prior experience, I can assure you it is a great cause of excitement for husbands’ brides.” Is this hurried addition an inquiry, Benedict ponders.
“Alas, she has yet to be found,” he says, smiling ruefully.
“Thinking ahead, then,” Henry says, smiling in turn. It is the man’s last word, heightened so by added pressure of his hand, and slathered with gravelly honesty that convinces Benedict. “Please.”
Encouraged by the man’s vigour, or perhaps by the remnants of poison coursing through his veins, Benedict smacks his clad thighs with determination. “The devil be damned, let us do this.” And so, draining the dregs of the nearest bottle, Benedict moves from his stool in the corner to the centre of the room, seating himself once more, slightly uncomfortably, on the podium centerpiece. Ruffling the cloth previously draped around the ladies, he is shifting around, he knows as much, and this worry is confirmed by Henry, who chastises him, not unkindly. “Just sit, Benedict.”
So he obeys, ending up in a slightly awkward position, with one leg stretched out, and the other angled underneath, which, he notices, only leads to his thighs being displayed fully. There is something indecent about this position, yet he does not comment on that, lest he make Henry uncomfortable.
“Open your eyes, Benedict,” he hears Henry say. The man’s words are muffled, a pencil trapped between his lips. For the next moments, only the scratch of graphite on paper rings through him, its rhythm almost melodious. Benedict can see himself getting lost in the noise, once he settles up a cramped attelier of his own, somewhere in the country perhaps. He could invite Henry over, then. Though he does not want to lose himself in fancies, yet. “Can you lose the vest, and open your shirt, Benedict.” The question is as much an order in intonation as the previous ones, so naturally Henry obeys, despite the flush creeping into his cheeks.
Albeit the wine manages to uphold Benedict’s temperature, the chill housed in Henry’s chambers manages to catch up in him in excitable ways, rousing his nipples to harden involuntarily. These are aesthetic choices, surely, Benedict reminds himself. His chest, now bared, presents an intriguing study, with all of its furls and shifts of dark hairs, carving a path until it merges with the pool of black that surrounds more explicit flesh. He can imagine Henry’s hand, cloth-wrapped graphite scratching into the previously sketched outline, turning paper into an exact likeness.
“In fact, just drop it altogether. Boots, too, while you’re at it, Benedict,” Henry says. Once again, obediance comes naturally. “Just place them next to you, right there,” Henry says, waving his hand in a vague direction.
Feet are hideous subjects, Benedict believes. Almost as complicated to replicate as human hands, both caused him to throw his sketchpad across the room many a time, almost hitting Eloise in the process. Benedict trusts Henry with a naturalistic portrayal, however; from the soft bend of his sole, to the crosshatch of dark on top of his toes.
“Would you-” Henry starts. It rouses Benedict’s attention enough but nothing follows. Benedict does not interrogate further. There is an ache spreading through the bicep radiating from the arch of his elbow, where it leans on the podium. Soft hints of strained blood vessels bulging under the skin appear. Certainly, Benedict is no strongman but no lady has offered complaints before, and he attempts to remain in shape with various physical activities, though the nightly romps are especially beneficial. “Drop the breeches, Benedict,” Henry says, finally.
“Excuse me,” Benedict stumbles before he can think better of it. Though, nervous Henry might abruptly end this session after all, Benedict complies, folding his breeches and placing them next to his boots, before sitting back down, shivering. He notices, then, someone’s cup he drains with one swallow, welcoming the red comfort that spreads from inside his heart down to his groin, where, limply, Benedict’s member rests.
The other Bridgerton brothers might chuckle at this display, certainly at the eagerness with which Benedict seems to follow Granville’s every whim. This proclivity towards submission is one Benedict indulges in other matters, as well. He is partial to a lady’s assertiveness in the chambers, a strong grip around his throat as he plunges into her, or a fist tugging him close to suckle on a bosom while his length throbs inside her. Henry’s commands, thus, are just a natural extension of Benedict’s experimentations, of widening his horizons as a respectable gentleman of society.
