Why did Season 4 portray Sophie using the metaphor of a butterfly?
This article contains spoilers for Bridgerton Season 4.
Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?
The term originally comes from meteorology and is said to have originated from a question along the lines of:
“Can the flap of a butterfly’s wings contribute to changes in the weather somewhere far away?”
When we look at Bridgerton Season 4 as a whole, Sophie’s small and seemingly innocent longing to experience high society eventually develops into a “storm” that engulfs the entire ton — even the Queen herself.
It is, quite literally, a butterfly effect.
This structure is suggested at the very beginning of Episode 3, when we see a butterfly in flight as Lady Whistledown narrates:
A butterfly flapping its wings in Londonmay cause a storm at Land’s End.
A maid at Penwood House was dismissed several months ago.
It set off a chain of chaos even this author could not have predicted.
— Bridgerton, Season 4, Episode 3
On their way to London, Benedict and Sophie are caught in a storm and forced to stop at a cottage.
The Crabtrees, who look after the cottage, are later caught in that same storm on their way back from an outing.
And once Benedict and Sophie return to London, the storm grows larger still — this time spreading through high society itself.
That is the basic sequence of events.
But is the butterfly there simply to illustrate the butterfly effect?
I think there are several other meanings layered into this motif.
The Butterfly’s “Flapping Wings”
Sophie longs for high society — and for the life she might have lived as a member of the aristocracy.
Those feelings eventually turn into action.
Sophie is also highly capable at her work. She is well-liked by the other servants, and that inspires them to help her.
And although she occupies the inconspicuous social position of a “maid,” the actions and words born from her curiosity capture Benedict’s attention.
Everything begins with something at Sophie’s core.
That inner self becomes the driving force behind her actions.
And those actions become the flapping of her wings.
The Butterfly’s “Transformation”
“Sophie the maid” becomes the “Lady in Silver” at the masquerade ball.
“Sophie the maid” then spends her time at the cottage without her servant’s uniform, wearing borrowed dresses instead — becoming, for a brief time, simply Sophie without a title.
Then she returns to London and becomes “Sophie the maid” once again.
Throughout the story, we repeatedly see Sophie’s outward appearance change according to the position she occupies.
But toward the end of Episode 3, Lady Whistledown says:
Just as a butterfly may cause a storm,
this author believes that small things have the power to change the world.
But sometimes, no matter how hard a small creature flaps its wings…
if the wind blows in the opposite direction,
everything returns to the way it was.
— Bridgerton, Season 4, Episode 3
The “wind,” I think, represents high society — or, more broadly, the class system itself.
When a butterfly motif appears, it is tempting to interpret the story through the familiar Cinderella-like symbolism of transformation.
But I do not think that is quite what is happening here.
At the masquerade ball, where identities can be concealed, and at the cottage, which exists outside the world of the ton, Sophie is temporarily able to become a butterfly.
Then she returns herself to the shell of “maid” imposed upon her by the class system.
The conversation between Benedict and Sophie at the end of Episode 3 makes this painfully clear.
Benedict: “Which way would you like to go to London?”
Sophie: “It is not my place to say.”
— Bridgerton, Season 4, Episode 3
It is not that Sophie cannot flap her wings.
She is flapping them — but the wind of social position is blowing against her.
Sophie has her own will, desires, and judgment.
At the cottage, she is in fact able to speak with Benedict almost as an equal.
But as soon as they are about to return to London, she goes back to:
“It is not my place to say.”
As Sophie moves between the class system — reality — and the masquerade ball and cottage — spaces that function almost like a dream — Sophie herself does not change.
And yet, depending on where she is, she is forced to transform into someone else.
That is how I read her portrayal.
The Butterfly and the Kite
Then there is the episode involving the kite at the cottage.
While Benedict and Sophie are together in the study, Benedict tells her about a kite he once made for Gregory when his younger brother was a child.
The kite would not fly properly, so Benedict experimented and made adjustments until he could get it into the air.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Crabtree gives Benedict a warning about Sophie:
Do not make her a subject of your study.
