Benedict wakes, and, miracle of all miracles, his wife remains in the bed next to him.
rating: explicit
word count: 1,887
tags: post-canon; married benophie; banter; morning sex; penetrative sex; come eating; freak4freak; benedict eaterton
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Benedict wakes, and, miracle of all miracles, his wife remains in the bed next to him.
It's an outcome he's been working towards for the entirety of their marriage. Two weeks in Our Cottage at her beck and call, of being allowed to occupy the same space as her without restraint, of witnessing her joy and her pleasure, of being responsible for her happiness and the satisfaction of her every whim. Usually he wakes in the mornings well after she's left their bedroom, spends the day trying and mostly failing not to monopolize her attention, and then takes her to bed once the stars and moon hang bright in the country sky, trying and, again, mostly failing to exhaust her enough to override her years-long instinct to rise with the sun.
He observes her quietly. She's facing away from him, lying half on her front with her face buried in her pillow, her bare back rising and falling with slow, even breaths. The loose braid she'd put her hair in to sleep has loosened further, strands of silky black hair artfully splayed around her head, and the sheets are a tangle low on her waist; if he tips his head to look, he can see one bare foot poking out of them.
This hard-won bliss he would not give up for the world. He wishes to add to it, to give her a child—children, even, as many as she desires—and, just as fervently, he wishes to see her like this for as long as he can, learning how to be herself when she is unburdened and free of discomfort with nothing but time. Mysterious young lady, unattainable maid, relieved fiancée, ardent new wife—the more he knows her the more thoroughly Sophie she becomes. The warring desires—to see her with child; to see her with no responsibilities outside of her own interests—do nothing to quell his passion for her, only to expand its boundaries.
Not that she's complained. No, she has been an eager participant, approaching her own desire and his with an enthusiasm and curiosity that he recognizes from his own explorations. There remains an increasingly diminishing part of him that expects her to balk at the extent of his experience, but he is beginning to suspect that there is no part of him she will not accept.
"You are thinking far too loudly first thing in the morning," Sophie murmurs into her pillow.
"Apologies," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.
"That is usually my role," Sophie continues.
"Evidence that our marriage is working as intended, then," he offers, and she laughs quietly.
He can feel her gathering the resolve to leave the bed, so he stops resisting the impulse and rolls over to sling an arm around her waist, threading his legs through her own. His erection brushes against her, smearing wetness on the curve of her backside. He feels her breath hitch and presses a smiling kiss into her hair.
"There's no need to be smug," she says.
"The sun has long since risen and you remain in our bed," Benedict replies. "There is every need to be smug."
"It has taken you more than a week's worth of effort to produce this result," Sophie reminds him.
Benedict pulls her closer. "I find I am entirely willing to commit increasing amounts of effort to achieve this particular result."
"Well, now that I am awake, I must not linger any longer," Sophie says, but the way she snuggles back into his embrace and lets him cling to her betrays her intentions.
"You are the lady of this house. You may do whatsoever you please."
"Mrs. Crabtree will give me that look."
"Mrs. Crabtree does not have a look."
She absolutely did.
"She judges me for being so susceptible to your dubious charms."
"Mrs. Crabtree is fond of you, and so she will grant you a grace period of a couple of years, by which time you will have produced at least one child to sufficiently distract her instead."
"I will produce a child? Entirely on my own?"
"I would not put the feat past you."
"I am beginning to think I may have to, given your performance last night."
Benedict grins, moving to speak directly in her ear. "Who am I to deny my wife when she begs so sweetly for my mouth?"
"Benedict," Sophie complains, but any admonition is entirely negated by the way her thighs part, the arch of her back as she tries to situate him between her legs.
He indulges her, shifting until he presses up to where she's hot and wet and ready for him. He opens his mouth to comment on the state of her, but she intercepts him before he can speak.
"Do not."
"Do not what?" he asks, moving his hips to rub against her. The movement is minute, deniable, the pressure barely-there, but it makes her press her face into the pillow. "Do you wish for me to stop?"
"Do not speak," Sophie tells him. She reaches down to line him up and he obeys, guiding her thigh higher and entering her in one slow, slick push. Her low, throaty moan once he's fully inside drags an answering one from deep in his chest.
"Stay," she says, and so he does, focusing on her face instead of the hot clench of her around him, the sensation made more potent by the morning hour. Sophie's eyes are closed, the line of her brows smoothing out as she adjusts to the feel of him inside her, and he watches the satisfaction travel through her entire body and tries to match it, breathing in time with her and mouthing soft kisses across her darling face, her lovely neck, the beloved curve of her shoulder.
He is struck, again, by warring desires—to fall back asleep just like this; to move, languid, inside her and coax her release from her like that, gentle and relentless. He finds the frequency of them, the way he wants her in every single paradoxical way his mind can think of, the idea that any desire she might voice will without fail fulfill one of his own, deeply comforting.
She clenches around him, once, like she's confirming his presence. It makes his breath stutter in his chest, and he fails to recover when he sees the pleased curve of her mouth at his reaction.
"Am I permitted to speak yet?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "Or to move?"
Sophie sighs. "If you must."
