(.. or Sophie's stuck in Severance. Beatrice thinks of herself as Lemony Snicket. Much to bicker about over cute lunch notes and eggs.)
Slightly NSFW ahead! Nothing too wild though.. I think.
Sophie didn't ask for notes to be written for her, but it was one of those quirks that came free with dating one Beatrice Bridgerton.
It started out simple, actually. Unassuming. Conspicuous even. Not as out-there-in-your-face as say, a mother's loving note in one's lunch would entail. Not that she had much experience with loving mothers, but she imagined they'd conjure something up for their children to sweeten their Mondays. The concept of fun-coloured scraps of paper containing a lovely little something enclosed into the folds of a greasy sandwich delighted her initially, mostly because Bea had kept it.. how to put it delicately.. rather tame.
This new.. project, so to speak, of hers had begun with otherwise humble intentions at first— Beatrice, back then, could only make French toast, so she'd pack a Tupperware of it with a scrawly handwritten note in French. Grammatically incorrect French, but it was the thought that counts. Right? Once, she'd add a little dash of hot sauce onto it and had called it "spicy bread" but it was still very much a piece of French toast.
Nevertheless, Sophie encouraged her pursuits — she'd always return home from work with a finished lunch; the Tupperware licked clean.
Happy wife. Happy life.
But really, Sophie did want to support her.
Beatrice liked the concept of heat but feared cooking with it, so it was jarring.. and quite nice to see her in the kitchen these days and wield a hot pan without screaming bloody murder. She was in fact, an excellent baker but ever since the oven broke (... after a mishap involving several birds in the house. They didn't eat any, by the way. They also didn't die, so win-win..?) she was forced to work with hot stoves — or as she dubbed it, "the devil's asshole".
It wasn't like she could only make French toast. Bea could make a ton of other dishes just as well.
She made scrambled eggs.
She made soft-boiled eggs.
She made Eggs Benedict that she called Eggs Beatrice.
She made hard-boiled eggs.
She made eggs with rice, eggs with toast, devilled eggs that she called '#my eggs' (pronounced 'hashtag my eggs', no Sophie did not question it; she knew better now), jammy eggs, omelettes and of course, sunny side-up eggs that she dubbed 'Sophie!'
All right, maybe she had favourites, but who didn't? The chefs on TV had their own favourites, didn't they? Point being, that wasn't the point.
Or maybe it was.
You see, the eggs - a simple, otherwise humble dish requiring little to no preparation kept Beatrice's aspirations and therefore, the subject of her handwritten notes grounded. Sometimes she'd leave it with a "enjoy your day, soph!" or a "love you so so sooo much" with a sticker of a kawaii egg playing a musical instrument. Whimsical. Silly. Tame. Most importantly, not unsettling.
Worthy to underscore the fact that Beatrice Bridgerton, at some point not too long ago, was.. actually well, normal.
It wasn't until Sophie had bought a cookbook (it was on sale and she wasn't about to pass on a good deal especially when books did not come cheap) among other books that things had gone very, very wrong. In fact, Sophie could pinpoint the very second Bea, and therefore the kitchen and the rest of the house, began their respective descents into a downward spiral.
The lunches had become more elaborate. Shrimp risotto, decadent ravioli, ribbons of creamed fettucini, even tiny swirls of tortellini hid a sordid secret. The cookbook was perfect for egg lovers (or "ovarians" as Beatrice called herself) looking to make a transition into professional cooking. Homemade pastas employed lots of eggs too, and Sophie was relieved she could find a nice happy middle where she could expect new lunches everyday and not to have Beatrice give up her eggs as a result.
Poor choice of words, but still.
Going from cooking with eggs exclusively to cooking elaborate bouquets of pastas was a feat in of itself, something that seldom happened overnight. Sophie was impressed. Everyday there'd be a new pasta shape for her to try, a new mystery flavour for her to deduce and a delightful dessert to go with it — a square of chocolate, cream-covered strawberries, cubes of artisanal cheeses, a mini bottle of sweet champagne; everyday an endless surprise. Indeed, the cookbook did manage to make a mess out of their lives - arming her silly girlfriend with even sillier weapons from the silliest of arsenals but Sophie did not grow weary of the pasta lunches as she did with the eggs (Beatrice must've taken some sort of a personal oath; to prepare meals in a way that her tastebuds would never grow bored).