— Bridgerton, Season 4, Episode 3
A kite is something you study in order to make it fly successfully.
It has a string attached to it.
You control it as it flies.
But Mrs. Crabtree warns Benedict not to look at Sophie in the same way he looks at the kite he studies.
There is another darker possibility contained within the butterfly motif, too.
A butterfly can be caught, pinned down, and turned into a specimen.
And Benedict, at this stage, is in danger of treating Sophie as an object of fascination — something to observe, understand, and study.
But a butterfly and a kite are not the same thing.
A butterfly does not need someone else to control its flight.
It chooses where it wants to go.
Sophie has survived through her own will and ability, even while being mistreated at Penwood House.
The butterfly metaphor, then, may also exist to emphasize precisely that difference.
One More Detail…
At the masquerade ball, I noticed that the shoulders of Sophie’s dress are decorated with ribbons that almost resemble butterfly wings.
(Thankfully, nothing quite as enormous as Cressida’s interconnected mega-bows.)
There is another butterfly motif later in the season.
In Episode 6, Queen Charlotte wears a silver-and-blue wig decorated with butterflies.
This is the scene in which the Queen orders Penelope to continue writing her column, only for Penelope to suggest that perhaps the Queen might instead offer the ton some relief — allowing people to live as they wish, without fear.
Agatha is also standing beside them, having asked to step away from society for a while.
The Queen occupies an isolated position inside the palace, watching the gossip of high society almost as if its members were fascinating specimens for her observation.
And it is in this very scene — when Penelope challenges that position — that Charlotte wears a wig covered in butterflies.
It is difficult not to sense some significance in that choice.
Conclusion
So what do all these scattered butterfly motifs tell us?
A butterfly should be free to fly.
Yet Sophie is buffeted by the winds of the class system until she unconsciously builds a wall inside herself: the belief that she is not free.
Benedict, too, eventually believes that he has found a way to “set Sophie free” — and asks her to become his mistress.
But he does not yet realize that what he is offering still treats her like a kite attached to a string.
Sophie is not someone who needs Benedict to make her fly.
She is someone who must be allowed to fly with her own wings, in the direction she chooses for herself.
And perhaps that is why Season 4 gives Sophie the metaphor of the butterfly.
The tension lies in watching Benedict and Sophie struggle with this fundamental misunderstanding — and wondering how they will finally find their way through it.
All we, the audience, can do is watch with our hearts in our throats as they try.
Okay so: Dads do skin to skin with their newborns to develop a bond soo how about Benedict with newborn Violet on his Chest and Sophie very much liking what she sees (only if you‘re okay with it no pressure)
Sophie is no longer used to waking up alone. Her bed is always warm thanks to her husband.
Who is seemingly missing as she sits up, looking around their bedroom. The fire is dying down, and when she looks around there's no sign of Benedict.
She slips out of the bed and wraps her dressing gown around her chemise and shivers a little. The wind is howling outside, and when she looks out the window, she can see snowflakes falling past the glass.
Their daughter is a week old, and aside from the Crabtrees, it's just the three of them.
She shuffles from the bedroom and down the hall. She can hear Benedict's soft voice carrying from the nursery, and when she gets to the door, she finds him pacing the room, shirtless under his own dressing gown with their daughter cuddled in against his chest.
She stays silent, watching as he moves around the room, chatting softly, mostly staying close to the fire that's warming the room.
"Sleep really is not so bad," he tells the newborn. "It can be quite nice once you get used to it. But I understand that being alive in general must be quite the shock, and so sleeping might just feel extra stressful right now."
Sophie smiles to herself, still staying quiet.
"Everything must be so bright and cold and strange," Benedict comments. "it is very, very cold outside, and the the world must feel so impossibly large to you. You are so very small."
Vivi makes a little noise and Sophie can see the baby nestle in a little more.
"Yes, you are the teeniest, tiniest," Benedict chuckles softly. "But you will not always be, and someday very soon you will be ready to take on that impossibly big world. Because you are Sophie's daughter, and I could not imagine her having anything less than the bravest, most clever daughter."
