#benophie week 2023

[apinchofm]

Benedict Bridgerton and Sophie Beckett

Luke Thompson and Sophie Wilde

What is it to admire a woman? To look at her and feel inspiration. To delight in her beauty. So much so that all your defences crumble that you would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her

#bridgerton #an offer from a gentleman #benophieedit #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #sophie wilde #luke thompson #bridgertonedit #perioddramaedit #benophie week 2023 #benophie week #minimmakes

[fayes-fics]

Hormones [Drabble - Benophie Remix]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett

Summary: Sophie suffers from pregnancy hormones.

Warnings: A bit suggestive? Non-graphic references to sex. Attempt at humour.

Prompt: Day 7 Word - Baby

Author’s note: Remixed this comedy drabble for @benophieweek 2023. Enjoy! <3

“Wait, I think that was someone... I really think we should maybe… Ohhh….” 

With a squeeze of internal muscles, Sophie manages to shut him up.

“I don't care if someone is there, Benedict,” she answers, breathing hard, “we are doing this,” dragging forcefully up and down in his lap.

“Alright… but let's do it quietly, please,” he implores with a pleading look in his eye, holding her hips loosely.

“You’ll have to gag me,” she warns testily, hormones raging.

“Fine, but just don't bite my hand this time, please?” he sighs, almost weary.

—

Sophie never expected to become that person.

But four months into her first pregnancy, that is precisely the person she has become.

Anything, yes, anything, can make her lust-filled. Last week just the look of a peach had her storming across the house to pull down his trousers bossily.

Benedict is not sure what to make of it, frankly. At first, the novelty was very arousing, but now weeks later, Sophie swears he has taken to hiding from her on occasion.

Today there's not even a particular trigger. It's a warm sunny day, and she is tending to some roses when the urge appears, intense and sudden. With a quick inhale, Sophie drops her pruning sheers, tears off her gardening gloves and strides purposefully to where she last saw Benedict.

He’s still there - painting the rolling hills of the countryside, idly flicking some flower detail into the bottom right corner of the picture with a fine brush.

“Hello love,” he starts,  “how are y…mpffhh.” 

His words are cut off by her lips landing on his forcefully.

“Hold my face,” she orders between kisses.

“My hands are covered in paint!” he protests as she briefly lets him up for air.

“I do not give a….” she warns, diving back in, and he does as asked, smearing paint along her jawline and cheeks. He knows better than to argue when Sophie is like this.

“What was it this time?” he asks dryly as she attacks his trouser buttons with an enthusiasm that implies they cause her some personal offence. “See a particularly nice piece of fruit? A suggestively shaped vegetable?” he laughs to himself at that one.

“Get on the ground Benedict, right now,” she growls.

“Alright, alright, fine, give me a chance, will you,” he laughs again, genuinely baffled by how furious Sophie can be when she’s horny. He has decided to categorise it as adorable. Slightly terrifying but adorable.

“This baby is your bloody fault”, she bemoans through gritted teeth, gathering up her dress and straddling him unceremoniously. “Now take me hard, husband, or you do not get any naming rights. I’ll call it Ethel. Especially if it's a boy.”

He pulls a face. “You wouldn't; that's bordering on child cruelty.”

“Then you had better do a good job.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No taglist as this isn't my usual style

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #benedict x sophie #benophie #benophie week 2023 #benophie fanfiction #benophie fluff #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton

[bohemian-nights]

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett

Bridgerton 🥿

#benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #benedict x sophie #bnmoodboard #bridgerton aesthetic #benophie #bridgerton moodboard #benophieedit #benophie week 2023 #sophie beckett fancast #crystal clarke #bridgerton

[sxphiebeckettt]

The Lady Sophia Maria Beckett, daughter of the Earl of Penwood.

POV: if Sophie was legitimate

#sophie beckett #an offer from a gentleman #bridgerton #poc Sophie Beckett #Beckett>gunningworth #aesthetics #moodboard #sophie beckett edit #Netflix #legitimate Sophie Beckett #bridgerton edit #black Sophie Beckett #fancast #fan cast #benophie week #benophieweek2023 #benophie week 2023 #fancast: isabella peschardt

[unfortunate-arrow]

To See My Son Become A Father

A/N: For the Benophie Week 2023 prompt “baby.” Set in 1857 and features mentions of difficulties with pregnancy/infertility but not more than in When He Was Wicked

Benedict Bridgerton woke with a start, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to darkness. Whatever candles had been lit had clearly gone out, but Benedict wasn’t sure how long ago they had. Nevertheless, he stood up and stretched, his muscles and bones protesting the movements. Nothing made him feel all of his 70 years quite as much as sleeping on anything that wasn’t a bed. Except maybe a bumpy carriage ride. Squinting, he could just make out the time on the clock. 2:05 am.

“Mama? Father?” Flickering candlelight illuminated the face of Benedict’s second son’s face.

“Is everything alright, Alexander?” Benedict asked.

“Oh, everything’s absolutely perfect, Father,” Alexander replied, a wide grin gracing the boy’s face. Although Alexander wasn’t much of a boy these days. After all, his son was 36. 

“Did everything go well with Emma?” Sophie’s sleepy voice asked, cutting through the darkness.

“Yes. Emma’s fine. It was a bit much, though, and she’s exhausted. But there’s been no bleeding like there was with Aunt Lucy after El and Frannie were born.”  

“And the baby?”

“They’re fine. Great. It was a bit early, but only by a week or so. But they’re fine. Absolutely perfect. Do you want to meet them?” 

“Of course!”

Sophie popped up, squeezed Benedict’s hand and pulled him to follow Alexander upstairs. Benedict moved on autopilot, with everything moving in slow motion as Alexander’s words sunk in.

“Wait, wait. They? Alexander?” he asked, once they stopped moving. 

“Yeah. They, Father. Emma had twins,” Alexander replied, his voice sounding happily dazed.

“Twins?” Sophie echoed and Alexander nodded.

“Now, wait here. I’ll bring them out.” 

Alexander disappeared for a moment and Benedict caught Sophie’s eye, mouthing the word “twins.” A sigh of relief escaped him though. He knew that Alexander and Emma had spent nearly ten years trying for a baby and now, they had two. They could rest easy and perhaps, the dowager Duchess of Ashbourne (now nearing 90!) could relax. There were many moments where Benedict would swear that Lady Ashbourne was much more intimidating than Lady Danbury ever was.

“Father, Mama, I’d like you to meet Vincent Charles Bridgerton,” Alexander said, emerging from the darkened room with a baby in his arms. He passed baby Vincent to Benedict, who held the boy (his grandson!) close.