He shifts to get more leverage, watching her bite her lip at the movement, and starts up a luxurious grind, moving slow and deep. Her face remains calm, no indication of his efforts once she releases her lower lip.
Benedict angles his hips to find that increasingly familiar spot inside of her, cataloging her reactions as he does: the brief flutter of her lashes before she regains control, the open drop of her plush mouth when his strokes land true, the steady shortening of breath as he keeps working her.
He slides his hand down her front, pressing two fingers to her, unmoving, letting their rolling hips rub her against them. She's shockingly wet, her body betraying her even as she fights to control the expression on her face.
He breaks her down like that, patient and unrelenting, swallowing back his own groans as she tightens around him in favor of watching the pleasure build and build until the moan inevitably spills from her mouth, louder for having been contained for so long. Sophie surrenders immediately, the dam broken, her face collapsing exquisitely and one hand reaching back for him, her nails digging into the nape of his neck as she tugs him closer. Her hips move with his and he gives her what she needs immediately, circling his fingers between her legs and moaning breathlessly into her ear until she comes, pulling him with her over the edge.
He recovers with his face pressed into her hair, slumped to the side with his weight still half on top of her.
"I had intended to wait," he tells her, his voice steadier than he'd expected.
"Naturally," Sophie sighs, thoroughly relaxed.
"You are too tempting."
"I have been made aware."
Benedict retreats from her, taking satisfaction from her displeased little noise at being left empty, and guides her to lie on her back before him. He presses her legs apart, surveying the state of her in his wake, swollen and dripping with their combined spend.
He runs his fingers through her folds, gathering wetness as he goes, and then he meets her dark gaze and brings them to his mouth to savor the taste of the two of them together.
"Oh," Sophie breathes as she watches him suck on his fingers. "That… Benedict, that is filthy."
He releases his fingers with a slick sound. "Would you like a taste?"
Sophie stares up at him for a moment, unblinking, the flush that had begun to retreat from her face reappearing. "…Yes."
He trails his hands up her thighs, parting her entrance with his thumbs and holding her there, open and exposed, watching the arousal wind its way through her again. Then, he leans in to plow his tongue through her slit, savoring her shocked moan as he sucks at her sweet cunt and tongues inside to clean her of the mess he's left behind.
Her dainty fingers thread themselves in his hair, her grip strong as she pulls him up. Benedict grins at her the entire way until he's close enough to kiss her open mouth.
She slicks her tongue against his without hesitation, her hands sliding around his shoulders and down his back to pull him closer. He goes, supporting her thigh when she wraps it around his hip, drinking in her soft noises and the abundance of skin-on-skin.
Eventually, Sophie releases him. He pulls back to look at her, her closed eyes and the slow sweep of her tongue over her reddened mouth. After a moment of separation, she opens her eyes to meet his gaze and raises her eyebrows.
"You may resume."
It startles a laugh out of him. "May I?"
"Yes," Sophie replies, her expression haughty and expectant until it's broken by the teasing curve of her smile, all of which he finds so delightful and correct that he simply has to lean in and kiss her again in short, quick bursts of affection.
She giggles against his mouth, her small hands gentle and warm on him.
"I should go," she murmurs. Her voice is so fond and happy he nearly misses her words.
"I am not yet finished with you," he informs her, brushing kisses against her chest before moving further down. "You have already agreed."
"Well," she says, scratching her nails lightly through the hair at his nape, "if my husband has declared it, then it must be so."
"I am attempting," he tells her, "to fulfill your request."
"I do not recall making any request," she says airily.
Benedict bites her. Gently, the skin of her stomach smooth beneath his tongue when he kisses it in response to her indignant sound.
"Then allow me to remind you," he says and puts his mouth to better use.
“It is quite something to spend your entire life feeling like you are somehow out of place, and then to meet someone who understands you before you even say a word. Someone whose singular qualities match your own. Whose kindness makes you feel warm. Who can read your mind from across a whole room.”
“I cannot help but feel a little out of place at a society function.” […] “I cannot help but feel that their pursuit has very little to do with me. So perhaps the reason that I stay in shallow water is that I, too, feel like an imposter.”
“I know you, Sophie.”
“I spent so much of my life feeling alone in a crowded room. I fell for you at the masquerade because you saw me. Just me.”
“Are you certain we have not met before?”
“You are not that kite in my study. You’re the person I’ve been searching for all my life.”
“Do you need something?” “No. I found it.”
“It cannot wait?” “I have waited long enough already.”
“I was admiring the stars. Or attempting to. There are noticeably fewer here than at My Cottage…I do miss our time in the countryside.”
“Are you in need of assistance?” “It is a slippery thing, and I cannot find my valet.” “May I?…There you are.” “Thank you, Sophie.”
“What shall we toast?” “Perhaps to Benedict’s button, as it seems to be getting more attention than any of us this evening.” “Ah, to Benedict’s button!”
“You are burning up…This is hardly a bruise. Why did you not say anything?”
“Thank you…Do not leave me. Do not leave me again, my lady. Kiss me.”
“I assure you he is on the mend.”
“She saved my life.” “Are you injured?” “On the mend, thanks to Sophie.”