Sophie purses her lips and smiles to herself before she speaks. "She is also Benedict's daughter. And he was always going to have the kindest, sweetest child."
He turns, smiling at her tiredly. "You should be sleeping."
"So should you," Sophie points out, wandering into the room to stand next to him, resting her hand on Vivi's back gently. "And so should she."
He nods. "Yes. But she was crying."
"She does not seem upset now," she says.
"Well, we have had quite the spirited discussion," Benedict explains. "About...life and weather. And you. And the importance of charming her uncle the Viscount so he spoils her rotten."
Sophie laughs softly and leans up, kissing him softly. "Bring her to our room. She can sleep in the bassinet in there."
He nods and takes her hand with one hand while holding Vivi securely to his chest still. "As you wish."
The way you write smut is absolutely incredible so I’m not sure if this is something you’d be interested in but I’m thinking:
1. Modern AU with the Bridgerton family being some kind of crime family and Sophie is dating him and they make their first appearance together at a party
2. Suit kink. Sophie likes her man dressed up, all fancy and gorgeous, maybe even him being a little roughed up from some business
3. Possible praise kink in there? Sophie had spent a long being told she is worth nothing that finally being told she is everything is definitely something she’s into
4. Maybe an ex or something is there and so the Bridgerton family stake their claim to make it very clear that she is theirs and Benedict being particularly possessive
Sorry if this isn’t something suited to your tastes. I can’t wait to see what else you will write 🩵
The Family Business
TAGS: Modern AU, Crime Family, Peaky Blinders Inspired, Suit Kink, Possessive Benedict, Praise Kink, Robbie The Ex, Found Family, Mentions of Blood, Implied Violence, Lady Whistledown
Benedict's knuckles were split across the middle three fingers of his right hand.
Sophie clocked them in the car, the overhead light catching the torn skin as he adjusted his cufflinks, and she reached across the leather seat and took his wrist. The cuts were fresh. Shallow, blood just dried to dark against the pale skin. His suit was immaculate — navy, three-piece, Huntsman Savile Row, the kind that cost more than six months' rent and sat on his shoulders like a second skeleton — but the knuckles told a different story, and the graze along his jaw, half-hidden by the car's interior shadow, confirmed it.
She didn't ask. She pressed her thumb to the inside of his wrist, over his pulse, and held.
"Business," he said, languid.
"Before or after you got dressed?"
"After." His thumb turned under her grip, pressing back. "I did my best."
"You could have cancelled."
"And miss your debut?" He looked at her then, the amber streetlights cycling across the planes of his face, the graze on his jaw, the suit that made him look like a man who owned the century and was mildly bored by it. "Absolutely not."
The car slowed outside the club on Albemarle Street, Georgian townhouse, warm light on wet November pavement. Two men flanked the entrance in dark coats, hands at their sides. Sophie recognised the posture. The stillness. She'd grown up in enough bad postcodes to know what professional violence looked like when it was standing at rest.
She let go of his wrist.
She'd known what Benedict was before she'd let herself want him. Known the way you know a city's infrastructure — you live above it, you benefit from it, you don't ask questions about the pipes. The Bridgertons ran property from Bermondsey to Mayfair, a legitimate-facing empire of real estate and art investment built on top of something older that didn't appear in annual reports. Anthony handled operations with the affect of a man scheduling board meetings. Benedict existed in the margins: the artist, the second son, the one who deflected every serious question with a metaphor about light and showed up to business with split knuckles and the composure of a man who'd been doing this since he was old enough to be useful.
She had no illusions about what she was walking into. That was, she suspected, precisely why he'd wanted her here.
His hand settled on the small of her back as they entered. Not a tender settling, but a declaration. She straightened her spine and let the room receive it.
Inside: low lighting, Georgian proportions, brass fixtures, leather banquettes the colour of old port. A jazz quartet doing tasteful, ignorable work in the corner. The crowd was curated, perhaps one-hundred, dressed in the universal uniform of people whose money had decided, some time ago, that it didn't need to justify itself. Sophie catalogued what she could: a man near the fireplace whose name she recognised from a Westminster planning dispute, two women near the bar who were watching the entrance with the focused attention of people being paid to, a table in the back corner that held four men in dark suits and no drinks.