“Hello, Vincent. I’m your grandpapa,” Benedict whispered.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous, Alexander. He has your nose,” Sophie said, tracing a finger down Vincent’s little cheek.

“And your ears,” Benedict added, muffling a laugh as he thought about his late father’s joke that he had his late mother’s ears.

“And you said his middle name was Charles?” Sophie asked.

“Yes. We couldn’t agree on a middle name and well, we both have a brother named Charles. Emma had a close relationship with her brother, Charles, and I’ve always liked Charlie,” Alexander answered.

“Oh, Alexander, that’s so sweet.” Sophie squeezed her son’s hand tightly. Alexander blushed and ducked his head bashfully.

“Well, I’ll go get his brother. You can keep holding Vincent, though, Father.”

Benedict looked down and stared at the baby in his arms again. The last baby he had held, the previous week, had been William’s youngest and only son, Oscar. Like Oscar, Vincent looked like a Bridgerton. Benedict would swear up and down that the light hair on the baby’s head was the Bridgerton chestnut.

“Mama, Father. I’d like you to meet Vincent’s twin brother, Beckett Nicholas Bridgerton,” Alexander called, emerging from the room again.

This time, he placed the baby into Sophie’s arms, who was staring, bewildered, at Alexander. 

“Beckett?” she whispered.

“Yeah. Emma and I weren’t expecting twins and well, we only had the one boy’s name picked out. And after seeing him, I suggested Beckett. After you. With Nicholas being for Papa and myself.”

If he hadn’t been holding his newborn grandson, Benedict would have crossed the room and wrapped Sophie up in his arms because she had started to cry. She’d done the same thing when they had learned that Charles and his wife, Nell, had named their eldest daughter, Sophia, eight years earlier. And when she discovered that Gregory and Lucy’s second daughter was named Hermione Sophia, twenty-six years earlier. 

#benophie week 2023 #benophie #benedict x sophie #alexander bridgerton #alexander bridgerton x emma rutledge #emander #my writing #bridgerton next gen oc #i stand by the headcanon that lucy & sophie have a strong close relationship and that gregory&lucy’s kids have middle names after in-laws #might not be fully benophie but it’s still soft grandparent!them #and well i’m not fully into a writing mode right now #i did make a timeline for benophie’s 15 grandchildren… vincent & beckett are 13 & 14

[silverhallow]

#benophie week 2023 #benophie week #bridgerton #benophie #sophie beckett #benedict x sophie #benedict bridgerton

[hopepaigeturner]

An Offer From an Avid Reader: The Sofa Scene Part 2.

Posted as part of #benophie week 2023

Prompt: "You're much better off without me." "You're not the judge of that."

(Vibes rather than direct quote)

✨The Context✨

See Part 1 here.

Prior to this scene we have had Grandam Alexandra’s will scene. The start of this written here and overview written here. 

By the end of this scene, Anthony, Violet and Kate have agreed (not amicably or happily I must say)  that Benophie cannot be together. Benedict needs distance to forget this little love. The family cannot be ruined by this scandal. And so, a solution is found–Francesca. Sophie can become Francesca’s ladies maid, Francesca who is about to marry an Earl and move to Scotland. 

The scene ends with Anthony doing a “Are we in agreement” and Kate and Violet agreeing begrudgingly.

Now! Back to the happy couple…

✨The Scene✨

Scene cuts to the studio with Benophie enwrapped on the sofa. Benedict is awake and lovingly staring down at Sophie, a hand caressing her back as she presses close to him. He kisses her temple lightly and whispers,

“This is where I belong.”

The clock strikes the hour and Benedict knows Sophie needs to return, so he gently coaxes her awake even though she protests and snuggles even closer to him.

“Sophie, we need to get up, and we need to talk…”

Sophie finally opens her eyes and smiles up at him. Then the reality of the situation settles on her and she jerks away.

“Oh my Lord!” She clutches her discarded stays to her.

“Sophie, wait—”

“What have I done?” she cries.

“I think more accurate would be what have we done—”

“No, no, no—this was a mistake.”

“Sophie, take a breath—” Benedict reaches out to soothe her again but she hits his hands away.

“Get away! Just…” Sophie holds her hand out. Benedict nods and turns around. Sophie quickly dresses, muttering to herself. “Foolish, stupid girl…I cannot believe you would…”

“Sophie, we need to talk.”

“What is there to talk about!” she cries, buttoning up her dress, eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears from flowing.  “It is not as if there is some future to be had here. It is not as if we can stride into your brother’s study and he will be overjoyed that you befouled yourself with a maid!. And even if I were not a maid, no illegitimate child would be allowed even close to your ivory gates. The only way that would occur was if Araminta formally legitimised me, which I can assure you will never happen because Araminta would rather be six feet under than do such a thing—"

As she has been speaking, the viewer sees Benedict still on the sofa, his hands running over the cushion that Sophie’s head had occupied mere moments earlier.

“So, marry me.”

“What?”

Sophie swivels around. Benedict stands up and says again,

“Marry me.”

“Benedict you are—”

“Do you love me?”

Sophie struggles—but she cannot lie about her heart.

“Yes…yes I do.”

“And I love you. I loved you in a silver dress. I loved you in breeches and in a servant’s uniform. I do not care whether you are descended from a maid or the King of England himself. I love you, Sophie. And you were right, it was wrong of me to expect you to be my mistress, to treat you like a secret, like something that is a mere shadow of my true feelings. So do not be my mistress.” He gets down on one knee. “Become my wife, Sophie.”

Sophie stares.

“You are out of your mind.”

“I disagree. It is very simple. I love you and you love me.”

Sophie stares–then steps away.

“Simple? Simple!? Benedict, if I married you, we would be ostracised from society, forced to flee into the country.”

Benedict is obvisouly disappointed but not disheartened. He stands up.

“Good, I find the entire ton pointless and petty. I would rather have a quiet life with you than an empty one in public.”

“But your paintings! You have such talent Benedict, such wonderful talent that deserves to be honoured in galleries. That could never happen if you married me.”

“It would not happen without my muse either. And a lifetime of moments with you is worth infinitely more than a couple framed moments in a gallery.”

His sincerity is at once soul-gratifying and infuriating. Why does he not understand?

“If I married you, you would have to give up most of your luxuries. You would not have the generous allowance from your brother.”

“No. But I know that I will receive my grandmother’s ring, which, when sold along with other frivolous possessions of mine, would be enough to buy a small cottage in the country. You could work as a governess, or in the village.” Benedict smiles to himself, already picturing it. “ I could sell paintings or find a job.”

“A job?” Sophie scoffs. But Benedict does not laugh, instead his eyes are intent. He takes her hands and brings them to his heart, so she has no choice but to look into his eyes.