Sophie loved it, in fact. She loved the improvement.
That wasn't the worst part.
The notes were.
They went from being as short and curt as the size of her thumb to being as large as a full-blown handwritten letter that went on for two pages. Fucking stapled! And it wasn't a one-and-done thing, oh no, no. It progressively grew worse. They went from being a colourful Post-It to coffee-stained, parchement-shaped, like that of a terminally ill Victorian lady's scandalous writings authored to her "dearest friend". It would seem they became decadent and comprehensive in tandem with her lunches. Long gone were the days of simple squares of French toast with a heart-shaped piece of paper containing an even simpler message.
Last Tuesday, Sophie found a folded note with words covering every inch of it; a note about the size of a letterhead. That following Friday, she'd opened her lunch to find a five page note carefully packed into an envelope. The subsequent Monday, those five pages turned to ten.
Today, she held fifteen sheets of paper. (Sophie should've suspected something when Beatrice handed her her usual little baggie with her packed lunch and her mysterious folder that she'd asked her to open "much, much, much later" with a sly wink. That wink was unhelpful at best and deliberately misleading at worst.)
My darling, my sweetheart, my Sophie — oh what a delight it is to call you mine!
It is truly a shame that you are to toil away in the cavernous dungeons of your superiors. If I could burn every single one of them down, I will but you will hate me for it, but I can live with you hating me. I can tolerate your wrath, for I should be grateful to receive anything from you, as a matter of fact. Be it your love, your hate or even your mild loathing that I adore so much, I do not see the difference. Instead I see you make a delivery of who you are to me. You offer me your sincerity, your anger, your indifference and yet I have nothing to give you back. I shall give myself naked to your whims, hoping my vulnerability will suffice even though I know it will not.
On the menu today is a classic spaghetti dish with decadent tomato sauce. Homemade. A generous portion of cheese to go along with it — though I'm not exactly sure what it is though, I think you might have to give it the old sniff test but I'm.. at least forty eight percent sure it is mozzarella. It could also be cheddar, but you're always better at this than I can ever be, love. I chose this dish because it is a simple, unassuming plate of comfort. I recall the feeling of the warm breeze in summers, spending hot nights in Berlin with my stupid friends, the emptiness in my stomach the day after - this craving for a warm, hearty meal. I invoke the feeling of reassurance, one of solace and hope, one of your laughter the morning after, the softness of your skin, the gentleness in your sighs of pleasure.
Let me love you. Let me bring you pleasure abed, but let me bring you pleasure through nourishment just as well. I remember the feeling of you gazing through the window, this vacant, yet thoughtful stare you bore that inspired me to make this for you. I wanted to capture the essence of what it is like to be you — and I know I will never get it right in this lifetime. I'll never understand you but maybe as our months together turn into years and years into centuries and centuries into countless lifetimes, I hope you will show yourself to me. But I do not expect it — nor do I wish to hasten it. There is no Beatrice without Sophie; you, whose context I reside in.
Once at a friend's home, I was served some spaghetti for dinner. I hated it. It did not seem so.. understandable. It refused to be perceived. It kept getting everywhere. My mouth was as red as if I were a heron feasting on bloody carrion, and I hated it so much I never wanted to be served another bowl ever again. Now I want to make it forever, all for you. I want to know nothing but spaghetti. In a few years, they'd dig up my corpse from whatever fucking dumpster-on-fire, and they'd rip me apart because that's what these fucking doctors do - and they'd find my heart echo the same, soft sounds as the shrill crank of an old pasta machine. My heart beats for you and even if my body betrays me one day and my mind escapes me, my heart will always go to you and as long as you're somewhere in the world, I will not die.
