I'm not accepting requests at this time in order to work on the backlog and the multi-chapter fics I have planned. Thank you!
Requests
BEFORE YOU REQUEST, PLEASE READ:
if you're interested in sending a request my way, i'd love it if you could specify what you're looking for. This could include:
character/s - i default to benophie, but i'm open to writing any of the main bridgerton characters, any ship, any dynamic (even friendships!)
scenario or premise - what's the vibe? what's the setup?
trope/tags - love at first sight, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, whatever speaks to you
specific details - setting, inspiration, a line of dialogue you love, a particular dynamic. honestly, if you have a scene in mind and just let me build from there, I'm so here for it
kink - if you're requesting something spicy, let me know what you're after
Requests usually become one-shots or drabbles, but if an idea really grabs me, i might expand it into something longer. no promises, but it's possible.
LOGISTICS:
use the ask/contact link to send requests (anon or with your user, both work!)
requests are currently open
i reserve the right to decline any request, for any reason
i have a backlog of 60+ requests and i'm working through them in order (mostly), in addition to my own ideas. this takes time. i'm not ignoring you, i promise - your request will be answered
please don't spam your request if i haven't answered immediately. that doesn't help and it clutters my inbox
i do this for fun. i do this for free. patience is genuinely appreciated
THANK YOU to everyone who's read, commented, and supported. you've kept me writing, and that means everything.
Turnabout is fair play. š Orgasm denial. This time Benedict denying Sophie?
Good Boy
TAGS: Modern AU, overheard confessions, party, Dom/sub undertones, the ex evisceration, Dom Benedict Bridgerton, orgasm denial, spanking, pussy spanking, praise kink, fingerfucking, oral, explicit sexual content, she was so wrong about him
Inspired by the Lele Pons' interview where Luke wanted to remind everyone that Benedict was, in fact, the diamond of the season. Here's a long drabble? a short one-shot?
Shine Bright Like Diamonds
TAGS: Canon Compliant, Post Queen's Ball, Post Gazebo Dance, Betrothed Benophie, Playful Banter, Tenderness, Fluff, Midnight, Cinderella Callback, Diamond of the Season, Freedom, Kissing, Regency Era, Bridgerton House
His hand rested at the small of her back, and they turned in slow circles to no music at all.
The gazebo was dark save for what the moon offered, pale streams of light shifting across the floorboards as they moved. The ball had ended an hour ago. The carriages had departed, the torches along Westminster extinguished one by one, and still they danced, Sophie's cheek pressed to the lapel of his evening coat, his chin resting against her hair. She could hear his heartbeat through the wool, steady and slightly too fast, and the intimacy of the sound, of being close enough to count the beats, kept making her eyes sting.
The bell at St. George's tolled. The first deep note rolled across the rooftops, and Sophie lifted her head.
"It is midnight."
Benedict's hand tightened against her spine. The moonlight caught the asymmetry of his smile, the crease beside his mouth that appeared only when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. His cravat hung loose at his throat. She had done that, tugging it free during their first kiss after the waltz, when the ballroom had still been full and she had not cared about any of it, because he had stood on the dance floor in front of the Queen and the ton and Araminta's livid, frozen face and asked her to be his wife.
"Must you flee?" he asked, and the old joke was there beneath it, the masquerade, the girl in silver who had vanished before he could learn her name. He asked it lightly. His thumb pressed into her waist with a steadiness that contradicted the lightness.
"I can stay as long as you like."
"I was hoping you might stay forever."
Sophie kissed him. Rose on her toes and brought her mouth to his, her fingers curling into his collar, and Benedict made a low, grateful sound against her lips and pulled her closer. He kissed with total, consuming attention, both hands cradling the back of her head, and Sophie's knees softened, and she gripped him by his waist and held on.
She pulled back. His forehead dropped to hers. Their breathing was uneven, tangled, and the midnight bell tolled its final note and faded.
"We must return to our separate rooms," Sophie managed. "Your mother saidā"
"My mother has been deliberate placing you in the room across the hall; she has known about our nightly visits since before I proposed, I assure you." He drew her hand through his arm and led her down the gazebo steps. "Come. Before I lose what remains of my propriety and do something that will give the neighbours material for a decade."
They walked. The garden path was silver in the moonlight, gravel crunching beneath their shoes. Benedict laced his fingers through hers, and Sophie pressed against his side, and the warmth of him through the layers of evening clothes was absurd, excessive, as though his body ran several degrees hotter than any reasonable person's.
"I still cannot believe the Queen said that," Sophie said.
Benedict glanced down. "Which particular royal pronouncement? She said several things this evening, most of them in between that maniacal laughter."
"When she tilted my chin." Sophie's free hand drifted to her jaw, the phantom pressure of Queen Charlotte's fingers, the cool appraisal of those dark, sharp eyes. The room had gone silent. Benedict beside her. Araminta rigid as a marble column. Posy beaming. Rosamund's expression curdled. Lady Danbury and Alice Mondrich watching with the satisfied calm of women whose machinations had unfolded precisely on schedule. "She said I would have made a wonderful diamond."
"You would have." Benedict squeezed her hand. "You would have been extraordinary. The Queen has impeccable judgement, as she herself will tell you at every available opportunity."
"I was too stunned to respond. I curtsied. Twice, I think. Your mother had to steer me away by the elbow."
"I was standing directly behind you, and I can confirm you curtsied precisely once, and it was flawless." His thumb traced her knuckle, circling the betrothal ring. "I can also confirm that Araminta's expression was worth every indignity of the past six months. I intend to have it painted from memory and hung above the mantelpiece."