“If it meant I could wake up every day with you in my arms , then I would work until my hands were raw.” Sophie's breath hitches, then he smirks. “And, you must admit, I make quite a good, cooked breakfast.”

Sophie is scrmbbling, old taunts muddying the waters of her heart. For it is ridiculous. He could not want a life with her? Who would want a life with her? She needs something, anything, any little piece--

“And your family?”

For the first time, Benedict hesitates. Sophie latches onto it.

“You would willingly thrust your family into a scandal? Tarnish your sisters’ reputations?”

“Francesca is to be married to an Earl. Eloise would most probably appreciate a couple years without suitors and all whispers will have dissipated by the time Hyacinth debuts.

“You think your family will just welcome us with open arms—welcome me?”

“My family adore you.”

“They adore me as a maid. You truly think such sentiment will continue when I ensnare and run off with their favourite brother.”

“I am not their—”

“Yes, you are!” Sophei cries. “Your entire family adores you, Benedict, your entire family relies on you, cares for you, needs you.”

As she says the words her yearning tone increases. What she would not give to have grown up with Violet as a mother, or Eloise as a sister. What she would give up to experience such love.

“At some point I need to lead my own life…”

“They love you, Benedict. They love you, so very much.”

Benedict pulls her closer, holding her by the arms, voice gentle.

“And that love will mean that they will not ostracise us. It might take time, some more than others, but we would not be estranged.”

“You would risk that love? You would willingly give up that love? A love that is so rare, and so precious?”

“Sophie—”

“No. No. You are being delusional.”

“I am not delusional—”

“Ofcourse you are!” Sophie breaks away. “Or if not then you are being naïve and reckless with the privilege and love that has been handed to you on a silver platter—just like every other gentleman. I know what it is like to not have that love, Benedict.” The tears choke her voice. “And it is a fate I would never wish to inflict on anyone, let alone the man I love. No. I will not let you throw away such a special, wonderful love on someone like me.”

“You are worth it.”

“I am not.”

“Sophie, you do not dictate what or who I value and put worth into. I choose to value you, to love you—”

“You are being ridiculous! Love may have triumphed for your siblings, but their silks match, as do their cravats and pearls. Your siblings’ love is treasured in paintings and poems, looked on with envy but also admiration…But I wear cotton while you wear silk, and my neck is bare. Our love would be discarded in the dusty shadows and treated with disdain until it is disfigured. And we will be disfigured and miserable. No one would ever choose a love like that. No one should choose a love like that.”

Benedict steps towards her as he speaks,

“I would choose a love like that. I will choose a love like that. I am choosing a love like that. A love that is disdained by others but coveted by us. A love that burns too bright to ever submit to the shadows and a love so strong that it heals its wounds and rises after every fall.” He is so close that he can cup her face tenderly, the other hand on her waist. His eyes staring into her soul. “What you say is true, the world can be a cruel place, but I am willing to brave it with you, I am willing to brave it for you. Please.”

A couple beats of shared heartbeats—until Sophie whispers,

“I will not be the one who ruins you.”

She pushes away.

“But you love me and I love you. Why is that not enough?”

“It will never be enough…” Benedict staggers back. “And I will never risk ruining you nor the love you deserve.”

“You are the love I deserve. You are the only love I want.”

He tries to come close and capture her again. But Sophie steps out of reach—always just out of reach.

“I am not. I am just a dream that will one day disappear when you find the lady that is the love of your life.”

“You are—”

“Please. Please, stop.” She sobs. Benedict halts even though all he wants to do is take her in his arms, hold her and kiss her until she understands how much love he has for her, how reverently he holds her in his life.

But Benedict knows that Sophie is a woman of conviction. And since that day at the lake he has learnt the need to respect her even if it wrenches the heart apart. So, with great effort, he says,

“Very well…You have every right to make your own decision and I should respect that. So, goodbye…” his voice chokes and he struggles to swallow. He steps away, unable to look her in the eye. “Goodbye Sophie.”

“Goodbye, Benedict.”

With tears in her eyes Sophie walks to the door, but just as she opens it, Benedict says.

“But you must know, Sophie, that you are breaking my heart once more,” He finally looks up at her, tears running down his face, “and you are condemning me to spend the rest of my life wandering this earth with half a heart and half a soul.”

Sophie tries to hold his stare as her heart rips at the seams. For she wishes she could run into his arms and never let go. In her heart she longs for this man, dreams of a life with him, a life where she would be enough for him.

But such dreams are as fantastical as the stories she makes up. She can only believe in what she knows—that she will make him miserable. Just as she has made everyone miserable: her father, her stepmother, and her step siblings. So, she turns away and says,

“I assure you, Benedict. That fate is far better than the alternative.”

And she leaves.

She shuts the door and rests on it, hand on her stomach, hand over her mouth, tears spilling as she closes her eyes. But after a moment she takes a shaky breath, breaths deep and stands rigidly tall. And then leaves down the corridor.

The camera pans through to the other side of the door to find Benedict resting his forehead on the door.

Waiting, hoping.

But then he hears her footsteps leave and his eyes close in anguish. And he slides to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

*~*~*~*~*

Ah...you smell that? Sweet, sweet angst. 😉

I’d love to hear your ideas/corrections/opinions and always open to chat or requests. So...

Check out the list here, for more of my ideas.

Check out the general arcs of my prospective S4 here.

#an offer from an avid reader #benophie week 2023 #an offer from a gentleman #benophie #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #all the angst #s4 speculation

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

Oceans Away 

She lifts her head up to look at him, directly into his grey, lunar eyes. There is something so dear about him, so ancient and intimate to her, yet at the same time, he feels oceans away. Untouchable. The sensation makes her heart ache.

He is dying to shed her veil away to claim her lips with his own. It would not be proper, he halts, reminding himself that he is a gentleman. He must settle for admiring her through the sheer and in the half-light, letting his imagination fill in the details.

‘Who are you?’ She asks him, her voice barely above a whisper.

OR

A chance encounter between an incomplete Elf and a Fairy who doesn’t remember.

OR

When the prompts of the day are so perfect my brain vomited 5k of glitter.

Benophie Week 2023.

Day 3.

A fairycore!Bridgerton fanfic.

@sophiamariabeckett​ senpai please notice me.

@inksuvich​ Thank you for this amazing collage of Sophie Baek. Your amazing work has inspired this. This story could not exist without you!

There are five million nine hundred seventy eight thousand magical realms in the known universe. Oftentimes, the realms float peacefully about, separately in their respective dimensions, quite static, stewarded by their own celestials, enlivened by their own solars. Occasionally, beings of certain means and fortunes traverse from one realm to another, seeking out companies or knowledge. These events are quite rare.