Today's sweet treat is unfortunately not a bar of chocolate, but I hope you enjoy this little muffin I made! Well… sort of. I nicked it from Ma's house, but if she made me and if she made the muffin, then according to like laws and stuff, I made the muffin.. right?
I'm such a genius.
In fact, it is you who makes me better. You make me, me! You're all that I ever hope to have across all the lifetimes I've ever lived and..
… and it went on and on for ten more pages.
"Another one?" Alfie asked, claiming the spot next to her. Sophie gave him a solemn nod as she proceeded to stuff the giant folder into her bag. It didn't fit, naturally.
"She had it sent to me to the office."
"Like.. via the post? What?"
"You know, I've had people who've sent me flowers for Valentine's to my job in the past. Chocolates. Sometimes they'd book me a little spa day even. I mean, I'm not that likeable I.. think, but I'm not turning down a free spa day, am I? Ugh, I sound so ungrateful. Fuck! No. I mean, it is — great to receive little notes and everything, you know?"
"Of course, of course."
"But this is like, I don't know..? I mean, I'm not confused.. I'm not declining all this attention, I'm just not clining, yeah?"
"That girl loves you." Alfie said it matter-of-factly.
"Huh. Why?"
"Wh.. what the fuck.. what do you mean why?"
"I mean, we've only been seeing each other for like, a year and sure she kisses me everyday and tells me she loves me, but you know that's more of a friend-thing, I think."
"Sophie, um," Alfie set down his sandwich slowly. "What. The. Fuck?"
"Wait, hold on. Let me paint you a picture. You've been seeing this girl for a few months now, close to a year and you like her and you definitely find her.. like, amazing on all fronts, and that's great! We love the concept! It's great! Life's great. And she asks you to move in with her permanently so you do, and everything's great and she says I love you and you're like, yeah, I mean, it comes with the territory doesn't it? You love me because we're — dating now. Roommates. Besties. That sort of vibe. It's like, a casual I-love-you."
"Okay."
"Okay? Just okay?"
Alfie stood up, packed his half-eaten sandwich and walked away.
Psh.
Not that Sophie expected Alfie to understand.
But it was weird. It had to be weird, right? It was objectively, factually and at its heart, strange. It wasn't that Sophie had some attachment issues to work on, and it certainly couldn't be because she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that people liked her and went through with the effort to make it known. It seemed wrong, almost.
Work was exhausting and she was looking forward to some personal time. Back when she'd begun the job, she'd naively thought she'd have plenty of free time but it would seem late-stage capitalism had other plans for her. She made it a point to thank Bea everyday for making her homemade lunches (even if all she made were eggs), save for the.. unsettling love letters for it gave Sophie something to look forward to every day.
While the others poked at their bowls of slop, wearily scavenging through the apps for cold, uneatable food, Beatrice ensured she always had something hot and homemade to eat. Sometimes Sophie would rub a piece of pasta against her lips, as if to mentally savour the feel of Beatrice's hands against the dough, searching fruitlessly for her kisses in corporate hell. She was always so giddy when she thought of Beatrice's hands — her sculpted arms, the way she kneaded dough and leaned against the counter, watching the morning sun. Pity she would never find her cooking shirtless, no Bea was strict when it came to food — and strangely the strictest when it came to Sophie's food.
That night, Sophie sat with her book she'd bought six months ago and opened it to its first page. Beatrice however was determined to never let her begin, as she kept planting soft kisses to the sides of her legs.
"We need to go to bed," Sophie said, closing the book on the third page. To be fair, it was a dull book and it sent her right to sleep.
"Oh, is that so?" Beatrice mused in between kisses. "Someone's a little forward today."
"No, I mean, it is just an exhausting day."
"Mhm?" she left a trail of kisses from her knees to her thigh and began working at her underwear. Sophie clenched her legs at the gesture, effectively trapping Bea right where she'd like to be. It wasn't that she didn't want it, rather it felt new each and every time.
"Yeah, um," Sophie tried to compose herself. "They made me read a lot today. Lots of accounts to look at, quarterly reports to edit.."