“I hope you did not find it too tedious, the pair of you, all cooped up like that.” “…It was anything but tedious. In fact, it was one of the happiest weeks of my life. I have always wanted to see that part of the country.”
“Are kites not for children?” “Perhaps. But how will I know if I’ve fixed this one if I do not fly it?”
“I have not flown a kite since I was a little girl. It is good to be reminded of such happy memories.”
“I insist. I fixed it for you. Unless…” “What?” “You are concerned you might have a bit of fun.”
“You have to run with it! Go on!” “You are right! This is fun! Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton!” “Benedict!”
BENOPHIE + A Moon or a Button: A Collection of First Picture Ideas (1959) by Ruth Krauss and Remy Charlip
She had thought, after finally being thrown out of Araminta's home, that her new employment at Cavender House might actually be a blessing in disguise.
She had been a fool.
rating: teen and up audiences
word count: 2,770
tags: sophie baek/benedict bridgerton; alternate universe - vampire; vampire sophie; angst; my cottage; pure indulgent nonsense; no dialogue bc benedict's "plan" was 1. save sophie 2. get caught in the rain 3. die in his bed ig??
keep reading under the cut or on ao3:
She had thought, after finally being thrown out of Araminta's home, that her new employment at Cavender House might actually be a blessing in disguise. A distant country home, a gentleman known for his penchant to overindulge in drink and revelry and for inviting others over to do the same, a place where no one would ask questions even if something seemed awry for fear of incurring said gentleman's interest… it had seemed the perfect place for a creature like her to remain unnoticed.
She had been a fool.
Of course Cavender's appetite would extend to the maids in his employ. Of course his friends would follow in his lead. Of course they were all well-studied in the art of getting extraordinarily drunk and keeping their wits somewhat about them rather than passing conveniently out among the detritus of their debauchery. Of course he would be among their number, somehow, friendly enough to have driven all the way out to the country to join them for drinks but not enough to join them in their harassment of a maid, apparently.
Perhaps he had not known the intended source of their entertainment, that night. Perhaps he was not particularly friendly with these men beyond the requirements of his social standing.
Perhaps he was an idiot.
She was being unkind. He had, after all, intervened on her behalf, without knowing or recognizing a thing about her. The not-knowing stung, and she had not fed in so long that her body felt weak and irritable on top of that, but neither of those was his fault. She would have been fine walking in the woods alone at night, but there was no possible way for him to know she was anything other than what she appeared to be: just a maid in an unfortunate situation, unremarkable and in need of protection. Sitting next to him in his curricle while he sought to drive her right back to London was agony when she could feel the searing warmth of him next to her, taste the life in him on the back of her tongue, but even that had eased when it began to rain.
When the men had gathered at Cavender House, Sophie had counted heads. There had been enough of them that she could get away with small sips from some of them in the dark of night, leaving none the worse for wear in the morning, no evidence of her feeding beyond the small pinpricks her eyeteeth would leave behind and the minor weakness that drink would excuse. It would not have been simple, and it would not have been quick, and there always came the risk when feeding off drunks of becoming intoxicated herself, but it would certainly have been more humane than most of her feedings in London. Araminta had taught her the precise limits of her hunger, the exact point at which even the barest dregs of humanity to which she desperately clung would abandon her in favor of pure, bestial bloodlust.
If she had been capable of it, the experience of waking in the cellar of Penwood House in the aftermath of one of her own feedings would have turned her stomach. Fortunately for her, whatever transformation had damned her to her existence made such a reaction impossible, so when she did come back to herself, clear-headed and sated, all she could do was set her jaw and get to scrubbing the blood out of the stone, gather whatever remained of Araminta's prey, and not think about who it had been and whether they had screamed.
Mr. Bridgerton shivered next to her. Likely it was from the rain, but she scrubbed the thoughts from her mind all the same. They had no place in his presence.
He did not speak to her now, despite his earlier threat. It seemed all of his concentration was on guiding his horses through the rain, which was coming down hard with no sign of stopping. It had cooled him enough that they were probably the same temperature now, which was bad. Humans were not meant to be so wet and so cold for so long. He would be lucky to get away with catching a mild chill. She hoped the caretakers of his country cottage were well-equipped to care for him, and perhaps vital enough to allow her to take care of herself as well. She would probably be able to survive another few days without tipping over into a frenzy, but she did not want to return to the unwavering press of humanity that was London in such a weakened state if she could help it.
Mr. Bridgerton did not possess keys to his own house.
Hope, she decided as she climbed through the window, had no place in her life. Someday she would learn the lesson and it would stick.
It was a noise that woke her.
She disregarded it, at first. Her senses were sharper than usual with the gnawing hunger that was steadily worsening as more time passed without a clear source of food. Whatever poor, pathetic creature was passing by in the night would not have woken her if she had been able to feed as planned, but the temptation to sneak out and try and ease some of her discomfort with substandard prey was outweighed by the force of the storm that still raged outside.
Then the noise came again, and she realized that the poor, pathetic creature that had made it was, in fact, down the hall from her inside this very house.