Even rarer still are when the realms themselves collide. Every five hundred years, two neighbouring realms would drift ever so close, that the silken fabric of their respective realities would touch and meld into one another, if only briefly. The pitch-black veil of their barriers would lift, revealing truths and wonders. Cosmic sparks then fly like two lovers’ kiss, open-mouthed. The Secrets were privy to a few, but the spectacle alone was one to behold. And so across realms, every star reader, Sterndeuter, jyotishee and zhanxing jia or mnajimu awaits a Collision with bated breaths. When it happens, well, what could be more worthwhile a cause for celebration?

That was how the newly crowned Queen of the Gumiho Foxes finds herself in the court of the High Fae Queen Charlotte. A great ball is held on the Eve of Collision in honour of the union between Lord Bridgerton of The House of Fae and Kathani Sharma of The Merfolk of Indian Ocean. The Fox Queen and her delegation are participants in this event. 

From the edge of the ballroom, the young Queen admires the scene with satisfaction. Her first diplomatic mission has gone off without a hitch. Despite her self-perceived inexperience, she has handled the delicate game of politics with grace and dignity. The bond between realms were established, and now that the hard part is over, she watches gleefully as immortals of different shades and ages glide about across the ballroom, either mingling, dancing or drinking. Starlight swirls in the dome above them. Around the room, little pixies hold their own celebration, in the windows, behind the silk lanterns, in the vines and among the branches. Their little voices and the featherlight sound of their wings are only audible to The Fox Queen’s sensitive hearing and she giggles at their silly conversations. Occasionally, they would turn around and gasp in astonishment at the affairs of the bigger folk underneath, as if seeing them for the first time. In a sense, they are, for there is only so much space for memories in their little bodies.

In the middle of the dancefloor, the happy couple, beautiful and in love, bedecked in wedding jewels, gaze adoringly at one another. The groom’s elven glow emits a light blue hue, while the bride’s oceanic scales gleam in rich golden flickers. Sitar, shehnai, cello and piano honour their matrimony. On the highest seat, The High Fae Queen Charlotte holds court, seeming pleased with her subjects. Her ladies-in-waiting kneel in rows at her feet, dutifully braiding her endless curls. No one is paying attention to The Fox Queen, not even her own delegation. Now is the time for her to slip away.

As much as the festivities excite her, they are not what she came here for. No, she came for The Collision itself. When the two walls touch, when the heavens open one of their countless eyes and the sky thus becomes a mirror, there she would find her answers, this she believes with unshakeable conviction. ‘Few are lucky enough to gaze at the event and comprehend what it means. Most do not discover revelations,’ her professor had said, in a gentle and comforting tone. ‘Despair not, chance you find not what you seek, your Majesty.’ Yet the young Queen guarantees that the old scholar, with his boundless patience and wisdom, has worried for nothing. The Collision, this Collision in particular, is made for her. She knows this, deep in her heart, with divine certainty, as her excited steps carry her deeper into the forest, the earth warm and soft under her bare toes.

Someone is already there before her. In the middle of the lake, over on a little island, she can make out a masculine outline and scent with a mop of dark hair. He sits with his back to her, lounging lazily against pillows of moss. He seems to look up at the night sky, as the translucent shell of the other world approaches the one they are in ever so slowly. There is something about him that stops her in her tracks. Her entire body goes on high alert, as if a sudden course of lightning just runs through and charges every fibre of her being. And yet it is not out of fright that she reacts so.

‘Who goes there?’ He turns around. Their eyes meet.

He is the most beautiful being she has ever seen. He is Fae, perhaps an Elf by the shape of his ears. The ceremonial robe, that is customary of this realm, is haphazardly draped about him and deep blue in colour. Yet, he does not glow like the others of his kind. Perhaps that is what she finds strange about him. Defined, expressive features. The Fairy Fox wonders how he would look when he smiles. His pale grey eyes shine like the moon, and she finds in them a familiarity that makes her heart ache. Perhaps it was the veiled sadness in his eyes, a poetic melancholy that is characteristic to the allure of certain Fae folk, so she has been told.

For a brief moment, she considers giving in to her baser instincts. She can naturally shift into her fox form, sneaking away from his sight and go find a different location for her singular observation. None will be the wiser. It is not proper for two unattached beings to be alone together after all. She might have, however, had a few flutes during the fete, and the fermented fruit of the vines might inflate her boldness. ‘Why must I leave?’ she thinks stubbornly. She is a proud Queen of her own realm, and in her kingdom, where The Enchanted Foxes rule with freedom and wild independence, no one bothers with such frivolities. She wants to watch The Collision on that island over there, it is important to her, and whoever that Elf is can do well to respect that if he was a gentleman. And so, emboldened with the heat in her cheeks, her desire to see her plan through, the aristocratic pride that she recently has come to possess and her own curiosity regarding the mysterious Fae, she stands straight in her human form and faces him. 

‘It is I.’ She answers. Secretly she is grateful for her veil, a delicate work of spider silk, morning dew and chrysanthemum. It shrouds her, from her head to her ankle, in a misty sheer, thus preventing the other from discovering her hesitation. 

He leans against one hand, amused. A lazy grin creeps up his face, boyish and crooked, the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth and she gasps, praying he doesn’t notice. He does have a beautiful smile. She knows he would.

‘And who might you be?’ He asks.

‘A lady.’ She says simply, gently reminding him of his courtesy and conceding very little about her identity.

He seems to understand her implication.

‘Good evening, my Lady.’ He tilts his head in her direction in greetings. ‘Happy Eve of Collision to you.’

She gives a small curtsey in response. 

‘Perhaps you are lost. The wedding is that way.’ He points at the direction whence she comes helpfully. She can still hear the music swelling.

‘I assure you I am not lost.’ She feels her defences rising. How dare this Fae, or whatever he is, assume she does not know her way. Foxes are never lost. ‘I seek not the wedding.’

‘Pray tell, what seek you, my Lady?’ 

‘I believe it is not any of your concerns.’ She crosses her arms petulantly.

He narrows his eyes at her in contemplation. Then his grin grows even wider.

‘Naturally it is a concern of mine. You, my Lady, are standing in my territory. I am the Lord of this lake here, you see.’

‘That’s a lie!.’ She exclaims. She has done a thorough investigation on this realm prior to her mission. ‘There is no mention of a Lord of a tiny, nameless lake.’

‘Tiny?’ He looks around the place in mocked offence. ‘It is not tiny. Dwarfish, perhaps.’

If she were to reveal her tails this moment, all nine of them would bristle up in protest. ‘It is a lie and we both know so!’

‘Do we now?’ One of his eyebrows quirks up. ‘Yet this lake is not what you declared, my Lady. It is not tiny, merely little. Nameless, it is not either. Why, the name of it is written right there.’