Sophie pressed her face into his shoulder to smother the laugh. His coat smelled of sandalwood and the garden, green and cool. "You are wicked."
"I am vindicated. There is a meaningful distinction." He pulled her closer against his side, his arm tightening. "However."
"However?"
"However, I feel it is worth noting, for the historical record and in the interest of absolute accuracy, that the diamond of this season was already named. At the masquerade ball. Months ago." He tilted his head toward her with an expression of such transparent, boyish vanity that Sophie bit the inside of her cheek. "That diamond, as all of London is aware, was me."
"Benedict."
"The Queen told Penelope Featherington directly. Who then published it in Whistledown. Three paragraphs devoted to what she called my 'undeniable lustre.' Common knowledge. A matter of public record."
"You are not seriouslyā"
"I am entirely seriously. The Queen broke precedent. She had never before named a gentleman. Colin did not speak to me for two full days, which were, I confess, the most peaceful forty-eight hours of my adult life." He was grinning now, the wide, crooked, asymmetric grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Sophie wanted to kiss him again and also to shove him gently into the rosebushes. "My point, which I am making with characteristic grace, is that you are marrying the diamond of the season. This is an objective fact endorsed by the Crown. You are welcome."
"I am marrying a man whose mother keeps the Whistledown clipping pressed in a journal by her bedside."
"She also keeps my first painting. And a lock of my hair from infancy. And, I suspect, a detailed accounting of every woman I have ever looked at for longer than three seconds, annotated by family fortune and general suitability, though she will deny this under oath." His head dropped sideways, resting against her shoulder as they walked, and the weight of it, the easy, unthinking intimacy, made Sophie's chest compress. He was too tall for the angle. He did not seem to care. "None of them were you."
Sophie's fingers tightened in his. "You are being charming again."
"I am being honest. The charm is incidental."
They reached the terrace steps. Bridgerton House rose above them, warm brick and candlelit windows, the French doors standing ajar where someone had left them open. Inside, the hall was quiet, the sconces dimmed, the household settled into the particular hush of a family that had been instructed, firmly, not to wait up. Beyond those doors, a life she had been afraid to imagine. A family that had fought for her. A home.
No more Araminta. No more careful, watchful silence. No more smiling whilst being diminished. The relief of it was so vast it had no edges; it simply kept expanding, pressing behind her sternum, thinning the air.
Benedict straightened from her shoulder at the threshold. His face was half in candlelight, half in moonlight, and his expression had shifted, the playfulness giving way to something raw and unguarded. He turned to face her and took both her hands.
"I proposed to you on a dance floor in front of a hundred people," he said. "Which was, I realise in retrospect, somewhat public."
"Somewhat."
"I did not ask whether you wanted an audience. I simplyā" He exhaled. "I could not wait. I saw you standing there, and I could not wait a single moment longer, and so I stood before you in front of the Queen and every person who had ever whispered about either of us, and Iā" His thumbs traced circles against her wrists. His voice had gone rough at the seams. "I would do it again. Every time. In every room. But I should like to say it once more, just here, where it is only us."
Sophie looked up at him. The garden behind her, dark and fragrant with wisteria. The house before her, open and waiting.
"I love you," Benedict said. "I have loved you since a masquerade when a woman in silver told me I put all the attention on others so no one might see beneath my surface, and then disappeared before I could prove her right." His grip tightened on her hands. "I loved you when I searched for you and could not find you. I loved you when you were brave enough to let me, even though every experience of your life had taught you that wanting things was dangerous." He brought her knuckles to his mouth and kissed the ring on her finger. "I shall love you when this is easy and when it is not, and I shall endeavour, daily, to deserve the extraordinary fortune of having you choose me back."
Sophie's vision blurred. She blinked, hard. "That is a great deal of talking for a man who has been told he talks too much."
His laugh was wet, startled. "You are impossible."
"You proposed to me in front of the Queen. I think we have established that you are the impossible one." She freed one hand and reached up to his jaw, her thumb tracing the faint stubble along the hinge of it, and he turned his face into her palm. His lips pressed against her wrist. "I love you. I want you to know that I chose this. That I chose you. Freely. Without persuasion and without obligation."
Benedict closed his eyes. His breath shuddered against her skin.
Then he kissed her. Gathered her against his chest and kissed her at the threshold, his hands at her waist, her fingers threading into the curling hair at his nape. Slow and tasting of champagne and the particular sweetness of someone allowing himself, finally, to have the thing he wanted. Sophie's lips parted for him, and his mouth traced hers, her lower lip, the corner of her smile, the soft place beneath her jaw that made her spine loosen.
"Inside," she murmured against his mouth. "Before your mother appears on the landing in her dressing gown with opinions."
"She will have opinions regardless. She will have opinions at breakfast. She will have opinions for the rest of our natural lives." His lips grazed her neck, lingering at the place where her pulse flickered. "One more moment."
Sophie tilted her chin to give him better access and kissed the hinge of his jaw, the rough stubble scraping her lips. His arms tightened around her. The night air stirred between them, and the faint, distant sound of a carriage on the square.
She drew back. Smoothed his ruined cravat, a hopeless cause. Pressed her palm flat against his chest where his heart knocked, rapid and certain, against her hand.
"Take me inside, diamond."
Benedict's grin was luminous and wrecked. He took her hand and led her across the threshold into the warm, candlelit hall, and the French doors swung shut behind them, and the last of the wisteria-scented air slipped through the gap before the latch caught.