All this reflection, coupled with Henry’s voyeuristic gaze stirs parts of Benedict alive. His cock, once soft, is enlarged to its limits, with the supple cockhead urging against pieces of skin covering it. Shifting once more, Benedict tugs the foreskin back, an instinctive gasp escaping his lips. Droplets of lust dribble onto his knuckles. “Stay like that, Benedict,” Henry whispers. “This looks marvelous; you look marvelous.”
“Henry...” Benedict says, feeling his member pulsate under his own touch. He never touched himself in front of another person before, certainly not a man of his own standing. With women, there were always other, more urgent matters to attend to, his hunger driving him towards their dripping lips, the wetness of their thighs, craving his cock. This intimacy exceeded any expectations, Henry’s eyes studying every perimeter of Benedict’s flesh, from the scar on Benedict’s bared ankle to the soft flesh of his buttocks, covered in fuzz. Desperately, Benedict wants to touch himself more, but patience is virtue and he decides not to spoil the moment, not to move until Granville says otherwise.
And so, Benedict waits, his cock hard as a mare’s hide, aching for sweet release as blood rushes through his ears from excitement, drowning out the sounds of Henry’s pencil. To occupy his thoughts, Benedict imagines his master of the hour bared before him, his naked flesh hidden behind the paper. Would Henry caress the inside of Benedict’s thighs with his tongue, he pondered. Would the artist’s limber fingers hide themselves inside Benedict’s hole, preparing him for larger matters, or would Benedict’s torture know no end, with Henry languidly ravishing inch after inch, covering every part of Benedict with soft laps and kisses, from the ball of his heel to the border where stubble ends and arteries quiver.
Henry, however, remains professionaly planted on his stool. “Can I-,” Benedict starts, unable to utter his words to completion. He never before had to ask for permission, and he finds himself positively flustered by the experience. “May I touch myself further?”
As if waiting for a query of this sorts, Henry releases a ragged, “Yes, Benedict, please. Touch yourself; for me.”
Embarrasingly, Benedict finds himself close to the precipice of lust already, the tightness of his own calloused hand teasing him from the start. “You’re a wondrous subject of study, Benedict, truly,” Henry says, perhaps noting the nervousness spreading through Benedict’s features. “Your body is an unchiseled sculputre, there is no denying, however your countenance is... divine, as cliched that may sound.” Henry does not interrput his sketching as he says this, and Benedict is grateful, lest he’d be spilling his seed already. The artist goes on, “Trust me when I say I... I cannot wait to taste you on my lips.”
“Bloody-” Benedict wants to prolong this so desperately, yet his body, urged on by Henry’s confessions, betrays him, and he finds himself convulsing, as spurts of white explode onto his naked chest. Some hits his mouth and he greedily laps at it, imagining Henry’s tongue joining in the relish of his seed. He must look obscene, flushed and dripping with sweat, his cock standing tall, still, despite the substantial load drained from him and drying on his hairs.
It takes Benedict a moment to notice the pants coming from the side of the room. His attention falls to Henry, who freed his cock from the confines of his own breeches, the heft of it making Benedict’s mouth water. Practicing restraint, Benedict remains in his position, and like his artist companion, simply observes as Henry bends over slightly, groaning while his load shoots onto the filled canvas. Jealous of his drawn double, Benedict imagines being coated in a similar fashion. Oh, how desperately he wants to plant a kiss onto those trembling fingers, to dive his tongue into the flushed mouth of Henry’s.
After he cleans up in a basin, and the door is opened to release the stench of sex into the night, Benedict steps behind Henry to admire the sketch. It is a likeness that is eerily close to the original, and the dried seed smudge pieces of Benedict in a fashion that resemble deliberate intent. “Perhaps you should make love to your art more often,” Benedict suggests.
“Playing at amateur critic again, are we?”
“I am simply stating, in my humble opinion, that you should consider turning this into a series.”
“And you would be willing to offer a helping hand?”
“And mouth, and co-” Bendict is interrupted by a brief kiss on the lips, and that desired slip of tongue that is dangerously close to rekindling Benedict’s spirits once more.
“Deal; After all, practice makes a master.”