She hastened out of bed, only remembering to pull on the dressing gown out of sheer habit, and hurried down the hall. His weak, wounded noises meant she did not hesistate to throw open the door to his bedroom, and though the flash of lightning through his uncovered window highlighted his pale form splayed out atop his sheets, the very first thing her starving senses brought to her attention was the scent of fresh blood.
She stopped in the doorway, caught off-guard. Surely he had not been bleeding the entire way here? She would have smelled it on him earlier, hungry as she was.
But the rain had washed away most of his scent and filled her senses with the smell of wet earth and the drenched wool of his overcoat instead. Now, in the enclosed space of his bedroom, blood was all she could taste on the air, fresh and old mingling to overwhelm her.
Another flash of lightning, brighter than daylight, shook her out of her focus. In the darkness that followed, she took him in again.
He was pale, the same color as the mess of bleached linen sheets in which he was lying. The line of his body was stretched taut in agony, the tendons in his neck standing out as he unconsciously tossed his head and grit his teeth against the pain. The stain of blood on the shirt he had failed to remove was concerningly large.
He let out another anguished whine, the sound strangled at the back of his throat, and it spurred her into motion.
She rushed to the other side of the bed, nearer to his wound, calling his name as she did. He was too out of it to respond, lost in either fever or pain. Fear cut through her as she removed his shirt to look at the slash on his side.
Blood was flowing out of him, generous and steady. It took all of her willpower not to lean down and put her mouth to the flow, to drink deeply from him until she'd had her fill. Instead she managed to stop herself mere inches from the opening, breathing in the thick, rich scent and trying to sate herself on the smell of him alone.
She brought the discarded shirt up to staunch the bleeding. It could not have been this bad the whole ride here, she thought. He must have jostled it worse in the throes of whatever agony had caught him. She hoped it wasn't fever, or at least not fever brought on by infection.
It was a medical necessity. She had to know how bad things had truly gotten. And her saliva would help, would it not, to heal the wound? One swipe of her tongue. That was all it would take.
She cut her own frantic indecision off by leaning forward and licking over the slightly sticky blood that had seeped out of his wound onto the skin surrounding it. She did not allow herself to savor the taste beyond what she needed to evaluate whether it was tainted by the bitter flavor of infection. As far as she could tell, it was not.
That was a relief. She had no idea where she would even begin to look for medicinal supplies in this enormous house. She already felt awful about roughly yanking the loose sheet from underneath him so she could strip it into rags and begin packing his wound. The fresh linen became saturated with blood far faster than she wanted to see. He was bleeding too heavily. The faster she bound him, the faster she could go searching this house for a needle and thread, crude a solution as it would likely be. She was no physician.
It took most of the rags she had made to simply absorb the blood loss. The constant, steady flow was eroding her control. She had to concentrate harder and harder on wrapping the final bandage around his midsection, but there was a voice in her head begging her for another taste and a different one reminding her that she knew exactly how much a human body could stand to lose before it reached the point of no return. She ignored them both in favor of tying him off.
She collapsed back onto the edge of the mattress, exhausted. She did not need to breathe, but she had not yet shaken the habit, especially not in moments of great distress. She calmed herself slowly, and on each inhale she became more and more aware of the still-fresh blood in the shirt that was now a crumpled heap of ruined fabric at his side.
It would be undignified. She would be debasing herself, no better than the animal Araminta had accused her of being, if she did it. But what was dignity in the face of necessity? There was no one else here, and she did not know how long it would be until that might change. Her vaguely-formed plan of leaving for the village before dawn was no longer an option, not while he remained so unstable. She reached for the shirt. She set her mind aside and found the wettest part of it, where the blood remained fresh, and brought it to her mouth to suck.
It was her turn to let out an undignified sound. His blood was already slightly sour with age, but it was still infinitely better than the nothing she'd been surviving on for the past week. It would sustain her for a little while longer. She was used to stretching her resources farther than they could reasonably go.
At some point, it hit her awareness that he had not made a sound in quite some time. He had not shifted, in fact, from the awkward position in which she had left him after tying the final bandage across his waist.
His pulse was alarmingly faint. She could no longer follow the thread of it along his throat. Already he was colder than any human should be, though enough of the warmth of life still stubbornly clung to him to entice her closer. At the precipice of life and death, he did not threaten to burn her the way he had when he had been brimming with vitality at his mother's masquerade. Despite her efforts, she alone was not enough to save him.
She had mere minutes to make a decision, and either way it would affect him forever.
It was no decision. He had been injured saving her. If he truly wished to die, she would grant it to him herself, after, but she thought about damning him to an eternity of an existence like hers and she thought about allowing the light in his eyes, that charming laugh, the kind, gentle, warm everything of him to fade from the world entirely and only one of those thoughts made her feel truly sick with horror.
In one swift motion she shattered one of the frames on his bedside table. She lifted one of the larger chunks of glass and used it to slice open her own palm, cupping it as blood began to trickle out. She coaxed his lips open with the thumb of her other hand, cradling his jaw and allowing her pooled blood to drip down into his mouth.