This just popped in my mind but can you write something that involves a clit sucker and praising? Gentle, tender, encouraging, definitely inappropriate but not to the point that it's degrading? š
I leaned into the gentle, tender, and encouraging for this one. I hope you like it.
At Peace
The mirror is still fogged when I come out of the shower, my reflection a soft blur of beige and white terrycloth, which is honestly a mercy because I don't think I can look at my own face right now.
Benedict is leaning in the doorway holding a glass of Pinot Noir and a toy from my bedside table, and the specific combination of these two objects in his hands would, under different circumstances, be extremely funny.
"Hydration," he says, offering the wine. "And a palate cleanser."
I drain the glass in three gulps. "You're comparing my clit sucker to a sorbet course."
"Come on, you're listing to one side."
He's right. My skeleton is doing something approximate. I follow him into the bedroom, which he has, I note, staged with the care he usually reserves for still lifes: fresh sheets, the bedside lamp at its dimmest setting, the duvet turned down on my side. His copy of The Waves is splayed open on his pillow. On my nightstand there's a half-finished sketch of a pair of sea otters he did last week that I haven't moved because it makes me unreasonably happy every time I see it.
I drop the towel. The air is cool on my skin.
"Bad one?" he asks.
"My patient coded." The words come out automatic, the clinical reflex, the voice I use when I'm reporting rather than feeling. "We got her back. Then we didn't. Her daughter brought in a photograph from the eighties. She was a dancer."
He doesn't say I'm sorry. He knows exactly what I do with I'm sorry. Instead his thumb finds the knot above my collarbone and presses it, once, with a kind of certainty that has been paying very close attention.
"Lie down, Soph."
I do. Face-first into the pillow, which smells of his shampoo, and I press my nose into it and exhale through approximately six hundred layers of accumulated cortisol.
The mattress dips. The soft click of the toy turning on, a low hum, very discreet, like it's also exhausted and trying its best.
"Roll over, baby. Let me see you."
I flip onto my back. He's dressed in grey sweats and the ancient Cambridge hoodie that smells of his studio ā turpentine, linseed oil, and him, which is somehow deeply comforting in a way I would never admit to a therapist. His hair is doing the thing where it's been run-through too many times. Bedhead, sex hair ā whatever it is, it's when he's most gorgeous, and it is deeply unfair.
His free hand settles warm on my stomach.
"Already a little wet for me," he says, fingers trailing lower between my thighs, voice with that particular proprietary satisfaction in it. "Just from turning to face me."
"That's residual shower moisture."
"Of course it is." He leans down and kisses my knee. "I'm convinced." Then he presses the toy against my clit and I stop being witty about anything.
The vibration isn't a buzz, it's a pulse, broad and sonic and deep, and my back comes off the mattress before I've registered deciding to move. It's the specific sensation of something very tightly wound beginning, with extreme reluctance, to uncoil.
"There you are," he murmurs. He holds the toy steady, his other hand warm on my hip. "Just breathe. That's it."
I try to say something about his sudden expertise in female anatomy but what actually comes out of my mouth is a noise I would prefer not to be transcribed.
The images from the day blur. The monitor. The compressions. The way the daughter held the photograph. All of it softening at the edges, pushed to the periphery by this insistent, patient pressure.
He moves the toy in slow circles, varying the pressure. My hips start a slow, involuntary roll I'm pretending is voluntary.
"These little sounds," he says. His thumb traces my hip. "You lock them up all day."
"I work in a hospital, Benedict. Moaning is notā" My breath catches. "āgenerally encouraged."
"Well." He increases the pressure, just slightly and stays there, sucking my clit, and my fingers twist into the sheets. "You're not there now."
The orgasm builds differently than it usually does; wide and accumulating, a wave rising from somewhere low in my spine. His fingers slide inside me, two, curling, and the dual sensation tips the balance entirely. I come with a shuddering, boneless exhale, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from sheer relief, my whole body one long, quiet surrender.
He turns the toy off. The silence settles.
He pulls his fingers out and shifts, gathering me against his chest, my back to his front, the duvet coming over us. His arm is a solid band across my waist, his mouth against my hair.
"Okay?" he says.
I nod. My voice is somewhere in the sheets.
His fingers trace idle patterns on my stomach, very slow, while my breathing deepens. The sea otter sketch watches serenely from the nightstand.
"This was all I really needed today," I manage, eventually.
āTwo young spouses, dressed with refined elegance, are caught in a moment of intimacy after their wedding. They are finally alone in the bedroom, and we witness their strong, profound passionā¦a genuine, trusting love warms their hearts and results in the deep and spontaneous embrace.ā
āHe loved me.ā āOf course he did. How could anyone not?ā [ā¦] āI have a dowry. That still does not make me a legitimate or an appropriate match for a gentleman, butāā āI do not care about the money. And I do not care about whether you are appropriate or not.ā
{ The one where Sophie is annotating a script with a stolen Montblanc. Benedict is cycling across London with lamb flatbreads and losing arguments about laundry science. This is the (penultimate!) chapter where love looks like arguing about wine stains, and discovering a drawing someone made of you six years before they knew your name. }
Vicar Benedict Bridgerton has spent weeks trying to ignore his growing obsession with Sophie, the new maid at the estate. When she enters his confessional to confess to "unpure thoughts" about him, the collar finally comes off.