‘Where, sir?’ She looks around herself. ‘I don’t see any-’

‘Right there.’

Suddenly, he is right in front of her on the shoreline. He is very tall, she notices. One of his fingertips glows like ember as he hastily scrawls something in the air right above her forehead. For a second she can feel his breath shifting through her veil and the spot where his finger almost touches her cheek burns at the near-contact. Then just as sudden as he appears, he is gone. Back to his little island in playful arrogance.

As her wits settle back into her body, The Fox Fairy looks up. Hung in the air, written in glimmering, pretty Elvish writing, are the words: ‘My Lake’.

‘Very clever, sir.’ She rolls her eyes, even when he can’t see it.

‘I thank you.’ He nods.

‘It is not a complement.’

‘Nevertheless, I have decided to receive it as such.’

‘From whence I come, one would say the skin on your face is rather thick.’ She exclaims.

‘Another complement! I thank you again.’ He seems destined to rile her up. ‘You flatter me, my Lady.’

She stomps her foot. 

‘You, sir, are aggravating!’

‘Only in such pleasant company such as yourself, my Lady.’ He says, then turns his back to her.

In silence, the young Queen reflects on her own actions. Whatever has compelled her to behave so? Perfectly curt and unreasonable in front of this stranger. Like a thoughtless little cub snarling and bearing its teeth at perceived danger. There is no regal dignity to it. Her feet fiddle on the ground, embarrassed. She must admit that she is still in the process of reconciling the two versions of herself, the Queen and the Gumiho. The latter manages to manifest itself in new and at times, quite worrying ways to her still. A hundred years of a reign are still quite green for an immortal, after all, even when one is curiously prodigious at the job.

It is why witnessing The Collision is so important to her. Behaviours and knowledge in her possession that she cannot explain, she desperately wants to understand them. She knows she ought to view the event here, she was summoned to. And now perhaps she cannot anymore, all because she has proceeded, for no reason whatsoever, to antagonise this stranger. Like a fool.

Admittedly he has provoked her, but it is no warrant that she responds in such an unseemly manner.

‘You are not a babe anymore.’ She reprimands herself, before straightening up her back. She will resolve this conflict with grace and diplomacy.

‘Pardon me, sir.’ When he turns around again, she gives an apologetic bow. ‘I can see I have offended you. Please forgive my impertinence.’

She wills herself to not flinch under his gaze. It was her own wrongdoing. Even if he decides to mock her, as long as it does not cross the line, she will take it with dignity.

But he smiles at her. Earnestly.

‘Only if you forgive my insolence as well, my Lady. I am afraid I have overstepped your boundaries. I should have not teased you.’

Civility is an improvement.

‘Very well.’ She tilts her head. Her ear twitches the slightest bit in excitement. ‘You have my forgiveness.’

‘And you mine.’

It takes another minute before she gathers enough courage.

‘If it doesn’t bother you, sir, may I join you on your island? I imagine The Collision would look quite arresting from there.’

He agrees, and she thinks she might jump up and down with joy.

The Fae sensed her presence when she walked up to that shore.

It was the most peculiar feeling, as if his heart sped up and slowed down at the same time. As if he might perish if he did not see her. How strange, to feel so, so, so mortal. He has not felt that way in hundreds of years. 

Yet as he almost touched her cheek and saw her eyes widen in surprise through her veil, he realised how much he has missed that sensation.

He watches in fascination as she gathers up her skirts and practically runs across the lake toward him, weightless above the surface, the water kisses her lovely feet. Her sleeves are so long and wide, she looks like she is sprouting wings as she runs. Her attire cuts an exotic silhouette, more layered and less meticulously tailored than the fashion of his court. The emphasis instead is put on the very fine weave of the silk itself, if the luxurious shine of her skirt is any indication. Embroidered lotus bloom about her in great detail, the artisanship so stellar and liberal, it would make any lady of Queen Charlotte’s court green with envy. She is a vision, even with the silky veil flowing down from her garland about her like a waterfall. It ripples as she moves, enveloping her in a silvery shimmer.

She leaps to his island and sits down, limbs folded neatly together until her silhouette resembles a soft, shapeless cloud. As endearing as it looks, she has decided to remain an appropriate distance from him, and the Elf tries to rein in his disappointment. There is a wildness to her that he finds both alien and intimate. She might be a forest-bound spirit, like him, surely from a different realm. Her movements are graceful, weightless, ethereal, with a hidden ferocity to them, almost feline-like. It has delighted him, drawing that ferocity out of her, when he has watched her huff and stomp her feet against his teasings. He chuckles to himself as he, in his mind, links the image of hers to that of a very crossed, very regal kitten.

Above them, the curve of the neighbouring world inches ever closer, its surface favours dark ocean waves.

He notices her gaze on him, even as she tries to be innocuous.

‘Are you entertained, my Lady?’ A smirk plays at the corner of his lips. Her head turns immediately away. He imagines she blushes. He knows she is curious. Everybody is. It is so very obvious.

‘Pardon me, sir. ‘It is just…’ She says, looking down at her feet. ‘I have never met an Elf like you before. One who…’ She stammers.

‘Without his light?’ He finishes her question.

‘My apologies.’ She says.

‘There is no need.’ His voice is casual and benevolent. Truly, he does not mind. He looks at the palm of his hand, and then the back. He supposes sometimes, he should miss being lit from within. ‘I am aware it is quite strange. I lost the light centuries past. The dimness has become natural to me.’ His brows draw together. ‘That is the reason I am here.’

‘Are you set out to regain it?’ At some point, they have forgotten the honorifics. ‘The light?’

‘No.’ He cuts her off. ‘It’s just,’ He pauses, trying his best to resurrect the memory. ‘I lost someone. A mortal. She brought my light with her. And this,’ he gestures at his unglowing being. ‘Is what is left. The Mark of Death.’

‘Does it hurt?’ she asks.

‘Not at all.’ He lies. It is agony. ‘I cannot bring myself to regret that loss.’ This is the truth.

Fae folk do not die. The dimness and pain from the Mark of Death is something they must carry for the rest of their endless existence. And the Elf bears it with pride. True to his words, he does not rue the loss of his gift. For whatever can be a more potent proof, a stronger testament to his love affair?

He continues with his tale, his heart opens like a flood gate.

‘I followed her in her incarnations. She never lived long, even for mortals. Her lives were rarely happy.’ He looks up at the sky. ‘We have lived for the briefest moments of joy. She would reincarnate, I would find her. Repeat. And now,’ He sighs. ‘I cannot find her anymore.’

‘Do you seek her? In The Collision?’ The question flows out of her mouth before she can stop it. She does not want to know the answer. As unwise as it is, The Fox Queen cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy against this mortal soul. Who was she, to be worth being loved by him, over and over again, even at the cost of losing her over and over again, as well as forsaking his own Elfhood?

