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fayes-fics · 1 year

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Pas Quotidien

Pairing: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader (past & implied), Modern AU.

Summary: Modern AU. At 4am all sorts of things can arise…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, oral sex (m to f), flirting, bit of sexual tension, spot of brotherly competition, allusion to threesome.

Word Count: 4.7 k

Authors note: It's the baker Benedict AU no one asked for! This all started because of a hilarious typo with a mutual, so this is dedicated to them, ironic given they don’t eat bread. Unbetaed. I’m sure this is riddled with baking inaccuracies. Everything I learned about bread, is from Bake Off. Also yeah I know it’s not remotely sanitary. They’ll disinfect when they are done. Listen it’s fic, just go with it. Also yes the title is a play on the bakery chain Le Pain Quotidien. Well done for spotting.

It’s 4 am, and the bakery shines like a cosy beacon on this rainy night—the pavement outside glittering in the raindrops and the windows steamed from baking inside.

You push open the jaunty-coloured wood-framed glass door, the little brass bell above it tinkling delightfully as you do so. A warm blast of air bathed in the scent of baked delights greets you, and it’s like a soothing embrace around your chilled body.

He looks up, surprised to see you, or indeed anyone, at this hour as he stands towards the back of the space behind a huge marble counter, kneading dough.

“Ben,” you greet, shucking your raincoat. His responding smile makes your stomach flip just a little. It really shouldn't; he's just an acquaintance.

“What in the hell are you doing here at… 4:13 am,” he queries good-natured, glancing at the wall clock.

“Passing by on my way home,” you grin; some decadent carbs seem like the perfect thing to round off your late girls' night out.

“I should bolt that damn door to stop drunken reprobates wandering into my shop before I open at seven,” he jibes lightly.

“Too late now, my friend,” you giggle and swipe a macaron from the display case, hopping up to sit on the serving counter.

“Oi! That’ll be two pounds, please. And stop dirtying my serving space, if you don’t mind,” he chides affectionately.

“I’ll get the Dettol out myself,” you shoot back, not moving, and he rolls his eyes, exasperated.

You groan as you take a bite of the macaron, which melts in your mouth, a sugary almond explosion with tart raspberry filling.

“Fuck me, that's so good,” your praise muffled around the treat.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” he chuckles and keeps kneading.

“You should. I’d marry this macaron; I’d have its bloody babies,” you declare, still slightly tipsy, finishing it with a second bite.

“But you just ate your husband,” his amiable laugh echoes on the pristine white subway-tiled walls.

“I'm a black widow baby,” you sing the line probably tunelessly, but he seems to enjoy it nonetheless.

“Dangerous,” he shoots back, and something in his crooked smile makes the room temperature creep a little higher.

“Maybe…” you simper and gesture for him to continue working, hopping down on the staff side and wandering closer.

Your eyes are drawn to him. Watching him work. A dusting of flour on his forearms, a streak on his cheek. A black apron, almost white with flour, over a fitted T-shirt. You try not to stare at his arms as they flex, but you mostly fail. Lots of kneading makes for very shapely arms, apparently.

“What are you making?” you inquire, genuinely interested.

“Pain de Campagne,” he supplies, the French accent dripping perfectly from his tongue. A sign of those months spent chez Paris at patisserie school. And definitely not remotely attractive, No, not at all.

“Looks like hard work,” you offer casually.

“Always worth it in the end,” he assures with a wink, an errant curl flopping onto his forehead as he pushes on the dough. Oh, that’s not helping.

“I couldn’t do that,” you proclaim.

“Yes, you could; it’s not difficult; it’s just a technique. I can teach you,” he shrugs.

“Haha,” you deadpan.

“I mean it. Apron’s hanging over there; the sink is there to wash up thoroughly,” he gestures around him.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope,” he responds, popping the ‘p’ rather obnoxiously.

“Fine,” you throw your hands up, deciding this could be fun. You’ve certainly never done baking at this time of night (or morning, depending on your perspective) before.