Or you can do something else. Whatever you wish
Ah, the one with all the priest!Ben fics requesting for more of the man in the holy cloth. Praise be to God! Anyway, I kept him as a priest because vicar seems very high up the priesthood ladder, and I feel like Benedict would more likely be a Father Jud type like in Wake Up Dead Man (which I've now just learned is the correct title of that movie, and not Knives Out 3). Here's my take on priest!Ben:
Bless Me Father
The latch clicked, and someone knelt on the other side of the screen.
Benedict kept his eyes on the grain of the oak partition. He wore the stole. He wore the collar. Both pressed against his throat with the insistence of a promise he was increasingly uncertain he could keep.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
His hand, resting on his thigh, went still.
He knew her voice. He had spent nine weeks studying its architecture ā the measured, low register she used when addressing him across the vicarage kitchen, the way her accent slipped half a degree warmer in the evenings when she forgot to police it. Sophie Baek, who did not discuss her previous employment, who read Latin when she thought he was not observing, who had arrived in late winter with a single carpetbag and a quality of self-containment he recognised because it mirrored his own.
"It has been ā" A pause. The rustle of fabric on the kneeler. "A considerable while since my last confession."
"Go on." His voice came out steady. The collar pressed.
"I have had thoughts. About a man." A beat. "Impure thoughts. Specifically regarding a man I see daily. A man of the cloth."
"Sophieā"
"You asked me to go on, Father."
The formality of it was surgical. He closed his eyes. "Continue."
"I think about his hands," she said. Her voice had dropped to the lower register, the private one, stripped of deference. "The way he holds the chalice at communion. The length of his fingers. I think about those fingers in my hair. Pulling." His breath shortened. The stole was damp where it met the collar. "I think about his mouth when he reads the sermon. I do not hear the words. I watch his lips shape them and I imagine those lips against my throat. Lower. I imagine them everywhere."
"You should stop."
"Do you want me to stop?"
The silence in the confessional was absolute. Beyond the oak partition, beyond the stone walls of the nave, the entire parish existed in a state of benign, sunlit ignorance. Inside, the air was close and dark and carrying her scent ā lye soap and the warmth of skin beneath cotton.
"No," he said.
"I dream about him." Quieter now. "Last night I dreamt he pressed me against the vestry door. He did not remove the collar. He put his hand beneath my skirts and I ā" Her breath caught. "I woke before it finished. It was agony."
Benedict's fingers dug into the wool of his trousers. Through the latticed screen he could see the shape of her ā the dark fall of her hair, the pale line of her profile, the curve of her neck inclined in the posture of contrition that was, he understood now with blinding clarity, the precise inverse of what she was performing.
"These are not sins," he heard himself say. The sermonic cadence was gone. "Desire is not a sin."
"Your collar says otherwise."
"My collar says a great many things I am no longer certain I believe."
He looked at her hands through the lattice ā clasped in her lap, fingers interlaced with controlled tension, holding herself very carefully in place.
"I think about you." The words arrived with the irreversible weight of collapse. "Constantly. When you are in the kitchen. When you are not in the kitchen. When I am writing sermons about temperance, I am thinking about the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you are reading, and the sound you make when you laugh, which you do rarely and never for my benefit, and the exact colour your skin turns when the firelight catches it in the evening." Her breathing had changed; audible through the screen, shallow. "I touch myself imagining exactly what you have just described. Your dreams. Your thoughts. The things you do not say across the breakfast table. I think about them in this booth, in this collar, and I cannot reconcile any of it. I have stopped trying."
Two bodies. Three inches of oak. Both breathing the same close air.
He reached up and unfastened the collar. The stud came free and the white band loosened from his throat, and the relief travelled down his spine like absolution. He set it on the narrow shelf beside his prayer book.
"Come around," he said.
The latch clicked. Three steps on stone. Then the door on his side of the confessional opened and she stood in the narrow frame of it, backlit by the coloured light falling through the stained glass, her face half in shadow, her hands at her sides.
He pulled her in by the wrist and kissed her. The confessional door swung shut behind her. The collar sat untouched on its shelf, catching the thin line of light bleeding through the partition.
This was inspired by *that* picture of Yerin Ha in a backless halter top in some London park, and the few clips we got of Luke Thompson rubbing her back during the press tour. I'm fine, I'm fine, totally fine (Ross Geller voice).
Hands to Myself
The halter top was an act of war.
Black, backless, two triangle straps that tied behind her neck and left everything else bare down to the curve of her lower back. Sophie sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket beside him, leaning forward to grab a cracker from the charcuterie board Penelope had assembled with frankly alarming dedication, and the entire topography of her spine was just there. Sun-warm and golden. The shoulder blades shifting under skin so smooth it looked like someone had retouched her in post.
Benedict ate a grape. Then another grape. Then a third grape he didn't actually want because his hands needed a task that wasn't touching his girlfriend's back in front of eight people and a labradoodle.
He lasted approximately one Bad Bunny song.
His fingers found the dip above her jeans first. Automatic, gravitational, the way his hand always found a pencil during a lecture or a brush during a blank thought. He pressed his palm flat against her lower back, where the fabric ended and bare skin began, and the warmth of her soaked through his hand like sunlight through glass. She didn't flinch. She didn't even acknowledge it; she just kept talking to Penelope about something ā a sample sale, a designer he should probably know but couldn't name right now because his thumb was tracing the ridge of her spine and it was genuinely, physiologically impossible to hold two thoughts simultaneously when Sophie Baek's skin was under his hand.