He turns to look at her. At some point, they have drawn closer to one another. The curve of her cheek is made even softer, almost ghostly by the silver veil. Her eyes, the shape of elegant brush strokes, the ends slightly lift upwards like a comet’s tail. He feels them bore into his very soul, and suddenly it is harder to speak about his past love in the present. In her presence. His hand itches with the need to lift the material up and reveal the creature underneath. To make certain she is not a mirage.

‘She is free now.’ He has made sure of it. He looks up at the sky again. ‘Perhaps she has forgotten. Perhaps her soul has dissipated and become one with the universe.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’ Rings the melodic, soft voice of his companion.

He shrugs.

‘I miss her. Deeply. I do not suppose I can ever stop. However, as urgent and selfish as my desire to be reunited with her might be, I care more to see that she is content. Happy. In whatever form she takes. The Firmament knows she deserves it more than any.’

Silence dawns.

Then the Elf leans on his hand and regards The Fox Fairy.

‘How about you? What do you wish to find in The Collision?’

‘There are empty spaces in my memories.’ She traces her fingers along the lines of her lips in thoughtful contemplation, a little action he finds equal parts hypnotic and familiar. ‘Spaces I yearn to fill. I can’t recall my childhood. One day I just woke up, armed with all these knowledge and powers and I don’t know how they came to be. Only a fool would assume they are natural gifts. One does not simply navigate a political court without extensive training. And then I was crowned Queen by my people. I accepted the role. I am uncertain whence I have such confidence, or perhaps entitlement.’ Both of her hands draw up to cup her cheeks. ‘It is quite frustrating. I am haunted by dreams I cannot recall. Of twin moons. I wake up nightly in my chambers with tears on my face and I don’t understand why.’

‘Perhaps it was something quite painful.’ He suggests. ‘Perhaps it is your consciousness’s way of protecting you.’

‘I thought so at first.’ She says. ‘But if it were something I have decided of my own accord, I doubt I would have grown so restless over it.’ Her voice is steadfast. ‘Something was taken from me, I know it deep in my bones. You must think me quite mad, but these shadows in me, they leave footprints.’

‘Footprints?’

‘Yes!’ She exclaims, her eyes bright. ‘Emotional footprints. I cannot recollect the events, but the sensations are true. I remember heartaches. Pain. Death. But there is beauty too. Desires. And love. So much of it.’ Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as the emotions resurface. ‘If my memories are meant to be lost forever to protect me, why take away all the good things too? Why entrust me with all this wisdom without the means to understand it? Why lead me here at all?’ She gestures at the approaching Collision. ‘If not for answers?’

He studies her for a long moment.

‘I believe there is some wisdom to what you said.’ Truly. Certainly she does not sound madder than himself.

‘A part of my desire is fueled by my nature as well.’ She concedes. ‘Foxes cannot stand not knowing.’

‘You are of Fox-kind?’ he ponders the new information. It makes perfect sense, he supposes. Her initial shyness and wariness. Her unadulterated excitement.

‘I seek to understand more of myself. I must admit the relation between my nature and my role still remains somewhat… obscure.’ She shrinks into herself. ‘They come into conflict at most inopportune time. My behaviour earlier on the shoreline…’ She silences abruptly, realising what she has just let slip.

The Elf notices it. Interesting, he thinks. 

‘I was wondering - what have I done to have incurred your animosity…’ He presses on, deciding to be ungenerous by not letting the matter rest. He is still Fae, after all. And now he is curious, too.

‘I… was so afraid to ask if I could accompany you on your island.’ She lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘This is most silly…’ He can hear her blushing, her voice is so expressive. ‘That I intended to scare you off. So you would go away.’

‘Scare me off?’ A humorous smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘With what?’

She blushes even deeper. 

‘I have no idea.’

He breaks into a fit of laughter.

‘It is not funny!’ She exclaims, both of her hands cover her flushed cheeks, shielding her face even further from him. Nine big, silver, fluffy fox tails sprout from her back, holding her small frame in their embrace, until she bears a striking resemblance to that of a great cotton ball. The sight is so adorable, it makes him laugh even harder. 

As his laughter subsides, she feels him lift from his place and move to kneel in front of her. She imagines him reaching out his hand to touch her and she holds her breath. He decides against it, however, instead opting for calling out to her, in such a soft, gentle tone, it melts her bones into honey.

‘May I see you, please? My Lady?’

Her tails retreat, yielding under his voice. She lifts her head up to look at him, directly into his grey, lunar eyes. There is something so dear about him, so ancient and intimate to her, yet at the same time, he feels oceans away. Untouchable. The sensation makes her heart ache.

He is dying to shed her veil away to claim her lips with his own. It would not be proper, he halts, reminding himself that he is a gentleman and in the presence of a Queen. He must settle for admiring her through the sheer and in the half-light, letting his imagination fill in the details.

‘Who are you?’ She asks him, her voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles nervously, feeling humbled under her gaze.

‘I am merely a younger brother of the groom, My Lady.’

‘I do not believe that is all that you are.’ she says kindly. ‘There is nothing ‘merely’ about you.’

He bows, still looking at her. 

‘I thank you.’

The sky rumbles. The Collision is approaching. The Fox Queen and the lightless Elf break away from their eye contact, hurriedly settling back into sitting side by side, no longer looking at one another. She dries her palms on the mossy ground. He lays down, his hand rests easy on her sleeve.

She hears the music change. A familiar, more sombre melody of koto and free-reed flute, played by the Skylarks of her court. According to the tradition of her realm, they are playing The Reception of the Collision, aptly named. The Fox Queen brings out a gourd from her magic pouch. An intoxicating, floral scent permeates the air when she removes the small nub. She drinks the liquid inside, then harmonises with the distanced musicians, using the gourd itself as her instrument.

‘That is a lovely melody.’ He compliments her.

‘It is ceremonial.’ She explains. ‘The Universe brings its own music in The Collision after all. It is an echo from the callings of all those who walked before. Even the ashes have their own resonance. It is only fair to give something back. At least it is so to my people.’

‘That is very interesting.’ He says. ‘I do not believe to have heard any music during the occurrence. Nor knowing any of my kind who did, for that matter.’

‘How do you Fae folk see the event then?’ She asks.

He ponders over her question.

‘Lightning would strike from the contact. Over there,’ he points at the steadily unfolding skyline. ‘Imagine a light that does not cast any shadows. A Fae sees all the colours in existence in that light, be it a High Elf or a simple pixie. All the stars in the sky would gather about it, and one would experience the sight of a tree growing backwards, all the leaves and flowers would return to the embrace of the branches from divinity. We elves believe we are allowed a glimpse into the Garden of The Firmament.’