"That is so sad, you must be so stressed—"
".. long-winded letters, even."
"They're so cruel," Beatrice dragged her tongue across her inner thigh, drawing gentle, deliberately teasing circles. It was awful in the sense, she'd like more but Sophie was supposed to be mad at her. Mad at how thoughtful and giving she was, positively enraged at the fact she had the audacity to pen her heart wrenching letters, adding an extra page filled with words every day. It went against everything she believed to be true.
"Bea,"
"I can stop, if you want to."
"No— I just — it isn't fair."
"What isn't?"
"Your letters."
Beatrice came up for air, cocking her head to the side.
"What letters?"
"Yours!"
"Oh, you mean the little lunch notes?"
"Little? They're fifteen pages long!"
"Eh."
"Beatrice!"
"What? I thought you liked them!"
"I do — I mean, I don't! It isn't — like — I don't know what to make of them?"
"I love you," she said. "That is what you should make of them."
"I should?" Sophie raised an eyebrow.
Beatrice crept her fingers around the sides of her hips, drawing her underwear down with her teeth. The action alone tore a desperate groan from Sophie's lips, which only encouraged Beatrice to take her time. Jesus fucking Christ. First the letters, now this? She craved a quick mercy, but she should've known there was nothing so quick about Beatrice. She liked her words long and elaborate as much as she liked being sickeningly gentle with her, to the point of making Sophie tremble with her unsatisfied hunger. God she was good. God she was fucking frustrating.
"Fuuck." she begged, borderline feverish, holding onto a fistful of sheets.
Beatrice stopped, just before she could relieve Sophie of her stress.
"Yes, you should," she cooed.
"I don't.. this is awful."
"I know,"
"I don't like your stupid letters. I don't.. I don't like any of this. I don't.. fuck!"
"You don't fuck? Oh that's such a shame, Sophie but I won't hold it against you. There's plenty of other activities—"
"You are fucking awful." she managed, her body shaking uncontrollably. She squeezed her thighs, feeling a growing dampness that required an immediate salve now. Sophie left her grip on the blankets, grabbed ahold of Bea's hair instead and guided her between her legs. Her desperation coaxed a laugh out of her. Maybe, just maybe she'd oblige just this fucking once.
Beatrice parted her lips to kiss her deeply. Sophie exhaled.
"Oh this is good?"
"I.. I'm.."
Another laugh. Sophie felt it course through her spine. Hell, she could melt into a puddle of nothingness right there on the bed.
"Just enjoy it, okay?"
And she did.
It was two in the morning when they were finally ready to sleep; Sophie resting against Beatrice's arm, Bea managing lazy kisses wherever she could find a snatch of Sophie's skin. It didn't matter — the world, the stupid job. Nothing mattered more to her than what she had now, and what she had, Sophie wouldn't trade a single moment of it for something else. They'd offered her a promotion at work the other day — more pay but more hours, but she'd declined it without a second thought.
"But why?"
"Huh?"
"Why did you find it awful?"
It took a moment for Sophie to make sense of Beatrice's words. Whatever this afterglow was, it definitely messed with her head a little.
"No! I — I love them. I just.. I don't know. I've been.. I'm not used to all of this, and I've looked up what lovebombing is and.."
"You— you think I'm lovebombing you?" she asked, in the softest, most tearful voice that made it even worse.
"No! I'm — I just want to know if you like me or if you like, like me."
A deafening silence followed.
"Sometimes it is hard to tell, all right!" Sophie expressed. "Like people can be — people. I don't know what I'm talking about but you know what I mean, right? I'm not crazy! I'm actually not. This is a very reasonable opinion to have."
Another deafening silence followed.
"I do like you." she said, softly, turning to face her. "I love you everyday. I love you here. I love you on made-up days, in made-up places and in made-up worlds. I love you, I cannot possibly contain it in myself and that is why you'll find your lunch always filled to the brim, to the point of bursting. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you asked. I love you, I'll write a thousand pages of letters for you if you didn't ask. Even if you believe this is me lovebombing you, feigning commitment, I'll never ask of you to change what you think about me because I love you."