Washed and aproned up, you move closer, and he stops kneading to turn towards you.

“Well, you’ll need to remove your jewellery if you don’t want it ruined,” he laughs. “Also, roll up your sleeves. Then rewash your hands,” he lectures.

“Okay, okay, Mr Bossy,” you grouse.

There’s that rich chuckle again, the one that seems to slide down your spine like honey. Instead of dwelling on it, you do as asked, leaving your rings by the sink.

“That’s better,” he smiles as you return to his side, and your shoulder bumps his arm with a smirk.

Flouring up is his next instruction, and you do so, ensuring your hands and wrists are well powdered.

“Okay, so stand here,” he says, stepping back, and you slide into the spot he was just standing in. “Alright, now grab that dough,” he nods.

You do so, your finger sinking into it. It’s pillowy light.

“Oh my god, it’s so squishy!” you exclaim, and he can’t help his guffaw at your outburst.

“Yes, very apt. Squishy indeed. That’s the gluten; it’s what makes the bread rise,” and suddenly, he is standing right behind you.

Two arms encircle you and cover your hands. They are warm, dry with flour, and so large you can no longer see your own. You try not to stare at the map of veins stretched over tendons as they curl around yours, guiding your movements.

“Now the key is to stretch the dough out and really get it aerated,” his voice is calming and patient but so close to your ear like that is, well, slightly throwing you for a loop.

As he guides your hands through vigorous moves, you feel his forearms over yours and his elbows bracketing your body. It seems so, well, there’s no other word for it; it’s intimate. His chin almost rests on your shoulder as he walks you through the motions. Your biceps begin to ache as the work continues, and you have a newfound admiration for what it takes to run a successful little bakery like this. You can’t imagine getting up at 2 am and doing this every day. You also really understand his arms now.

“I think it’s there now,” he remarks quietly, stilling your movements, his words soft beside your ear. You can feel his body solid behind you, not quite touching but so close you can feel the heat radiating on the back of your knees and shoulder blades.

“Are you sure?” you check, and you’re honestly not sure what that question refers to.

“Mmm hmm,” he hums, and it feels like it vibrates through you.

“What comes next?” you don’t mean it to be a whisper, but it is.

“Second proving,” he answers, and somehow it sounds sexy. “It’s got to rise some more. Get even squishier,” he adds with a wry smile that you see out of the corner of your eye.

“Are you making fun of me, Mr Bridgerton?” you narrow your eyes and lean back against him as if giving him a slight body check.

That was a mistake. He seems to curl around you even more. Heat seeping through the thin layers between you, the air feels even more humid as a trickle of perspiration runs down from your hairline over your temple. You see his eyes track the movement sideways on.

“You've not done it right if you’re not just a little sweaty,” his voice pitched low, and suddenly it’s not the only part of your body that feels damp.

“Applicable to so many things,” you assert, unmistakable in your intent, rocking back just a fraction.

“Very true,” he opines. Then he guides your hands down onto the cold marble on either side of the large mass of dough. “This always cools me down,” he murmurs, his fingers sinking between yours and pressing onto the smooth surface.

“Delightfully refreshing,” you agree; your pulse is hammering as he seems to lean you further over the counter. The press of his body entirely wanted.

“Yes, it feels good on your skin,” he mumbles, and there is a flurry of movement as he expertly picks up the dough and throws it aside on the long wide surface. Then his hands are back on yours, leaning and pushing you forward until your elbow bends and your forearms rest on the cool marble.

“Is that helping?” He whispers, and now the message is blatant.

“I still feel too hot,” you reply softly, biting your lip and shooting him your best flirtatious sideways glance.

“Then we will have to get more of your skin on this surface,” he lectures, and the hands move from covering yours to your waist, where the apron strings are tied around your front. You stutter his name as he expertly plucks the bow open.

“Tell me to stop,” he goads as the strings fall away, tugging them from around your sides. You clamp down on your lip, not wanting to make a single noise in protest.