‘It sounds very beautiful.’ She says.

‘It is truly a fascinating sight. There is no music however. Purely a visual sensation.’ He turns and smiles gently at her. ‘I do wonder how you experience it.’

She pretends to contemplate the offer.

‘Well, you must not play the tune.’ She says, her tone cheeky. ‘It is quite hard to master, and Fae folk tend to be… unsubtle with aerophones.’ She smiles back at him. He rolls his eyes at her small jab.

‘But you can drink the wine.’ She offers him the gourd, her voice grows beguiling.

He takes the gourd from her, his touch setting little fires to her skin as though his fingertips are still glowing. He brings it to his lips, tasting distilled peaches, cherry blossoms and winds shifting through wild grasses. She watches him intently, attempting her best to minimise the significance of their actions: how in her realm, only betrotheds and spouses drink wine from the same container. ‘It must not mean anything here.’ She thinks to herself, tearing her eyes from him, failing to vanquish the irrational spark of hope in her chest.

The Collision commences. 

The skyline splits open to welcome the foreign dimension. Every star in the sky is stretched and distorted in the new celestial lens. They are renewed, rejuvenated in front of his eyes and he watches The Tree drawing its children home. She hears cosmic music. Transcendental beings of the past, present and future, all glowing in light-made bodies, all join in a magnificent orchestra. She sees into others and into herself, her lives, in centuries before, as the sky opens one of its many eyes and becomes a mirror. Soon enough, they realise they are both observing the same story:

It was a tale of a poor cub, an anomaly, born to a Fairy Fox Queen and a mortal man. Her nine magical tails, the source of her powers, were cruelly sheared. Thus was she exiled from her kingdom, accursed to die many mortal deaths, trading a hundred years of sufferings for each of her tails.

And so for eight hundred years, her spirit walked the earths under ephemeral identities, all of them ending in tragedies. Yet, during her journey, she was not alone. A beautiful, ageless man with chestnut hair and moonlit eyes was her shadow. Be she a maid or a princess, a blue blood or a bastard, a scholar or a general, a king or a pauper, he loved her. All of her incarnations, identities, material sexes, he loved them all. They were friends, confidants, spouses. The times they had together, of which he referred to as ‘brief moments of joy’ as they spanned but a fraction of the long eight hundred years, were lifetimes of bliss to her mortal minds.

His last sacrifice disrupted and completed her cultivation, and as a result, the dusty cloak of her mortal experience was stripped away from her. She passed the turbulent threshold into her realm, returning one century earlier to her people as the rightful heiress, seemingly unburdened with the thought of him. 

Yet the memories only laid dormant, never were to be erased. She is always meant to seek them out. She is always meant to find him.

They look at each other now, without fears or reservations. She remembers him, everything about him. He has haunted her dreams. He is so close to her, so close she can feel his breaths on her cheeks, smelling of sandalwood and the wine she has given him. Her featherlight veil suddenly becomes too dark and heavy.

‘May I?’ He whispers, his hand tracing the fabric.

Instinctively, she clutches the veil tighter to herself. One feeble attempt at maintaining the last shred of their current, fading reality, before embracing the change. His large hand covers hers and her fingers uncurl from their grip, pliant under his touch.

She consents to his request with the smallest of nods. 

He lifts up the veil over her face, slowly, and she takes him in, now with clear vision. His face. His eyes. His mischievous elven smile. The sound of his voice. She misses him so much she can cry.

She is as marvellous as he imagines she would be. As he remembers she was. He brings his hand to her cheek and the part of him that is still tense with anxiety breathes a sigh of relief as he comes into contact with soft, warm flesh. His love. Of past and present.

 Before bridging the final gap between them and once again tasting heaven on her lips, he searches her beautiful eyes. He imagines a star has landed there. Or perhaps he seeks not a star in their watery depths, but his own light, the beam that she has not so much stolen, but he has willingly parted with.

Bathed in the light of The Collision, the copulation of The Universe, two ethereal lovers, both marked by mortality, uncover the mask of time between them and recognise the soul they have spent centuries seeking. Their joy is insurmountable, and they call one another by their true names as their happiness is, at last, eternal.

‘Benedict’.

‘Sophie’.

.

.

.

.

Author’s Note: *reverse UNO card* surprise it’s also a Reunited fic.

#benophie week 2023 #benophieweek23 #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #benophie #benedict x sophie #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #My writing #benophie week #also kate is a mermaid okay? #i don't make the rules #disney did it first

[benophieweek]

Ladies and Gents!

It’s here!!

It’s Benophie week!

Across Tumblr and Twitter we will be celebrating all things Benophie so please make sure you check out both pages as things will not be shared without the author or creators permission.

You can check out the pages here:

Tumblr: @benophieweek

Twitter: @benophie_week

The prompts:

The rules:

Remember choose any combination, just one or all four and let your creative juices start flowing.

We have an AO3 Collection: Benophie_Week_Collection

Where you can read all the amazing works that are coming in for Benophie Week and add your work to it!

Create fics, moodboards for your favourite stories that are out there, write drabbles, create art, create social media posts…

The world is your oyster!!

Just make sure you tag the twitter or the tumblr page and use the hashtags #benophieweek2023 and #benophieweek and I’ll share it on the relevant social media platform.

I will be hosting some polls and things Benophie related across the two pages so keep an eye out of those!!

Have fun and I can’t wait to see what you create!!!

#benophie week #benophieweek #benophie week 2023 #benophie #sophie beckett #benedict x sophie #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton

[the-other-art-blog]

Has anyone gone to watch Cinderella in-the-round by Christopher Wheeldon with the English National Ballet?!?!?

Yes, it’s Cinderella so it has a lot of Benophie there. BUT, this one is different. Here the prince meets Cinderella first as a servant, and then she attends a ball (with a mask on). Both times the prince falls in love with her, but he doesn’t know they’re the same person!

#benophie #benophie week 2023 #cinderella #ballet #Youtube #benophieweek23

[lyta2323]

#bridgerton #benedict x sophie #benedict bridgerton #benophie week 2023

[fayes-fics]

Our Cottage [Drabble: Benophie Remix]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett

Summary: Benedict shows his new wife their home.

Warnings: none… pure fluff

Prompt: Day 2 Word - Cottage

Authors Note: I’m remixing a couple of my drabbles that feel most appropriate for @benophieweek 2023. There are some minor edits to make the story more “Sophie coded”. This is an AU where Sophie only sees My Cottage after they are married. Enjoy!

Her hand feels so delicate in his as he leads her into each room, her face a picture of wonderment that makes his chest ache. Sophie looks so utterly entranced by every nook and cranny, causing Benedict to glow with contentment—witnessing the happiness radiating out of her with every new door he opens.