Sophie blinked. Beatrice tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
".. but as a casual little shindig, right?"
Beatrice plunged her lips to her neck, kissing and biting it as much as she could.
"Okay! Fine! I'm sorry!" Sophie captured her lips with hers, distracting her from leaving her with many a hickeys that she'd have to wear it to work the next day.
"Good," came a satisfied hum. "I wouldn't want you believing in the otherwise."
Sophie nestled her head against her chest, tracing the path of her collarbones all the way to the veins on her neck, the soft laugh-lines across her eyes, the feel of her lips.
to everyone reading this: you may find my prompt submission guidelines here.
There was no reason for Beatrice to pass by Sophie's room, in the guest wing of My Cottage, every morning. There was no reason for Beatrice to stop, not even when she heard a soft, startled oomph.
Mrs. Crabtree was glad to tend to their guest of honour and, furthermore, would be suspicious, if not outright scandalized, if she were to discover Beatrice Bridgerton — daughter of one viscount and sister to another — rushing to the aid of a maid.
(Aid of a maid. Ha. Well, if it rhymed, then Beatrice must simply spend some time ... with Sophie!)
"Miss Bridgerton." Sophie dipped to a curtesy at the sight of Beatrice, a gesture made more awkward by the fact that her short stays were still unlaced. The poor girl tried and failed to subtly keep one hand behind her back, holding the piece together.
"Beatrice," Beatrice corrected, then nodded at Sophie. "May I ...?"
"Oh!" An apple-red blush blossomed across Sophie's cheeks. "Mrs. Crabtree, I'm sure, will be by in a moment."
"But I'm here now."
"But it would not be proper."
"You saved me from certain death, Sophie. The least I could do is save you from your dress."
Sophie's doe eyes rounded, widened, but ultimately she acquiesced, turning to the mirror to surrender her unlaced back to Beatrice. Gingerly picking up the ends of the laces, Beatrice was struck by the thought that, well, actually, she wasn't one hundred percent sure she knew how to do this. She'd always had a lady's maid. Even when her sisters required assistance, the most Beatrice had done was lift a finger to fetch someone who could fetch someone who could help. (And to be quite frank and not quite "beatrice" at all, she had much more practice unravelling ladies out of their dresses than ravelling them in.)
But she knew how to tie a chain of daisies into a crown from many a summers with Hyacinth. She knew how to tie a bow around a book wrapped in brown paper for Eloise. Certainly, deep in her bones, she knew how to do this.
In her agitation, her fingers brushed against the exposed skin along Sophie's back. Her guest's breath hitched with a sweet gasp, while Beatrice forgot how to breathe all together.
"The right ..." Sophie swallowed, then quickly regathered the composure to talk Beatrice through it. "The right string goes over the left ..."
"Yes."
"Then you make a loop ... under, not over ..."
"Yes."
Beatrice caught Sophie's eyes in the mirror. It ought to be difficult, tying a knot when you weren't looking at the strings, but Sophie's voice was so mesmerizing, her instructions so precise, even a fool such as Beatrice could make sense of it all.
Tying off the final knot, Beatrice took a half step back, hand to her lips, to inspect her handy work. Then she tapped her index finger, which carried a lingering imprint of her kiss, to the nape of Sophie's neck. Later, she marked the spot in her mind. After, she helped Sophie into her dress, a blue gown with some bold bee-and-flower details around the hem, a piece among the old fashions Beatrice had long abandoned to her guest room, made anew by Sophie's beauty and grace.
"What do you think?" Sophie asked, whirling around. And though Beatrice had helped put the pieces together, this assembled look at Sophie in Beatrice's dress, all of a sudden, shot a ray of heat through her chest. Unbidden, Beatrice's eyes traced down to Sophie's bosom, yet another spot she'd like to mark for a kiss, and, sitting right above it on her throat, an all-too-familiar piece of jewellery.