"Gin martini," Benedict murmured, his mouth near her ear. "Kate's at two o'clock."
Kate Sharma Bridgerton was already moving toward them, black dress, hair pulled back with the sort of severity that once, Sophie had been reliably informed, thrown a Baccarat tumbler at a man's head at Claridge's and received a formal apology from the hotel the following morning. She air-kissed Sophie's cheeks.
"The green is perfect," Kate said, quiet enough for just Sophie. "Every woman in this room is going to hate you for it."
"Is that a compliment?"
"From me? Absolutely." She glanced over Sophie's shoulder at Benedict. "The jaw."
"Business," Sophie said.
"Mmm." Kate's expression did something dry and sharp. "I'm noting that our men conduct business aggressively and then show up to social functions expecting sympathy. I'm declining to provide it on principle whilst privately finding it extremely attractive." She touched Sophie's arm. "Come. Let me introduce you to some people who matter and some people who merely believe they do."
Benedict returned with the martini and a whisky and the next hour was a performance Sophie watched from the inside. She'd spent her career being professionally invisible at events, the coordinator who made rooms function while no one registered she was there. Tonight was the inverse. Tonight every approach, every introduction, every conversation Benedict conducted with his hand on her waist carried the same subtext: she's accounted for. She's ours. File accordingly.
She found she didn't mind.
The women were more interesting than the men. The men performed at Benedict, testing angles with questions about Anthony's Bermondsey development, watching for pressure points. The women watched Sophie. Assessed the dress, the posture, the quality of her stillness, and arrived at conclusions they kept to themselves with varying degrees of success.
Benedict spoke to a man in charcoal who was asking pointed questions about planning committees with a serene, murderous politeness. He had already made all the necessary arrangements and was merely offering the other party an opportunity to arrive at the correct conclusion voluntarily.
"One finds," Benedict said, "that municipal bureaucrats are, as a species, rather resistant to the concept of mutual benefit. Until they aren't."
The man laughed. Sophie didn't.
"You're good at this," she said, when the man had gone.
"At what?"
She gestured at the suit, the whisky held like a prop in a production about inherited power. "The whole performance."
"Says the woman who just charmed the wife of a man Anthony's been trying to reach for the last year." He reached up and tucked her hair back, his split knuckles grazing her cheekbone, warm from the whisky glass. "You thought I didn't notice."
"I thought you were busy threatening someone about planning permissions."
"I can multitask." His thumb stayed against her jaw for one beat longer than was strictly friendly. "You're extraordinary, Sophie. Every person in this room can see it. I need you to be able to see it too."
Her chest constricted. The sincerity underneath the sentence, the stripped-back register underneath the performance, hit differently than she'd expected in a room full of people who were watching.
She didn't answer. She took a sip of her martini and let the gin do its work.
[LADY WHISTLEDOWN'S SOCIETY PAPERS]
Spotted at Albemarle's most exclusive private gathering: Benedict Bridgerton, the family's designated artiste, who appeared this evening to have revised his professional brief considerably. One notes the Huntsman tailoring. One notes the companion — Sophie Baek, events professional, no known affiliations. One notes the knuckles, which one is far too well-bred to mention. The young woman has been kept close all evening in a manner that communicates, to those fluent in the relevant dialect, something considerably more binding than romance. It is not this Author's place to speculate about what Miss Baek has walked into. One merely observes that she does not appear to have walked in unwillingly.
@keepingupwiththeton: who IS she and why does she look like she owns the room she just walked into
@mayfairmama: bridgerton finally doing a civilian introduction?? bold strategy
@poshspice: the hand on her waist hasn't moved all night. someone's CLAIMING
@apples2operasingers: the way Anthony Bridgerton clocked her the second they walked in and then went back to his conversation. that's the approval face. she's in.
Sophie didn't see him coming.