There is a gentle snag on the underside of your chin as he lifts the apron up and around your head, then lets it fall to the floor as he drags you back upright against his body. His name is on your lips again, breathy and anticipatory. Almost disbelieving this is happening.

“Lock. The. Door,” he rumbles, his breath hot in your ear. Each word is a sentence that sets something alight in your veins even as he steps away.

You scurry around the counter and bustle to the front door flicking the deadbolt. Behind, you hear him putting the dough into the large proving drawer and then the lights suddenly flick off, plunging the room into atmospheric shadows. All you can hear is the pitter-patter of rain on the street outside and the occasional swish of puddles under tyres as the odd car, mostly Ubers, drive by.

“Get back over here,” he growls, and your knees want to give way.

Are you really going to do this? Let this delicious man lay you out on his marble worktop and do whatever he wants. There’s a screaming chorus of ‘hell yes’ in your mind as you do your best to walk with a seductive swing in your hips silhouetted by the window behind you. He has taken off his apron and now stands in a fitted t-shirt and jeans. Even in this low light, he looks so good clothed you almost don’t care if you don’t see him naked. Almost.

You squeak slightly as large hands grab your waist and pull you into him roughly, looking at each other eye-to-eye for the first time. It’s quite breathtaking how beautiful he is this close up.

“We have 45 minutes until we can make loaves.” The almost pun is not lost on you. “How would you like to fill that time?” he buzzes.

“What do you suggest?” your voice cracks, slightly hypnotised by his stare.

A corner of tongue peaks out of his mouth, and you track it across his bottom lip, fascinated by the slick trail it leaves behind that glimmers in the streak of the streetlamp from outside.

“I suggest we cool your naked skin on this nice balmy surface and see what happens from there,” it's velvet soft and so rich you want to bathe in his voice.

“Okay…” you mutter, almost swaying now.

You watch large floury hands dust white trails onto your black shirt, popping each button. Your own breathing sounds too loud. Just as the last one relents, and your blouse hangs open a fraction, both hands move, cupping your jaw and tilting your head as his mouth descends. The slightly grainy texture of the flour on his fingertips against your skin adds a frisson.

The first brush of his lips on yours is electric. Tentative at first, it soon grows, heatedly mashing together in waves of intensity, mouths peaking open, and tongues touching. His hands move again, this time tugging your top from your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the ground. Just in your bra and jeans, you band your arms around his neck, sinking tighter into the embrace, revelling in the feel of those dusty hands sweeping down over the dip of your back. Your lips meet over and over.

He tastes of sweet baked goods - like almond croissants and madeleines - probably a batch he baked before you came in, and you sag against him wanting to swallow him and chase more.

“Ben…” you gasp into his mouth as a hand ventures inside the back of your jeans and grabs the bare flesh of your bottom.

“Get naked,” he commands softly “you feel entirely too overheated in all this clothing,” he teases.

You chuckle; it’s only jeans and underwear you have left at this point. But then, the bakery is very warm, and all that dough work was very athletic. You fumble with your button and zip as his hand kneads your bottom with that firm motion he used on the dough. It feels wonderful, his lips trailing down your neck, his other hand helping peel your jeans over your hips. They hit the floor, and then you are being lifted off the ground and placed onto the marble, the cold, smooth surface making you squeak as it touches your bottom.

“Feeling cooler already?” he asks, a lopsided grin tugging at his handsome face as his hands round your knees and drag them apart, stepping between, the metal fastener on the hip of his jeans catching the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You nod in response as he moves in for another fiery kiss, your mouths at the same height now. His fingers curl around the back of your knees, pulling your legs up and wide as your hands sink into his hair, loving the baritone noise he makes over your tongue as you pull lightly on the thick chestnut strands. Those large hands slowly make their way up your thighs, caressing your skin, warm powdery tips setting your skin afire. As you kiss, they slide around your hips and up your back, winding delicate patterns until they reach the clasp of your bra.