This will be home. Together. A place to build memories, love, and, if his wishes come true, raise a family. Their family.

The sunny parlour, the warm dining room, the cosy library, even the glass conservatory he has co-opted as his art studio make her beam with excitement. He can only watch, his eyes soft, as she admires Mrs Crabtree’s kitchen: the shiny copper pots that hang above the range, the elegant platters that line the shelves. She lingers so long he has to gently remind her it won’t be her job to be in the kitchen anymore and her demure smile of recognition makes his heart swell.

But it's her expression when he sweeps open the door to the master bedroom that is his most treasured. The way she clasps her hands together in front of her chest, fluttering around the room like a contented bird: looking out the window across the neatly kept gardens to the fields beyond, lingering at the green tiled fireplace, pulling up to the four-poster bed and running her hand over the brocade bedspread, shooting Benedict a heated look with a bite of her lip that makes him want to sweep her off her feet and ravish her yet again.

Once they have toured every room, he leads Sophie outside onto the terrace, and they take a seat together on a bench, her tucking under his arm in a way that feels so much like serenity all his troubles seem to melt away. And when the sun cuts through the dabbled trees and catches her face as she twists to look up at him, eyes sparkling, he is at a complete loss for words. Her beauty, the inner one that radiates from within, makes him dumbstruck.

Only one thing feels out of place—My Cottage no longer feels an apt name. The urge to get out his paint and amend the sign that adorns the gateway is so strong that his fingers flex against her body where he tenderly holds her.

It’s undoubtedly Our Cottage now.

No taglist as this isn’t my usual fic style

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #benedict x sophie #benophie #benophie week 2023 #benophie fanfiction #benophie fluff #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton

[benedictsophie7]

“It was enchanting to meet you…”

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #benophie #benophie week 2023

[sxphiebeckettt]

Modern AU

Ben keeps running into Sophie at his favourite cafe. She always has a book in front of her, always orders a piccolo latte and a vegan crème donut. He starts drawing her and giving her the draws after, without saying anything. One day, Sophie finally decides to say something;

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” She smiled.

“Yes. Is it working?”

#sophie beckett #benophie #benedict x sophie #an offer from a gentleman #bridgerton #benophie week 2023 #benophie week #benophieweek2023 #benedict bridgerton #cafe date #collage edit #my edit #woc sophie beckett #fancast: Isabella peschardt

[unfortunate-arrow]

I’d Still Dance With You

A/N: A quick little story for the prompt “wedding” for Benophie Week 2023. Set in October of 1848 and featuring mentions of my Bridgerton: Next Gen OCs.

“The last one,” Benedict Bridgerton murmured, wrapping his arms around his wife. 

Sophie sighed, leaning back into him and looked out at the ballroom. The celebration had been limited to family only, with a major ball celebrating the three Bridgerton marriages in the next season. But, even with only family, it was still crowded. Her eyes scanned the floor, landing on the corner where all four of her children were waltzing with their spouses. This event, in particular, was to celebrate William’s marriage to the lovely Miss Róisín O’Connolly.

“The last one,” she echoed.

“They look happy, don’t they?” Benedict asked. 

“Yeah. It’s strange that they’re all married now.”

“I didn’t think that Violet would ever marry, not after her proclamation earlier in the season.”

Sophie laughed, remembering the morning that their daughter had come down and proclaimed that this would be her final season and if she wasn’t married by the end of it, well she’d be a spinster. The marquess of Insley, or Jack as he preferred to be called by his Christian name, had come out of nowhere… literally. Jack had a complicated story involving a lady jilting an earl for a valet and a print shop apprentice being the heir to a marquessate and proved to be the man for Violet. “Yes, but Jack is the perfect match for our little girl,” she replied.

“That he is. They all found perfect matches. Just like I did.”

“Do you remember our wedding?”

“Like it was yesterday. Ironically, William’s wedding reminded me of ours.”

“How so? It was almost twice as long as ours.”

“Well, the ton doesn’t approve of Róisín and they didn’t approve of you, Sophie.”

“For different reasons, Benedict. And the ton aren’t exactly fond of Nell, either. Or Grace… and don’t forget that someone tried to kill Charlotte’s husband.”

“Yes. Us Bridgertons certainly know how to cause a scandal. But it was the simplicity of their wedding that reminded me of ours.” He paused for a moment. “Do you ever wish we had had a bigger, grander wedding?”

“No. It was perfect. It was you and me and something that I never believed would ever happen.”

They fell silent again, observing their children waltz. Violet’s head rested against her husband’s chest, a besotted look that only love match newlyweds had on her face. After all, Violet was a newlywed. She and Jack had married two weeks prior, with their niece, Katharine’s wedding the previous week.

Charles held his wife, Nell, close and Sophie had an inkling that she and Benedict would be gaining a second grandchild in the coming year. Their oldest grandchild, little Norman, was up in the nursery, sleeping away while his parents celebrated his uncle’s marriage. Charles and Nell had contented looks on their faces, and were in a light conversation. 

Next to them, Alexander held his wife, Emma, close. It was a different hold than Charles and Nell, a little more protective. Sophie imagined they were feeling the strain of Emma’s grandmother, Lady Ashbourne’s demands for great-grandchildren. But, she knew that Alexander and Emma could stand against the world together. After all, they had convinced Lady Ashbourne to let them marry, although Sophie suspected her mother-in-law had played a vital part in that. 

Finally, there was the happy couple they were all celebrating. William twirled Róisín around, adding an extra flair to the waltz that no one would expect from him. It made Sophie’s heart happy to see her quiet, withdrawn son with so much emotion written on his face. William could be too much like his father when it came to emotions and kept too much inside. 

“Could I have the next dance?” Benedict asked, breaking Sophie out of her musing.

“Of course you can.”

As the music swelled to a waltz (again), Sophie took her husband’s hand and let him lead her out onto the floor. 

#benophie week 2023 #benophie #benedict x sophie #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #my writing #bridgerton next gen #bridgerton next generation #violet bridgerton ii x jack fullerton #william bridgerton x róisín o’connolly #alexander bridgerton x emma rutledge #charles bridgerton x nell shepherd #queued! #it’s not exactly a wedding - it’s more of a wedding celebration/reception

[silverhallow]

in an effort to avoid his mother, grandmother and siblings meddling in his love life, Benedict begs his best friend Sophie to pretend to be his girlfriend for his brother's wedding...

to which she agrees, though she knows its a bad idea...

pretending to be the girlfriend/boyfriend of the person you've been in love with for the last 5 years... what could possibly go wrong?

#bridgerton #benophie week 2023 #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #benophie #benedict x sophie