That was the specific cruelty of Robbie: he'd always been better at approaching than at anything that came after. She was at the bar alone for the first time all evening, Benedict pulled away by Colin, and the crowd shifted and there he was. Shorter than she remembered. A suit that cost money but didn't fit it, the jacket pulling at the shoulders, the tie half a centimetre off-centre. His hair was different. His eyes were identical.
"Soph."
The gin glass was suddenly heavy in her hand.
"What are you doing here?"
"Working." The smile. The one she'd trusted for two years, the one she now understood had the same relationship to sincerity that a lock had to a key. "Didn't expect to see you. You look — Christ."
"Don't."
"I'm just—"
"I know what you're just doing." She had catalogued his logistics work, at the time, as a dull but legitimate career. Standing here, in this room, surrounded by people whose industry operated in the gaps between what was documented and what was done, the gaps in Robbie's story rearranged into a different shape entirely. The access she'd given him. The events, the rooms, the introductions she'd made because she'd been trying to make him feel included in a life he'd told her, repeatedly, was too much for him. You're a lot. You're intense. You should be grateful someone's putting up with it. She'd believed him. For two years, she had genuinely believed him.
She had been, she understood now, extraordinarily useful to him.
His hand moved toward her arm.
"I strongly advise," Benedict said, "removing that hand."
He was simply there. Sophie hadn't heard him cross the room. He was at her shoulder, whisky in hand, the split knuckles on full display, his voice carrying the specific register of a Bridgerton conducting business in a social setting: perfectly pleasant, structurally final.
Robbie's hand stopped mid-air.
"Mate, I was just—"
"I don't recall inviting that address." Benedict's smile was a beautiful, empty thing. "Benedict Bridgerton."
The name hit. Sophie watched it work through Robbie's face in sequence: recognition, reassessment, the rapid collapse of whatever he'd been about to say. He knew the name. His particular line of work would have required him to know the name.
"Right. Yeah. I didn't realise she was—"
"She's with us." Benedict's free hand settled on Sophie's waist. The placement was clear to everyone in the immediate vicinity and probably to the two women near the bar who were watching with focused professional interest. "She's been with us for some time, which I would have thought merited due diligence on your part, given the apparent nature of your work."
Anthony arrived. Sophie hadn't seen him cross the room either. He didn't touch her, didn't speak to her, stood at her left with his hands in the pockets of his charcoal three-piece and his face carrying the calculation of the most efficient resolution to the situation.
The window was short.
Robbie left without saying goodbye. He backed up three steps, turned, and was absorbed into the crowd, and Anthony watched him go with mild, satisfied attention, and then gave Sophie a single nod, brief and complete, and followed.
Benedict's grip tightened on her waist.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." The gin glass was still trembling faintly. She set it on the nearest surface.
"Sophie."
"I said I'm fine." She turned to face him. His jaw was set. The graze had darkened under the warm light and his eyes held something barely leashed, the fury routed through the grip on her waist and the controlled perfection of his volume because this was a public room and Bridgertons did not make scenes. They made arrangements. "He's nobody."
"He spent two years telling you that you were nobody. Those are different things." Benedict's voice dropped. Just hers. His thumb traced a single slow circle at her waist. "And I need you to hear me. You are the most capable person in this room. Every deal Anthony's closed this year has been in rooms you arranged, with people you introduced. You walked in here tonight and half the room readjusted because you were on my arm, and the other half readjusted because of how you carry yourself, and neither of those things has a single fucking thing to do with me." His eyes stayed on her face. "You're not here because I brought you. You're here because you belong here. That distinction matters."
Her throat ached. The difference between being told you are extraordinary by someone who needs you to believe it and being told you are extraordinary by someone who is furious on your behalf was a distinction she was still learning to trust.
She picked up his ruined hand. Pressed her mouth to the split knuckles, tasted copper and the ghost of antiseptic, and held his gaze.
"Take me home, Ben."
"The car's ready."
She walked out through the room with his hand in hers and her chin level and her shoulders back, and every head turned, and she let them look. His jacket landed across her shoulders in the cold outside air, Savile Row wool lined in burgundy silk, still warm from his body. She pulled it close.