He dragged his thumb upward slowly, following the groove between the muscles of her back, counting vertebrae like rosary beads. Her skin was ridiculous. Absurd. The kind of smooth that made him want to grind up every tube of titanium white, yellow ochre, and cadmium red he owned and start mixing from scratch because clearly he'd been painting skin wrong his entire life.
She leaned into his hand. A micro-adjustment that could have been posture and could have been permission.
His palm spread wider. He rubbed a slow circle between her shoulder blades, his fingers skating up to the nape of her neck where the halter straps crossed and knotted, then back down to the warm dip of her lower back. Up again. Down again. The repetition was hypnotic. Self-soothing, almost, if self-soothing involved someone else's body and a borderline public indecency charge.
"Benedict." Alfie, sprawled on his stomach with a can of Saint Monday balanced on the grass beside him, lifted his sunglasses. "You good?"
"Spectacular."
"You've been rubbing her back for five straight minutes."
"Have I?"
"Like a man polishing a very expensive car he can't believe he's been allowed to drive."
"That's a disgusting metaphor and I reject it entirely."
"You're doing it right now, while rejecting it. Your hand hasn't stopped moving."
It hadn't. His fingers were tracing the line of her ribs, feather-light, skating the edge of where the fabric sat. Sophie took a sip of her drink and said, without turning around, "He does this. It's like living with a very large cat who's discovered a warm surface."
"I am not a cat."
"You literally kneaded my back in your sleep last night."
Celia cackled from somewhere to his left. Colin, mid-construction of an absurd four-meat sandwich, grinned at him with the brotherly delight that meant this would be brought up at Christmas. John, who'd been chatting to Hazel, tipped his beer in Benedict's direction with a small, knowing smile. Even Eloise, deep in a monologue about the gentrification of Hackney Wick that she'd been delivering at Penelope's patient, nodding face, paused long enough to give Benedict a withering look.
He should stop. He was going to stop. He was a grown man with impulse control and a basic understanding of socialā
The sun hit Sophie's shoulder, and the slope where her neck met the muscle was exactly the shade he'd been trying to mix for weeks, a warm bronze with an undertone of something almost copper, and the smell of her caramel and pistachio body butter mingled with cut grass, and she tilted her head slightly to the right, exposing the full, catastrophic line of her neck, and his brain simply dissolved.
He leaned down and bit her shoulder.
Gently. A soft, close-mouthed nip, his teeth catching the muscle, his lips pressing warm against her skin for one, two seconds.
Sophie went completely still.
The silence lasted approximately half a second before the park detonated.
"OH MY GOD." Hazel, loud enough to startle the labradoodle. "Did he justā Celia, did you see that? He bit her. He bit her."
"Like a vampire," Celia confirmed.
"In broad daylight," Alfie confirmed, sitting up. "At a picnic. During hummus hours."
"In front of my charcuterie," Penelope added, typing on her phone, probably live-tweeting to her followers. "I hand-selected that bresaola."
"Benedict." Colin set his sandwich down. "Mate."
"It was barelyā I justā" The heat hit his ears first. Both of them, simultaneously, a furious crimson that climbed upward and outward until his entire face was, he was certain, the colour of Penelope's sun-dried tomatoes. "It was aā I was looking at theā the light wasā"
"He's blaming the light," Eloise said flatly. "He bit his girlfriend in public and he's blaming the light."
"The light was doing something to her shoulderā"
"The light." Eloise closed her eyes. "Everyone, the light made him do it. The light is the perpetrator. Benedict is the victim here."
"Like a golden retriever," Hazel said, shaking her head. "A golden retriever who sees a really nice ankle and just goes for it."
"I am not a golden retriever. Golden retrievers areā"
"Better behaved," Alfie finished.
"Have more restraint," Colin added.
"Understand the concept of public decency," Eloise contributed.
John, who had been watching the entire spectacle with quiet amusement, leaned over to inspect Sophie's shoulder. "You've left a mark."
Benedict looked. A faint red crescent on her skin, with a small smudge of Carmex beside it. He wanted the canal to rise up and take him.
Sophie, through all of this, had remained perfectly still. Her drink in her hand. Her face angled slightly away. Her ears were pink. When she finally turned, her expression was serene in the way that meant she was exercising superhuman restraint over whatever was happening underneath.
"You done?" she asked.
"I am so sorryā"
"You're not sorry."
"I'm mortified."
"Those are different things."
She was right. He was mortified and sunburnt at the ears and absolutely, fundamentally, not sorry at all.
"Right!" Colin stood, brushing crumbs off his shorts with the kind of energy that was seizing control of a deteriorating situation. "Frisbee. Now. Before he escalates to a full mauling."
The group split. Colin, Alfie, and Celia on one team; Eloise, John and Benedict on the other. Sophie, Hazel and Penelope stayed on the blanket. Sophie claimed a shoulder injury. Benedict did not miss the irony.
The frisbee game was barely governed by rules or physics. Alfie threw overhand every single time with the unearned confidence of someone who'd never once completed a successful throw. Colin played like there were scouts watching. John was effortlessly good, plucking the disc from the air with one hand and flicking it back with a neat sidearm. Eloise played like she was settling a personal vendetta.
Benedict played like a man whose girlfriend was lying on her stomach twenty metres away with her chin propped on her crossed arms and the full, sunlit expanse of her bare back pointed directly at him like a weapon. He missed two easy catches, ran into Eloise, and took a frisbee to the side of the head that Celia swore was accidental.
"FOCUS," Eloise shouted.
"I'm focused."