He jerked his head away from her with one last burst of energy. The blood would taste wrong on his tongue, she knew—more bitter than medicine, burning worse than alcohol. She climbed on top of him to hold him steady, pressing her palm flat against the lower half of his face to force her blood to drip directly into him. The sharp points of her knees dug into his upper arms with enough force that she would have worried about leaving behind bruises if he was going to wake up human the next day. The hand at his jaw moved down to hold the long line of his throat, and after a long moment of the weight of her pressing him still and her palm over his mouth forcing him full, she finally felt him swallow.
She remained atop him until she felt him do it again, and then a third time. She did not know exactly how much of her blood was necessary for it to take, but there was little more she could do for him now without weakening herself beyond the point of no return.
She did not remember much from her own turning other than that it had felt long and slow and excruciating. If it did take, then this moment of respite would be brief for both of them. It would not take long for him to begin thrashing in his sheets anew, more of those animal sounds escaping him as the transformation took him over.
She sat in the armchair at his bedside and seriously considered what she had just done.
She had made him—
No. Logistics first. That, she could confront on its face.
Now there were two mouths to feed, and he would need more than her. Not just this first time, but every time. He was so much bigger than her. She would need to factor that into her considerations, at least for as long as he remained with her. Her sire had certainly not stayed with her for very long, but she would not abandon him. She would do him that small mercy, at least. She would show him how to feed without killing, where to find the perfect prey, and she hoped that he would retain enough of his kindness to not hate her for doing this to him until after he was strong enough to leave her.
He had been the sun itself.
That was what she had thought, that night on the terrace. It had been the blazing, living heat of him, startling even through her silk gloves and the thin linen of his shirt, but it had also been the light in his eyes as he spoke of his family—such love and devotion even after he had confessed to her his lack of belonging in his own home. It had been his delighted smile, and it had been the quiet awe in his voice as he called her the most intriguing person he had ever met. The way he had begged so sweetly for the merest scraps of her so that he might find her again.
That night had been the closest she had felt in years to standing still and basking in the sun's gentle warmth, not a worry in her head so long as she was in his presence. And now she had condemned him to eternity in the darkness. A life devoid of life itself. There was no kindness in the world that could forgive her for it.
Benedict Bridgerton stirred again on the bed, a groan escaping him as he rose from the dead, and all she felt was a sick churning dread in her gut that would never resolve.
India may not be far enough for Lord Bridgerton, but perhaps the distance will be enough to discourage Lady Penwood from pursuit. Certainly, helping a young woman escape her evil stepmother seems a more honorable cause than simply running away to escape her own troubles.
(Kate, Sophie, and several months at sea.)
rating: explicit
word count: 5,883
tags: sophie baek/kate sharma; alternate universe - canon divergence; kate is leaving for india and take sophie with her; is it even regency wlw if one of them doesn't lace up the other's stays at some point; cunnilingus; thigh riding; yuridgerton
“Two 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 passion…a genuine, trusting love warms their hearts and results in the deep and spontaneous embrace.”
“He loved me.” “Of course he did. How could anyone not?” […] “I have a dowry. That still does not make me a legitimate or an appropriate match for a gentleman, but—” “I do not care about the money. And I do not care about whether you are appropriate or not.”
The gallery opening had gone about as well as he could have hoped, Benedict thought on the cab ride home.
rating: explicit
word count: 4,354
tags: sophie baek/benedict bridgerton; alternate universe - modern setting; praise kink; accidental bondage; oral sex; domestic fluff; artist benedict bridgerton; sophie is supportive; benedict is pathetic in love with her
no inhibitions, no conditions (get a little outta line)
The invitation to spend a week of summer out in the country at Aubrey Hall comes as a literal invitation, thick cardstock and gold-foil lettering in an envelope that's closed with an honest-to-god wax seal.
When Sophie tips her head at Benedict in question, he just sighs.
(Sophie's first time staying at Aubrey Hall.)
rating: explicit
word count: 7,700
tags: sophie baek/benedict bridgerton; cameos from the extended bridgerton clan; alternate universe - modern setting; family bonding; childhood homes; fluff; smut; literally the second half of this is just complete filth oops; hand jobs; fingering; riding; sexual overstimulation; multiple orgasms; light dom/sub; dom sophie baek; sub benedict bridgerton; local man gets absolutely wrecked by tiny girlfriend, loves it
A tragic injury ended Benedict Bridgerton's pro tennis career before it could even begin.
When newcomer Sophie Baek captures international attention with her performance, he finds he can't help but notice her.
rating: teen and up audiences
tags: sophie baek/benedict bridgerton; alternate universe - modern setting; alternate universe - tennis; first meetings; flirting; texting; confident sophie baek; oblivious benedict bridgerton (but he gets there in the end)
word count: 3,479
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Benedict feels like a fraud every time the invite comes in, but he's the hometown rich boy with the tragic backstory, the cautionary tale, the embodiment of every athlete's greatest nightmare and, apparently, a masochist, so he accepts it every year.
He can't help it. Tennis was his first real passion, the first thing his parents pushed him into that he actually enjoyed, and he was good at it, too. Better than good. Could have made it to the uppermost echelons of the sport, if his knees hadn't completely betrayed him. He'd been warned about it by both private and team physicians and the personal trainers who'd known him since before he'd hit his growth spurt the summer he'd been fourteen: he'd shot up too fast, and if he wasn't careful, his body would never catch up to itself.