His phone buzzed in the jacket pocket. She read the screen without meaning to.
Anthony: Handled. Don't let it keep her up.
Anthony: She did well tonight.
Sophie locked the screen and slid the phone back into the pocket and got into the car, and Benedict got in after her and put his hand on her thigh, high, possessive, the split knuckles dark against the green of her dress, and the car pulled into the rain.
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
keep reading under the cut or on ao3:
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.
Ok since Benophie is Black Cat x Golden Retriever how about Sophie laying in Bed reading while Benedict just lays on her just to be by her side while Sophie gently strokes his hair :3
It's been snowing for days, and while Sophie thought she would feel restless and cooped up, her pregnancy has her constantly tired, and the cold weather makes it even easier to laze in bed with a book.
And her husband isn't complaining. He's resting with his head on her hip as she lays on her side. One of her hands is threaded into his hair, stroking his waves slowly.
"You need a haircut," she mutters. "I should trim it for you."
"Mm. S'fine," Benedict tells her softly. "S'just hair, and no one minds here."
Sophie smiles a little. "I suppose you can have it cut when we go back to town."
He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a dog whimper. "Must we go back?"
"Hyacinth is coming out this coming spring," Sophie reminds him. "And the family will want to meet the baby when it comes."
Benedict huffs out a breath into fabric of her chemise.
"Benedict..."
"I find it entirely unfair that Anthony and Kate were allowed to put multiple continents between themselves and the family when they had Neddy, and we are obligated to share so soon."
Sophie laughs softly and turns her head to look at him. "I wish to share our baby with our family...and we will have a month to ourselves before the season starts."
"I know," he concedes. "I suppose I am just feeling greedy."
"That's sweet," she tells him, scratching his scalp gently.
Benedict buries his face back against her hip and closes his eyes, his shoulders loosening at her touch.
Sophie feels him start to drift off, his breathing evening out as the snow falls harder, and she goes back to her book.
Chapter five of my Benophie Modern AU, You’ve Bewitched Me, has been uploaded to A03! Read it Here.
You've Bewitched Me is a slow burn, forbidden romance taking place at the Bridgerton's family firm. Sophie works as Anthony’s assistant, while Benedict has been forced to return to the firm after failing to pursue an artistic career.
It took awhile to write, but I love this AU and love these characters so I'm excited that I have the time and motivation to work on it again.
Thank you to everyone who has read it and followed me here! And thank you to everyone who has given the fic kudos or a comment. <3
“We could get struck by lightning out here. But, no! You want to kiss in the rain!” Benedict simply remarks.
Written for Day 10 of the March 2022 Drabble Challenge based on the prompt: "You wanted to kiss in the rain!"
Fandom: Bridgerton
Rating: T
Benedict Bridgerton cannot help but sigh dramatically as he finally catches his wife’s wrist in his large hand once he manages to chase her down.
“Please come back to the house with me,” Benedict whispers in her ear, dropping a kiss to her right earlobe in the hopes he can entice her back into the safety of their country home. “Sophie, it will not do for you to catch cold in this weather,” the second-born Bridgerton continues, hoping that his reasoning will help change his wife’s mind.
“Dance with me for a moment,” Sophie requests, closing the distance between them and placing her hand on her husband’s broad shoulder. “Please,” she whispers in that voice Benedict cannot resist with a smile on her lips.
Around the pair, a flash of lightning streaks across the sky as thunder booms and crashes in close proximity.
“We must go inside, my love. In your condition, it would not be wise…”
“Kiss me, then,” Sophie practically demands, closing her expressive brown eyes as she snuggles into her husband’s chest as his shirt clings to him due to the torrential downpour.
“We could get struck by lightning out here. But, no! You want to kiss in the rain!” Benedict simply remarks before pressing a kiss, long and slow, to Sophie’s lips.
“I do believe the worst that has ever happened to us in the rain was you were struck ill and I helped to tend to you until you were recovered.”
“Yes, but we have never had to run back to the house in a downpour while you were so far along with child just because you had the dream to kiss me in the rain,” Benedict reminds, ever one of the most level-headed of the Bridgerton clan.