"You've been hit in the head, you nearly flattened me, and you're looking at the blanket again. That's the opposite of focus. That's anti-focus. That's the heat death of focus."
"I'm just checkingā"
"You're checking out your hot girlfriend. We know. The entire park knows. The labradoodle knows."
They played until the light went amber and the Saint Monday went warm. The group drifted back in stages, flopping onto the grass, reaching for whatever was left of Penelope's spread. Benedict's shirt was damp with sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead, and he'd grass-stained both knees, which Sophie would have something to say about later because they were her favourite jeans on him, on account of what they did to his bum.
The group was packing up. Penelope was stacking Tupperware. Alfie was trying to fold the blanket into a shape that fit inside his backpack. Hazel was telling a story about a man on the Northern line. Everyone was standing, milling, half-paying-attention.
Sophie appeared beside him.
She leaned against his arm. Her hand slipped into the back pocket of his jeans, her palm warm through the denim, and she squeezed. Not casually or ambiguously. A full, firm, intentional grip on his arse that sent his entire nervous system into blue-screen-of-death.
He made a quiet, strangled sound ā the kind of noise that would have been socially annihilating if anyone had been listening.
No one was listening. Thank god.
She pressed her lips to his cheek, quick and dry, and the caramel of her body butter and the strawberry on her breath hit him at the same time. "That's for the bite," she murmured. Then she was gone, walking over to Hazel and Celia, her loose jeans sitting low on her hips, the triangle straps of the halter catching the last of the sun.
She didn't look back.
Benedict stood in Victoria Park with a warm handprint burning through his back pocket and his ears, still, catastrophically red, and watched her laugh at something Hazel said while the canal turned copper in the fading light.
Write a fanfic of the Benophie sex scene in season 5 based on the image Yerin posted in her story
The image is of two people having sex in the forest
There are a couple of things I have to apologise for with regard to this request: 1) I didn't write this with season 5 in mind (oops! sorry! I read this prompt, started drafting it and then by the time I came back to my inbox, I realised I totally forgot to set it in s5), 2) Someone shared this painting once when I asked about it, but I can't seem to find it anymore. Anyway, with the vague memory I have of it, here's the one-shot I wrote inspired by it. Nevermind! Just asked the lovely erikista (the supplier of many of our favourite benophie gifs and edits) and she had it saved. So here it is for context:
And here's my one-shot inspired by it:
Bluebell
The basket was half full of chanterelles when the hoofbeats broke the morning open.
Sophie knelt in the damp mulch between two oaks, her fingers stained amber from the gills, her dress dewed to the knees. The forest smelled of wet bark and the green sweetness of late May, the canopy filtering early sun into long, fractured columns that struck the bracken like light through cathedral glass. She knew the horse before she knew the rider ā the heavy, uneven canter of Benedict Bridgerton's bay gelding, the one that pulled left and resented being corrected.
He dismounted badly. The gelding sidestepped and Benedict caught himself on the stirrup leather, his boots sinking into the soft ground, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat already half-undone at seven in the morning because he treated neckwear as a philosophical imposition.
"You are exceptionally difficult to find," he said.
"I was not hiding."
"You were foraging in a forest at dawn. That is hiding with a practical alibi."
Sophie sat back on her heels and looked up at him. He was breathing harder than the ride warranted.
"Sophie." He said her name slowly, as though tasting the syllables. He rubbed the graphite stains on his fingers, the old nervous habit she had catalogued early on and never mentioned. "I have been composing this speech since four o'clock this morning. I have discarded nine versions. The tenth is also inadequate, but I find I cannot improve upon it, so I shall deliver it badly and trust you to hear what I mean rather than what I say."
"That is a great deal of preamble."
"I am aware." He stepped closer. His boot crushed a cluster of wood violets. "I love you. That is the substance of it. I love you in a manner that is profoundly inconvenient for us both, and I have attempted to reason myself out of it with all the intellectual resources at my disposal and failed comprehensively, which suggests either that my intellect is deficient or that the feeling is structurally sound, and I am vain enough to prefer the latter interpretation."
The basket of chanterelles sat between them. A blackbird called from the upper canopy. Her hands were still stained amber and her knees were damp and her pulse was doing something she could not control.
"You do not know who I am," she said, low and measured.
"I know who you are in this place. I know the way you prune the roses and argue with Mrs. Crabtree about the herb garden and laugh at my drawings when you think I am not looking. I know you read Latin and will not say where you learnt it. I know you are running from something you will not name, and I am not asking you to name it." He was close enough now that she could smell him: linseed oil and the green tang of crushed bracken beneath his boots. "I am asking you to stay."
She stood. The basket tipped. Chanterelles spilled across the mulch in a scatter of gold, and she did not look at them because she was looking at him, and the expression on his face was stripped of every evasion she had spent six weeks mapping, leaving only the raw, unfinished skeleton beneath.
She kissed him.
Her hands gripped the open front of his coat, pulling him down to meet her, and his mouth was warm and tasted of the strong black tea Mrs. Crabtree brewed at dawn. His arms came around her immediately, one at the small of her back, one cradling the base of her skull. The kiss was unhurried; she could feel his restraint in the tension of his forearms, the deliberate gentleness of his grip, and she bit his lower lip softly to break it.
He made a low, gratifying sound against her mouth.
"I have wanted to do that," she said, "since the afternoon you fell in the stream."
"I did not fall. I was conducting a survey of the riverbed."
"You fell."