“You still seem too warm to me,” his tone velvet smooth, “better take this off just to be safe,” he adds seductively and expertly flicks the hooks undone. He gently pulls the straps off your shoulders, and you can't help but giggle over his lips as he raises an eyebrow and comically flicks the bra away. It sails into the air, landing god knows where.

“Much better,” he hums sensually, his lips back on yours, bodies pressed together, the slightly bobbled fibres of his top catching your nipples.

“Take this off,” you implore between kisses, tugging at his t-shirt. He smirks and half-steps back, whipping it off and throwing it to the floor.

“Baking does wonders for the body,” you sigh, trailing a finger down the divot between his defined abdominal muscles as he huffs a laugh at your statement.

Then there is no talking for a while as he takes your hand from his torso, kisses your knuckles chastely, then runs his tongue obscenely down to your fingertips, drawing all of them into his mouth as you stare wide-eyed, feeling the strength of suction on each digit, the lathe of his tongue. It's a blatant preview of what is to come, and you can’t stop your breath from becoming uneven.

Your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet smack, and he is leaning in, driving your whole back onto the cold marble; he grabs your feet and places them wide apart on the countertop, your toes curling over the edge.

He is staring down at you, a heavy gaze cataloguing everything from your kiss-dampened lips to your lacy underwear. With your legs spread so wide, you know he can see your arousal, can smell it in the air. The remnants of flour tickle your bottom as you curve your back upwards, looking at him entreatingly just to touch you somewhere, anywhere.

“Please, Ben…” you murmur, and a trace of a smile ghosts the corner of his mouth. He leans right over you but doesn't make contact, breathing warm air over your collarbone, down over your left nipple and across to your right, pebbling painfully at just the wisp of sensation.

“Are you feeling colder yet?” his voice is deadly, gravelly and dark, skittering over your ribs.

“No…,” you admit, “Im feeling much hotter.” Your body flushed with arousal and anticipation.

“Hmm, what a shame,” he offers in mock sympathy. “I think the only remedy may be to remove these….” you gasp as his hand covers your underwear, and it’s so large that, as his fingers hook into the top of the material, the heel of his palm bearing down onto your clit, which he grinds a little for good measure.

Before you know it, he tilts your hips and drags the knickers away from your body, down your legs. You now lay utterly naked, exposed and almost shivering with desire, the hot steamy air from the ovens contrasting wonderfully with the chilly marble under your back.

Now he runs his nose over your skin as he skirts lower, inhaling almost obscenely, scenting your body. There's no mistaking the aroma in the air now, and he seems feral for it, his pupils blown wide as he tilts his head to look up at you.

“Let hope you locked that door really well,” he banters and then you almost scream as he suddenly moves lower and ploughs his tongue roughly into your slit, groaning as he does so.

“Holy shit Ben,” you cry out and throw your head back; the only thing you can see now is the steamed window, upside down, rivulets of rainwater and condensation streaking like trails of golden thread under the yellow lamplight outside.

The prideful noise he makes at your expletive just ratchets you higher, and you know you are leaking onto his chin now. He sucks forcefully on your clit, his tongue rolling a wave that makes your toes curl harder around the counter edge and your fingernails scramble for purchase on the marble. You move one hand between your legs and grab his hair, scraping against his scalp, tugging, making him snarl.

Then it’s a heady swirl of sensation as he expertly transports your body and mind away from the frisson of fear about passersby seeing this debauched tableau, should they linger on the pavement outside. To somewhere routed purely in your body and the way he conducts it like a symphony with his lips and tongue, one arm banded strong around your thigh, the other spidering up to pinch and tease your nipple. You know the whimpering noises you make are echoing loudly up the walls, but you cannot stop yourself.

“Come for me,” he pants desperately; just as a long slender finger nudges you open and strokes gently inside you, you see stars.

“Don’t stop Ben, oh god, please, don’t stop,” you chant, feeling yourself spiralling higher, his tongue lathing at just the right rhythm to make your eyes roll back, just the right amount of suction to make your skin feel hot and tight, ready to burst.