Now he's twenty-eight and relegated to touring the warm-up courts for the best of the best once a year, edging up against the line of being the washed-up never-been who can't move on. He's not that old yet, not really, but the new talent keeps getting younger and younger every year. In a couple of years he'll feel like an actual creep.
The tour concludes at 11 a.m. The collected guests—high-level donors to the club, brand representatives looking for their next ambassador, secondary school athletes with parents even wealthier than his—scatter immediately, but Benedict lingers.
There's something about being near the court in this weather, the oppressive, lingering heat and rare unobstructed sunshine that turns everything blinding. The smell of grass mingling with hardcourt in the hot, humid air, objectively rank but subtle enough to be addictive, like animalic notes in a cologne. He finds a shaded bench off to the side of one of the courts and allows himself a moment to wallow.
He's interrupted by voices heading towards him. A man and a woman, both dressed for practice. He watches as they unlock the gate to the court and begin to warm up.
Near-noon on an outside court in the middle of a heatwave is an insane time for practice, but athletes, in his experience, are hardly ever sane. He sits back and wonders if he's going to need to justify his presence even though he was sat here before they showed up, but they don't appear to have noticed him.
The man is tall and lanky, and as they start their match he moves with a coltish grace that undoubtedly makes him an unpredictable opponent. The woman is almost his complete opposite, slight and swift, every movement of hers deliberate like she learned the steps to this match ages ago and is simply on the court to perform them all with ease.
He watches their back-and-forth. The motion of it, combined with the satisfying thwack! of their rackets hitting the ball and the humid midday heat, lulls him into a trance.
He's brought out of it when the woman falters trying to return a wide shot, her movements stiff and cautious as she twists and tries to gauge the distance. She manages to return the hit, but he watches as she falls to the ground and lands on top of her right leg.
He's on his feet before he even knows it.
Her partner shouts, rushing forward and then stopping in his tracks when she levels him with a look. He shrugs before heading back to his side, clearly having received a nonverbal reprimand for daring to show concern.
Benedict, having received no such instruction, steps up to the fencing and calls over it, "Are you alright?"
The woman whips her head around to find him, startled. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Aussie accent, he notes, and a pleasant one at that. Now that he has a decent (but still distant) view of her face, he puts all the elements of her together and comes up with a name: Sophie Baek.
Newer to the scene, and not young enough to be a prodigy, but her talent has kept her at the top of the women's tournaments, he knows. He's kept up with enough of her matches to know her play style is fairly traditional, and she's not flashy or provocative, but she radiates calm, intense competence on the court in a way that would absolutely rattle him if he ever found himself looking at her from the other side of the net.
"You're a little too rigid on the sidelines," Benedict says without thinking, watching her get to her feet and brush herself off before she heads towards him. "You'll be at less risk of getting in your own way if you loosen up a bit."
"Bold words from a man who hasn't competed in five years," Baek throws back automatically, and then she immediately looks mortified at herself.
He can't help it; he laughs.
"I'm so sorry, I'm not… I didn't mean— I mean, that was…," she's clearly stumbling, so Benedict gives her an out.
"Completely true," he finishes for her easily. "I'm in no position to be giving unsolicited advice to a future world champion. Look at me, I'm stood here on completely the wrong side of the fence."
"If you come around, I can let you in," Baek offers quickly.
He can't stop smiling like an idiot. "Nah," he says, "safer on this side."
Her eyes widen in alarm.
"For me!" Benedict clarifies, and then when she still doesn't look reassured he gestures vaguely downwards, deeply aware of how her eyes follow the awkward motion of his hands through the air, and adds, "…Because of the injury?"
Her eyes flick back up to meet his gaze.
"Right, of course! The injury. Your… knee, right?" Baek looks him over again, biting her lip nervously, and he wonders if she's worried he's going to jinx her by bringing up injuries so close to competition.
"Yeah," he says, "but that was, you know, extenuating circumstances. Deeply personal. I don't think you're at any risk, you look great. Your form, I mean," Benedict adds quickly, his hand coming up to run through his hair before he can stop it. It's damp with sweat, and he's sure it's gone all fluffy the way it always does in the London heat, sticking up in a disheveled mess. He tries to discreetly wipe his fingers dry on his suit, 8-ounce navy worsted wool that's meant to see wilting Englishmen through tropical summers but is still rendering him overheated.
"Were you not just critiquing my form?" Baek asks, eyebrows raised.
He shrugs helplessly, flashing her a crooked grin. "I thought we'd already established I've no ground to stand on."
"Maybe not no ground," she says, eyeing the lines of his suit again, "though I suppose you'll use the suit as an excuse not to get on the court and show me."
For a moment, Benedict is surprisingly tempted. But he hasn't set foot on a court since the game that ended his career. He's not convinced he ever will again.
"The suit, and also the fact that I'm desperately out of sporting shape and I'd hate to embarrass myself," he tells her with a self-effacing smile.
"Oh, something tells me you'll be fine," Baek says, her voice lowering as she steps closer.