He laughed against her temple. Then he unlaced her slowly, and the cool forest air met her heated skin, and his coat and waistcoat and cravat fell onto the bracken until the composition of him was reduced to open collar, bare throat, the rapid pulse visible at his neck.
He retrieved his coat from where it had fallen and carried her ā his arms hooked beneath her knees and shoulders, her chemise rucked and her hair unwound ā through the bracken to the clearing where the late-spring bluebells had carpeted the ground in a dense, impossible violet. He spread the coat across the flowers. The dark wool settled over the blooms, and he set her down on it, and knelt over her in the dappled light.
"I have heard," she said, "that the first time can hurt."
"It can." He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, each closed eyelid. "We go slow. And you tell me. Every second, you tell me."
He was careful. Achingly so. Every movement measured against her exhale, every pause held until she said there or yes or pressed her hips against his to answer for her. The bluebell stems crushed beneath his coat released a faint, sweet fragrance that mixed with earth. At some point they turned onto their sides in the flowers, face to face, his forehead pressed to hers, and the intimacy of that geometry at that distance was almost harder to bear than anything else, his pupils blown wide, his expression dissolved entirely into something open and unguarded and desperately sincere.
His hand found hers in the flowers. Their fingers laced together, crushing petals, violet staining their knuckles.
"I love you," he said. Raw and unornamented; no preamble, no philosophical scaffolding. Just the three words, delivered against her mouth.
Sophie came undone.
Afterward, they lay in the flowers ā his coat beneath her, the bluebells crushed and fragrant around them, the canopy light shifting slowly across their tangled limbs. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
"You still do not know who I am," she said quietly. The morning was already reasserting its practical demands.
"I know exactly who you are." He kissed her forehead. "The rest is details."
She pressed her face into the hollow of his throat and held on, the bluebell stain violet on both their hands, the blackbird singing somewhere above them in the shifting light.
Do you still take benophie smut requests? I saw this on X (but apparently pics are not allowed if youāre anonymous) and I immediately thought of you as your benophie smuts are š„ youāve done some of these already, but maybeā¦ š«£ thank you!
Hey! Thank you for this very comprehensive request. Unfortunately, I had a tough time with this one because there's a lot happening here and it was little overwhelming to the point where I didn't know where to start. While I'm sure someone could write this all in one fic, I'm just going to pick and choose certain elements of this request. I hope that's cool, anon.
Sleep to Dream
{ The one where Benedict cashes in after Sophie tells him: "Just wake me up. For God's sake, Benedict, if you're that desperate, wake me up and use me. It's more efficient." }
The mattress tilts first.
The deep, groaning shift of the box spring taking weight, and my sleep-thick brain catalogues it as a seismic event, a minor earthquake localised to the left side of the bed. Then his hand lands on my hip, heavy and warm through the thin cotton of my sleep shorts.
"No," I mumble into the pillow, which smells like my shampoo and, faintly, the oil paint Benedict somehow gets on everything. "Too early. The sun is an abstract concept."
"The sun is asleep." His mouth at the shell of my ear, his voice a low, raspy thing at this hour, stripped of its daytime polish. "It's three in the morning."
"That's the fuck-off-back-to-sleep hour."
His hand doesn't move. It rests there, a claim staked on my body, his thumb stroking a slow arc on my waist.
"We had a deal." He says it softly, like he's reminding himself. His other hand comes up to push my hair off my neck. "I know we've already spent the entire day together." His lips trace the path of my spine up to my ear. "But I just can't get enough of you. Even this late at night."
My brain, sluggish and treasonous, supplies the memory. Two weeks ago, me half-asleep on the sofa after forty-five minutes of him in the bathroom with the door locked and the shower not running. The faint, rhythmic creak of floorboards I'd been pretending not to hear for months. My own voice, blurry with fatigue: Just wake me up. For God's sake, Benedict, if you're that desperate, wake me up and use me. It's more efficient.
He'd paused in the doorway, a silhouette against the hall light. Define the terms.
You're impossible.
I'm thorough.
He is, demonstrably, thorough. His erection presses against my thigh through his boxers. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my shorts and tugs them down past my hips. The cool air hits my bare skin. His palm slides down over my stomach, lower, until his fingers are splayed over my cunt, cupping me with a warm, reverent pressure.
"You're so warm," he breathes against my neck. "Even in your sleep, you're ready for me."
"I was dreaming about reorganising the spice drawer."
"Fuck off." He presses two fingers flat against my clit, a steady, unyielding pressure, and my hips jerk. A slick pulse of heat answers him instantly. He hums, low and satisfied. "Your body's more honest than you are."
"My body's a traitor with a one-track mind."
He slides his fingers through my wetness, gathering it, spreading it. His touch is careful, almost unhurried. He's studying my reactions in the dark: the hitch in my breath when he circles my entrance, the way my leg tenses when he rolls my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Artist's hands, surgeon's focus.
"This is your purpose," he says quietly, and this time it doesn't sound like a line. It sounds like a discovery. His fingers push inside me, and I gasp. He curls them forward, searching, and finds the spot that makes my vision blur. He stays there, rubbing in a slow, relentless rhythm, his other hand splayed on my stomach, holding me in place. "Look at you. Taking me so well. You were made for this. To be here, in our bed, taking my fingers."
I bite my lip to stop the pathetic noise crawling up my throat. My arms are pinned under the pillow. He adds a third finger, and the fullness is staggering, my cunt clenching around him in a pulse of pure sensation.
"You can make noise, love," he says. "I want to hear you."
So I do. A low moan, ragged and raw.