“You have to admit it was rather romantic, though,” Sophie smirks, pressing another kiss to Benedict’s cheek before she moves his hand from encircling her wrist down to where it sits on the right side of her swelling stomach. “And I think our son is rather amused with the idea as well since he has not stopped kicking since we arrived outside,” she practically beams.
And, all at once, Benedict becomes undone once more at the sight of seeing his wife and the mother of his child so utterly happy and carefree in their life in the countryside. The rain was tolerable if it made Sophie smile.
Author's Note: I wrote this one the day I finished reading An Offer From a Gentleman in January 2022 after I binge read books two through nine before the release of Season Two. (And, yes, Sophie is supposed to be about seven months pregnant with Charles at this point in time for the sake of this one-shot.) Sophie and Benedict are such a lovely pairing, and I absolutely adored how he was willing to forego his entire social status and risk everything just for the chance to marry Sophie! 😊 Violet Bridgerton has quickly become one of my favorite literary moms, as she is just so supportive of every one of her children’s dreams and just wants to see them happy.
I have only seen up to Season Two of Bridgerton since hubby and I don't have Netflix like I did when I still lived with my parents, but I did know the casting choice for Sophie and thus changed her eye color from green on Ao3 to brown for Tumblr. I hope you all enjoyed this little one-shot and that you will let me know your thoughts on this story. The remainder of my "Garden of Bridgerton Drabbles" will be posted here in the coming weeks! As always, thank you for the support and have a wonderful day, afternoon, or night! Until next time, dear readers!
Chapter five of my Benophie Modern AU, You’ve Bewitched Me, has been uploaded to A03! Read it Here.
You've Bewitched Me is a slow burn, forbidden romance taking place at the Bridgerton's family firm. Sophie works as Anthony’s assistant, while Benedict has been forced to return to the firm after failing to pursue an artistic career.
It took awhile to write, but I love this AU and love these characters so I'm excited that I have the time and motivation to work on it again.
Thank you to everyone who has read it and followed me here! And thank you to everyone who has given the fic kudos or a comment. <3
The Ep 3 conversation at the study (after the lake kiss) was a masterpiece in acting & dialogue. The words they spoke to each other *i regret it* , *we shall not need to speak of this episode again* , *i wish to leave for london* , but their expressions were the complete opposite. I wonder what their internal monologue was like for Benedict & Sophie... the juxtaposition of emotions, societal requirements of proprietary.. just wow 👌 👏
You mean these fucking faces?
Yeah. Fuck.
That's a lot of "Whatever this thing is between us, it can't happen. It can't. She's a maid/he's a gentleman. If we do this, we wreck our lives and risk wrecking the lives of people we care about. This cannot happen.
B: Apologies, have we met?
G: We do not need to have met. You are a Bridgerton, yes?
B: I see my reputation precedes me.
G: Not exactly a virtue.
B: I declare that's rather good.
T: I am skilled at more than simply standing naked, Mr. ...
B: Bridgerton. I do not doubt it.
B: I braved this nest of mothers and vipers to find you, and I had hoped to be able to properly receive an introduction. Benedict Bridgerton.
T: Oh, I know your name. It is on everyone's lips as you and your brother were among the heroes of the day.
P: So, you are a second son.
B: And trying my best to fit the ne'er-do-well reputation.
P: Do you fill your time with any creative pursuits? Do you write, or draw, or paint?
B: No.
B: You really did not know who I am.
S: Not until now.
B: Well if I cannot have your name, then you cannot —
S: Benedict, I presume. You are just as Whistledown describes, both in appearance and in nature.
B: Sometimes it is easier to stay in shallow water. Warmer. More pleasant. I like warm and pleasant.