His eyes track the trail of sweat that's escaped her visor as it moves slowly down the sharp line of her jaw and onto her neck. It means he has a first-row view of the way her throat works when she swallows. The movement jars him back to reality, and when he snaps his gaze back up to her face she's already watching him, those deep brown eyes intent.
Benedict gives her an apologetic smile. Take the playboy athlete out of the sport and he'll still be a horny idiot. Or something like that. She's stunning, pink-cheeked and glistening with sweat in the summer sun.
"You know who I am," he realizes belatedly.
The flush on her face deepens. "You… you were on the tour. This morning."
"I don't believe you were one of the athletes we met on the tour," he says, amused. "And I'm certain they didn't mention my name. Or my injury, for that matter."
Baek stares at him, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open; caught.
"I suppose my last game was highly publicized," he allows.
"Yes!" she says quickly. "Yes, that is… exactly why I know you. Know of you. It was— shocking."
"It was," Benedict agrees, keeping an easy smile on his face. It was years ago. He can be cavalier about it. "I should leave you to your practice."
Baek blinks at him. "…Of course."
"You won't need it, but I wish you the best of luck, Ms. Baek," he says. He gives her a quick nod and then turns to leave.
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Bridgerton," she calls after him a moment later.
He tells himself he's not going to watch any of her matches.
He shows up to all of them.
He attends some of the mens' tournaments as well, to try and get ahead of the inevitable Whistledown speculation about why he's so present on the scene this year, but unfortunately for him his sexuality has been public knowledge since photos from that infamous night with Tilley and Paul leaked onto the internet.
The blog puts up a poll, instead, asking readers to decide which athlete's attention he's trying to catch. It closes after three days of voting in a four-way tie. He tries not to let it feed his ego too much and mostly succeeds.
The day of the women's final is unbearably hot and humid. Benedict sits in the stands, Pimm's cup in hand and Hyacinth next to him happily munching on strawberries and cream, and tries not to melt.
Baek's demeanor on the court gives no indication that this is a high-stakes match. She's perfectly friendly with her opponent and the attendants, and then when the match begins it's like a switch flips and suddenly, there she is: Sophie Baek, world-class athlete.
She plays exactly the same as she had in practice, like she knows exactly where her opponent is going to be and where she needs to be in turn, like their entire match has been choreographed and trained and just needs to be executed.
Inevitably, her opponent sends a shot that's aimed a little too close to bounds, and he holds his breath as she reaches for it and returns it with ease.
She's still a little rigid, but she looks much more comfortable in her movements than she had on the practice court, that same hard-earned competence she brings to every other aspect of her game. His advice, heard and considered in a way that suits her play style rather than his. Benedict sits back in his seat and bites his tongue to keep from grinning too broadly, ignoring the way his heart kicks in his chest.
They break.
He watches Baek pat the sweat from her brow with a white towel and he can almost taste it, salt-hot on his tongue. She reaches up to adjust her ponytail and he sees the hollows of her underarms and thinks about burying his face there.
It's possible the heat has addled his mind, a little bit. Or maybe it's just her.
The match continues. He takes a long sip of his Pimm's and contemplates whether it might be more effective if he just dumped it over his head, instead. Hyacinth finishes her strawberries and innocently asks if she can try his drink, since she's not allowed to have champagne. He hands it over without thinking, too focused on the back-and-forth. He's leaning forward in his seat, his leg bouncing with nervous excitement as he watches her play—too invested, but he can't be bothered to care about optics. His pulse as they enter the third set pounds so hard in his throat he thinks he might throw up. Through it all, Baek remains cool, competent, completely in control.
She wins.
Somehow, Benedict manages to reign himself and Hyacinth in enough to get them both home without incident. That night he lies on the sofa in the sitting room of Bridgerton House and goes through the gallery of photos from the day on his phone, sending the ones with Hy in them to her before she can come downstairs and ask for them in person. He gets approximately a million in return, rejects from her own Instagram that she magnanimously tells him he can post, instead.
He figures he might as well. His presence at the tournament has already been documented and picked apart.
He picks out a decent mix of photos, aesthetic shots and snaps of athletes in play. For the cover, he chooses one of the pictures Hyacinth took earlier today, a slightly blurry action shot of Sophie Baek that, with the careful application of a few filters, looks more artistic than accidental.
Benedict tags her in the post, typing out a caption without thinking too hard about it because he knows from experience that anything he writes will be lambasted by the younger ones as "millennial (derogatory)" in the group chat anyway. And then, since the link is already there, he clicks through to Sophie Baek's profile and has himself a scroll.
As her public-facing account, it's not particularly interesting. Mostly professional shots of her, a few videos, and a handful of brand deals. Nothing nearly as electrifying as the rare media interviews he's managed to dig up in the past few weeks, short two-minute clips with local Sydney newscasters where she talks about the freedom she finds in the sport that leave him breathless for more. Benedict sighs at himself when he realizes he's looking at a three-year-old ad for sun cream from some Korean brand he's fairly certain he's borrowed from Daphne's handbag at some point.
He locks his phone and sets it on his chest, then lets himself space out a bit in the silence of the room until he's interrupted by the sharp ding! of a notification. He unlocks it and finds he has a message request from—
Well.
He's fantasized about licking the sweat from her armpits. Benedict supposes he can call her Sophie, at least in the privacy of his own mind.