"Good girl." The praise lands like a soft whip-crack. His mouth finds my shoulder, biting just hard enough to leave a mark I'll trace in the mirror tomorrow. His fingers speed up, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit with every thrust. The orgasm builds fast, a tight coil in my lower belly, winding with every stroke.
And then he stops.
His fingers go still, buried inside me.
"Benedict." My voice is a broken thing. "What the hell?"
"Patience." He pulls his fingers out slowly, dragging against every oversensitive ridge, and brings them to my mouth. "Taste."
I turn my head away. He catches my jaw with his clean hand, his grip firm.
"Sophie. Taste."
I open my mouth. He slips two fingers inside, and the taste is musky, sharp, entirely me. I suck them clean with my eyes locked on his shadowed face. His pupils are vast, swallowing the blue-green. He lets out a ragged breath.
He shifts down the bed. Drags my shorts the rest of the way off and pushes my thighs apart. His breath ghosts over my cunt, and he doesn't touch me yet. He just looks.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, to himself more than me. "Fucking perfect."
He licks a broad, flat stripe from my entrance to my clit, and my entire body arches off the mattress. He licks again, slower, sucking my clit into his mouth with a focused, rhythmic pull. His tongue flicks, probes, laps. He moans against me, the vibration shooting straight to my core. One hand slides under my arse, tilting me up, holding me exactly where he wants me.
The coil winds unbearable. My heels dig into the mattress, thighs shaking.
"I'mā Benedict, I'm going toā"
He pulls back. Just his breath, panting against my wet skin.
"Ask for it."
"No."
"Ask." He licks me once, a slow, torturous pass that has me bucking against his face. "Properly."
Tears of frustration prick my eyes. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please let me come."
He shifts, crawling back up my body. His boxers are gone. His cock, thick and heavy, slaps against my stomach. He looks feral, his hair a complete disaster. He lines himself up at my entrance and pushes in, one smooth, sustained stroke.
It knocks the air from my lungs. The stretch is profound, overwhelming after everything, and he bottoms out and stays there with his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing in ragged rhythm.
"Soph," he says, and starts to move.
His pace is punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that shake the bedframe, each one dragging against that same spot his fingers found. He braces one arm beside my head, the other hooking under my knee, holding me open, driving deeper. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, his frayed gasps in my ear; it's a cacophony. I'm sobbing his name, my nails scoring his back.
"Come for me." His voice is guttural, barely his. "Now, Sophie. Let go."
The command shatters what's left of my control. The orgasm detonates, a silent, blinding white-out that seizes every muscle. My cunt convulses around him, and he shouts, his rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow jerks as he follows me over. The hot spill of him inside me, pulse after pulse, while his hips stutter through the aftershocks.
He collapses, his full weight driving me into the mattress. We are a complete mess of sweat and heat. The room smells like sex overpowering whatever Diptyque candle we'd burned through earlier that night. He turns his face into my neck, lips moving against my pulse point.
"Okay?" he whispers, the word rough with exhaustion.
I manage a nod. He slides out, a slow, wet sensation that makes me shiver, and rolls to his side, hauling me with him so my back is against his chest. He pulls the duvet over us. His arm is a heavy band across my waist.
We lie there, breathing. The red numbers on the clock blink to 3:42.
"The spice drawer," he mumbles into my hair, his voice already slurring with sleep. "Alphabetical or by frequency of use?"
"By origin," I whisper.
He snorts, a soft puff of air against my scalp. His fingers trace a lazy, meaningless pattern on my skin, then slow, then stop. His breathing deepens, evens out.
His cum is leaking out of me, a warm trickle between my thighs. My body feels used, wrecked, absolutely perfect. In three hours my alarm will blare, and he will groan and pull a pillow over his head, and I will be tired and sore and secretly, savagely glad.
{ The one where Sophie's done the press tour. Now, she's at the Palais des Festivals waiting for the Best Actress to be announced while Benedict is sitting in the third row having feelings. }
{ Benedict Bridgerton has never willingly followed a skincare routine in his life. Enter Sophie Baek: armed with fourteen bottles, a pink fluffy headband, and absolutely no tolerance for his excuses. Nights at Sophie's flat start looking like this: her practically sitting on his lap while she pats snail mucin and salmon DNA into his face, lecturing him about UVA rays and how talking can exacerbate the smile lines around his nasolabial folds. She has zero patience. And yet - he'd let her apply literally anything to his face, as long as her hands stayed there. }
Heyy! Iāve read ALL your works, including the ones on AO3, and I must say that out of all of them, the fics featuring modern Benophie were the ones I enjoyed the most. Is it too much to ask for more of them?? š„¹š„¹
Hey! Thank you so much! Writing modern AUs are the ones I enjoy the most because I can just sit down and write them without having to worry (too much) if what my characters are doing is period accurate, or if their manner of speaking seems to fit the period. I can just freely dump my ideas and make sense of it all later; whereas, I often feel a little overwhelmed if I have to write something regency/canon.
I'm slowly working through my inbox of requests. But if you're ever in the mood for some modern Benophie, I have them all tagged over here.
Check out my tags page if you want to sort through fics by era, content, etc.
Do you think it would be possible to have one where it is just sexting or phone sex
Besides pathetic Ben lives rent free in my mind. You write him so well
Seven Days, Seven Nights
{ The one where what starts as banter about SPF becomes a masterclass in escalating desire: texts bleed into voice notes, voice notes become FaceTime, and FaceTime becomes the only thing keeping either of them sane }