S: It is dull to swim in the same waters day after day, even if they are warm and … pleasant. Will you not wade out deeper with me?
the "came back wrong" trope except like... they didnt. like this mad scientists wife died, and so he studied necromancy, brought her back, and she came back and it all worked. like she came back exactly the same as she was before with literally no difference. but the scientist guy is like "oh no... what have i done.... shes Different now!!!! she came back Wrong!!!!" and shes just like. chilling. reading a book. cooking dinner. shes just so so normal but in the guys mind hes like "oh shes soooo weird" but shes just normal
I've been thinking about Sophie and her survivalistic tendencies. She mistakes food, shelter and proprietary for love. Her father offers her perhaps, the bare minimum of courtesies in his acknowledgement of her as his daughter and from it she gathers it could only be love. She is denied the privilege of selfhood, so much so she constitutes being offered basic necessities an act of affection. This is deeply saddening in retrospect, but only makes it insane if you throw Benedict into the mix.
Benedict enjoys revelry. Benedict leads a bacchanal life. Benedict dissolves complex human emotions into simple pleasures. He derives pleasure from food, alcohol and sex. He sees the concept of "leisure" as something deeply significant. His art is unrestrained, but it captures a very real feeling. It stays true to the scenery. He is privileged, but he places an equal importance onto things that are fundamental to survival. Nourishment. Leisure. Relaxing. Boredom. He breaks the more complicated facets of himself into simple ideas. Not that Bridgerton is a show with impenetrable unwelcoming themes in the first place, rather Benedict imo is written with very simple philosophies in mind. He is afraid of being disposed. He has issues being a spare. He cannot be with the person he loves.
Clear, curt obstacles.
Fairytales are often direct like that - depicting heroic virtues and grand sacrifices for children to read, but also depicting the horrors of survival. Hunger. Thirst. Ache. Sorrow. Exhaustion.
The next time Benedict meets Sophie again, he is on the brink of death. The first time Benedict meets Sophie, he is on the brink of life. The pendulum oscillates between these life and death feelings throughout the season. Sophie is full of life when she cuts the kite string through the air. Benedict's longing for Sophie in Episode 4 is often compared to a hunger or a thirst. He lets her burn him with scalding hot tea. He isn't shown eating or drinking anything. He's projected his hunger, his thirst, his essentials for survival onto Sophie.
Sophie is no better either. Her first memory of an unmasked Benedict is when they sit together to eat. The breakfast scene's importance cannot be understated because the hospitality Benedict greets her with, Sophie interprets as a dilemma. He doesn't recognise her but he is also.. very nice? Food makes her forgive him, food that nourishes her - food she is offered in plenty by the Crabtrees and Benedict - helps her alleviate her feelings of sorrow and her moral quandary. Subconsciously, she extends her hunger — her hunger for food, her hunger for curiosity ("Perhaps you can tell me more about this fine library"), her hunger for security and sanctuary — to Benedict. She accepts his help as one might accept food from a stranger when one is in the brink of starvation. She accepts his idealistic ways of thinking, accepts his endorsement of leisure and merrymaking, long after her hunger and her need for his kindness transpires. Sophie's love for Benedict transcends that one magical night they both shared. It is something so deeply primal; deep at the core of her very solid heart.
The way their kisses are often juxtaposed with burning candles or hearths or fast-flowing water. Fire and water being the building blocks of survival. The burning tea from Episode 4, a concoction of water warmed by fire, being the one to remind them both of the elephant in the room (i.e their falling for each other) that cannot be ignored. Benedict toying with an assortment of sweets in Episode 5 while speaking with Sophie — sweets made of simple sugars that he's loved in the past, but cannot bring himself to eat now, because he's already relinquished his hunger to Sophie. Benedict describing his love for Sophie with the words — "shot me back to life", Sophie in turn describing her affections for Benedict and his reciprocation as, "an inability to believe [it]" … and associating it with her father's approval of her.. thus circling back to her associating basic needs for survival with something far greater than that, love.
It is disturbing she's been denied love and care, but equally horrifyingly romantic that she associates what is required for her everyday life with love. Something that sates her appetite. Something she is denied because of her illegitimacy, along with "a roof over your [her] head" as Araminta puts it.
Shelter. Food. Security. Sanctuary.
Love.
Orpheus, my heart is yours
Always was, and will be
It's my gut, I can't ignore
Orpheus, I'm hungry
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