He accepts the request.
Glad you were able to attend the match! Any performance notes? 😉 Sophie's written.
No notes, he types back quickly, delighted that she remembers him. Told you you didn't need luck.
No, just advice from my seniors, she sends, and then another message immediately afterwards that's just an emoji: 😇
Benedict grins at her cheek. I'm never recovering from that, am I?
It was the first thing you said to me after creeping in the sidelines, Sophie reminds him. Unsolicited!
Yeah fair, he allows. I'm shocked you even condescended to speak to me, after that.
There's a long pause before her next message comes in. Nothing I haven't heard from my coaches before. I can be a little too stubborn for my own good sometimes.
Benedict is the one to hesitate, this time. That's more honesty than he was expecting from her. It's more honesty than he expects from anyone, ever—including himself.
I have something to confess, he writes finally.
He watches her type. I'll allow it, the message says, but I'm in no position to provide absolution for your sins.
Benedict types the words carefully, haltingly, and then hits send before he can overthink it, setting his phone facedown on his chest once he does. I haven't played in years, but that day when you asked me I was severely tempted.
Severely is intense, she replies after a moment, and then, Also, not a sin. Looks like Father Sophie can rest another day.
Intense, maybe, but accurate, he says, another confession. And I'm perfectly willing to try for a different honorific if I haven't qualified to meet Father Sophie.
Actually, I have a confession of my own, Sophie says.
He waits, but there's no indication of further typing. Well let's hear it, he sends.
The typing resumes, then halts, then resumes again. Benedict watches the bubble pop up and disappear and wonders what on earth Sophie Baek might have to confess to him, of all people.
I didn't recognize you from the tour that day, comes the first message. Or your last match.
Oh? he asks.
It's possible that I may have, for one brief moment, several years ago, had a very tiny, itty bitty crush on you, Sophie says.
Benedict laughs, surprised. No!! he sends, then: Me? And then, Genuinely, why?
Well, she sends, the single word in a message all on its own until it's joined by a longer one, If you really need to fish for compliments…
I'm curious, actually. Promise I'm not that vain. Or that insecure, he sends. But you don't have to.
Her message comes in right after he sends the last one. You were talented, and hot, and you didn't seem like a complete dick, so…
Can't argue with that, he says back. All qualities that you possess, if it's not terribly uncouth of me to say so.
I suppose I can't be mad when they're my own words, Sophie says.
Wait, he realizes, thinking back to the morning they'd met, his own self-indulgent despondence and then the way her gaze had felt on him, intense and pinning. You weren't trying to get me on the court that day, you were flirting with me.
I was trying not to come across like a total weirdo, she corrects.
Funny, Benedict replies, I was ALSO trying not to come across as a total weirdo.
So what you're telling me is we could have been making out for weeks if only you were a little more perceptive, Sophie says. Pretty embarrassing for a man of your reputation.
He's fairly certain his read of her is correct, so he replies, As if you'd allow yourself to become distracted in that way.
Interesting that you assume you're capable of distracting me in that way, Sophie shoots back.
Benedict spends possibly too long trying to craft an appropriate response, the perfect mix of flirty and suggestive that takes into account the fact that he's still in the sitting room of his mother's house. Idly, he considers relocating to somewhere with more privacy. If that's where they're going. Now that she's teased him about it, he's desperate to make sure he stays on the right side of the line between being perceptive and presumptuous.
I'm certainly willing to try, he hedges finally. If you'll let me, of course.
I'll still be on this dreary island for another week, Sophie says. You should come down to the club and play.
He is, again, severely tempted. It surprises him, how badly he wants it. He hadn't thought he'd ever step foot on the court again—certainly not with a premier athlete—but he aches with the desire to go out and let himself be humbled by her.
Not that she needs to know that.
Only if you promise to go easy on me and play nice, he requests.
You might find that my inclination towards playing nice directly correlates to the inseam length of your shorts, Sophie writes.
Benedict bites his lip, delighted. I see.
Or you could wear another suit if you prefer, she adds.
Unfortunately, the tailoring on those trousers doesn't leave a lot of room for athleticism, he tells her.
Trust me, I could tell, Sophie responds. But if you really don't want to play, I could always use a ball boy.
Now that, me and my tiny shorts can definitely do, he says.
I'll believe it when I see it, she says. Tell me when you're coming through.
I will of course defer to your undoubtedly packed schedule, he assures her.
I always make room for practice, she says, which is a generous interpretation of whatever they'll end up doing. Be prepared to sweat.
Around you? Always, he sends back, and he mostly means from the physical activity, but he realizes the implications a moment too late.
That's what I like to hear, Sophie replies, and then, Okay but I do actually have to go back and celebrate now, my mates are about to break down this door. Byeee!
The knowledge that she's been hiding away and texting him from a party this entire time makes him feel a little giddy. Enjoy, Benedict tells her, and then he locks his phone.
He stays there for another few moments, grinning to himself alone in the quiet room like an idiot. Then, he decides he might as well take advantage of being at his mother's house and see if he can't dig a pair or two of 13-centimeter running shorts out of storage somewhere and gets to work.
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