He dangles you over the precipice for a few seconds, then, with an edge of his teeth, takes you over. Your body goes stiff, and he holds you down forcefully as you bear down against his face and writhe, staccato breathy cries echoing up the walls as you clench hard around his finger and blood pounds in your ears.

For a moment, you just lay there whimpering as he gently caresses your belly with gossamer fingers and delicately kisses your inner thighs.

“Fucking hell,” you exhale, “that was…” you trail off breathily, unable to form a sentence, and he huffs a warm bemused breath over your dewy skin. “Do you want to…” you almost feel sheepish offering sex for some reason.

“Oh no,” he chuckles darkly, “I’m just getting started here….” His mouth is back on you, making you whine loudly, overwrought and still fluttering from your orgasm.

“I can’t again….”

“Oh yes, you can,” he assures in a tone that is lethal.

You tilt to look down at his handsome face framed by your still quivering thighs when something makes your heart leap into your mouth.

“Brother, why on earth are the lights off?” an unmistakable voice rings out from behind the door into the kitchen area—Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, Benedict’s older brother, head of the family, CEO of Bridgerton Investments and very troublesome to your hormones. He must have entered via the back of the building.

Your head shoots up, but Benedict puts a finger over his lips, signalling you to stay quiet, so you do. The menace doesn’t stop teasing you, though—licking a long, slow, decadent swipe up your folds as you breathe heavily and swallow your moan.

“Stay here, don't move; I’ll get rid of him,” he whispers, jumping to his feet, and with a wink, he pulls on his t-shirt and is off.

You stare, incredulous, as he loosely hangs an apron around his neck to conceal a rather delicious-looking bulge in his jeans, then disappears through the kitchen door. Did he really just tell you to stay sprawled naked on his worktop?

“Brother,” Benedict’s greeting is muffled through the wall. “I was napping between proving rounds; hence the lights are off. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not staying, on my way to catch a flight, just dropping those keys we talked about,” Anthony replies as you lay stock still, too drowsy from bliss to do anything but take slow breaths. “I’ll just grab a croissant for breakfast and be on my way.….”

“No!” Benedict squeaks. “I’ve… I’ve run out!” he scrambles the lie.

“Please,” Anthony dismisses, “I know you run your bakery better than that. And I know they'll be warm; I can smell they came out of the oven less than an hour ago.”

“Ok fine, but I’ll get it for you,” Benedict rushes out, and it sounds like he’s trying to block the door, but it’s too late.

The kitchen door swings open, and Anthony is striding towards the display case, Benedict bustling behind him, trying to block the sight of you naked on the worktop across the room. Anthony doesn’t glance to the side yet, but you’re frozen. Your muscles just unable to move. The stupid part of your brain justifying in the dark, perhaps he won’t see you at all. It’s all happening so fast, and your heart is pounding again.

“Switch the bloody lights on, will you?” Anthony gripes and reaches for the switch. Suddenly the shop is all lit up. And you’ve lost your chance to hide—to run.

“Fuckkkkking hell!” Anthony cries as he spies you over Benedict’s shoulder, his attempt to shield you unsuccessful.

Suddenly your body is responsive, and you jump down and curl into a ball behind the worktop, mortified, before he can see your face, see it’s you.

“Is this what you are doing at 4 am?? Fucking on your workspace? And with all these bloody windows?!?” you hear Anthony exclaim, sounding shocked.

“No!” Benedict defends, “I’ve never done anything remotely like this before I….”

The fact he admits that makes something in your heart melt just a touch.

“It’s unsanitary, brother,” Anthony cuts in. “It could get you shut down if you’re found out,”

“I know that!” Benedict decries.

Still, you hide, pulling on your knickers and top, head still fuzzy from the mind-blowing orgasm. You cannot find your bra for the life of you; glancing up, you see it hanging on a blade of a ceiling fan. Fucking hell, Benedict. You know you can’t hide forever, and your mortification will only worsen the longer you pretend this isn’t happening. So you slowly stand up, already wincing.

“Y/n?!?” Anthony splutters, and you want the ground to swallow you up. You also don’t miss how his eyes drop to your nipples, poking obviously through your shirt without your bra, then, as they come into view, to your bare legs beneath the shirt.

This is awkward. So awkward. About eight months prior, you had a drunken but amazing quickie with Anthony, but since it’s just been flirty banter, assuming that’s where it would stay. Thinking it was just harmless fun. But as you see a flash in his eyes now, it looks an awful lot like jealousy as well as desire. Damn, it’s attractive.

“Anthony,” you nod, trying to appear nonchalant.

“You are fucking my brother?” he gusts, disbelieving.

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Well, what the hell is this then?”

“We… we hadn’t got that far yet,” you respond quietly, and Benedict looks agog at you.

“So this is the first time?” Anthony is grilling you as if his younger brother isn’t even there.

“Yes,” it’s timid.

“Why him?” Anthony growls, and something in your body is at war. You know he won’t ever hurt you, but seeing this man all physically riled up and bothered is, well, holy hell, it's hot.

“I like him,” you whisper.

“More than me?” he takes a step closer, and you see over his shoulder that Benedict tenses.

“I didn’t think there was anything between us”, you confess honestly. “Anthony, you've made no other move since that night months ago.”

“You had sex?!” Benedict splutters.

“Once,” you placate, meeting his eyes, “drunkenly.” It somehow feels essential to add that secondary detail.

Anthony scoffs, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“It’s not that you suddenly want me, is it? It’s that you don’t want him to have me, isn’t it?” you goad.

You know you’ve hit the nail on the head when Anthony goes for cutting. “I barely even remember it at this point,” he sniffs.

“Fine, then get out, so I can fuck him,” you challenge, nodding towards Benedict, intentionally using crude words to shock him, shock them both. Benedict’s face is a picture, but you also see traces of lust and victory. That perhaps you want him just as much, if not more.

You watch a vein throb in Anthony’s temple and know if he made a move to claim you in some stupid moment of male pride or familial one-upmanship, right now, you’d let him. Frankly, you’d let them both fuck you right here, and you’re not ashamed to admit it to yourself. You cross your arms defiantly, knowing your haphazardly thrown-on blouse frames your breasts.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch?” you retort.

Anthony takes a step closer, and the tension notches up, your chest heaving just a little more. You can’t look at him directly; you fix on a spot over his left shoulder. If you glanced over his right, you’d be caught in Benedict’s gaze, which also feels dangerous right now.

“Choose. Right now,” Anthony orders, low and slow.

You make a noise of derision, but he just stands there, raised eyebrow, hands flexing slightly at his side. You see, on the periphery of your vision, Benedict leaning in. Keen to know your response.

“Right now,” you exhale, “I’m choosing to leave.” You nettle, not appreciating being used as a power play on his little brother. But mostly, not wanting to admit you can’t answer that question.

You peek over at Benedict. “I’ll be back for my rings and my bra once you remove it from your damn ceiling,” you wink at him and enjoy the surprise on Anthony’s face as his eyes naturally shoot up.

Then you feel both of them watching you as you grab your jeans and shoes, stalking towards the coat rack and starting to dress to go out in the downpour.

“Okay, fine,” Anthony’s voice calls out in a loud sigh, “you don’t have to pick.”

You pause in the motions, turning back to them.

“What are you saying?” you frown.

He looks over at Benedict, and some kind of silent shorthand is exchanged.

“It’s a private jet; it can wait for me,” Anthony states with a killer look.

“Many hands make light work?” Benedict adds bewitchingly.

Are they really suggesting… both of them? Together? Their eyes are both hungry, and their faces are hopeful. The spike of want and triumph in your veins is almost breathtaking. The pile of clothes drops loudly from your hands to the wood floor.

“Okay. I’m listening…,” you enunciate slowly, a smirk growing on your face as you take a pace forward.

There are two very seductive smiles back at you.

This night is definitely ‘pas quotidien’.

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