#modern bridgerton next gen au

[unfortunate-arrow]

@drinkyoursoupbitch’s Saturday (Wednesday) Moodboard Challenge: Ernest Livingston (feat. Ernest x Auggie Basset)

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Chapter 7 - A Thousand Flowers Could Bloom

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: It was inevitably going to happen...

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, mild dom/sub undertones, frottage, dirty talk, light hair pulling and biting, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 4.3k (longest chapter to date, haha, is anyone surprised..)

Authors Note: A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, passions between Benedict and reader finally boil over. Yup, yup, the movie fades to black on the sex scene... I am not lolol. Please skip this chapter if you want to keep your reading PG-13/12A rated. There is no real plot here. Sorry it has taken me so long to write this; I got so nervous. Still not sure I like this very much. Thanks to ColetteBronte for the read through. Anyway, I hope you enjoy <3

It's a blur as the kiss deepens; Benedict’s tongue glances yours, a tentative swipe before entwining. Something sweeps through your being, throwing you overboard, tossing you into a tsunami wave, your mind reeling as your hands stay limp by your side, still taken by surprise this is happening.

“Ben,” you stutter breathlessly when he withdraws fractionally.

“Don’t,” he growls, “don't you dare use that big brain of yours; just shut up.” His thumb is heavy on your cheek as he cups your jaw. “Just shut the fuck up for once in your bloody life.”

So, for once, you do just that. Letting your hands do the talking, looping around his neck to pull him back to you. That is the permission he needs, and suddenly, you are being spun around and pressed into your own hallway wall, him bearing the whole length of his being into you. You feel like you are drowning in him. He is all you can see, smell, and breathe. 

Then, he obliterates every thought you have. Hunching down mid-kiss, he insinuates a warm thigh between your knees. Then he stands up straight, the meat of his substantial quad muscle snagging the seam of your sleep shorts, your clit mashed into your public bone, throbbing.

You mumble a curse into his mouth as his fingers locate the tab on your hoodie. The only sound is the slow release of the zip as he tugs it down and your own shallow panting over his lips as he does so. He smiles dangerously as the material parts, dropping it off your shoulders to the floor so you stand in tiny shorts and a white vest. 

There is a noise in the back of his throat as his eyes sweep down briefly, lingering on your peaked nipples, then slender fingers wrap around the crest of your hipbones and flex, indicating he wants you to move. To ride the thigh that he has you dangling upon, up on your tiptoes.

“Use me,” he mutters like velvet. “Go ahead.”

“I….” You seem almost incapable of speech, too strung out on the tidal wave of chemicals racing around your body. “…need sex, please,” aware it sounds reedy.

He unwinds your hands from around his neck and pins them to the wall at shoulder height.

“Ride my leg, and then we will have sex,” he orders slowly, a knowing smirk on your cheekbone. “Come on; you don't think I can tell how much you need it?” He places a hot kiss on your skin. “You've been aching to come since you straddled me hours ago; don’t deny it.”

Fuckkkk…. 

This is what his ex, Gen, meant all those years ago. ‘Knees weak, pussy strong’ is how she paraphrased what he could do to her. You thought it was her exaggerating; now you realise it wasn’t. It’s like he’s a different person to the Ben that you know, but fuck if it isn't blisteringly hot.

So when he relinquishes your wrists, you wrap around him again, undulating on his leg, pressing your cheek into his, the friction of the layers of fabric adding to your arousal. It feels so good you speed up, grasping his neck.

“Yes, that’s it,” he pants approvingly in your ear, gripping your hips again in encouragement. With every stroke, you bump against a solid mass in his jeans, which makes you feel frantic and impatient for more. To come, to fuck, to do everything he will let you.

“Ben…” his name like honey, tumbling from your lips in your heightened state. You are too cowardly to lean back and look at him, see yourself reflected in his eyes; it feels too much like admitting this is real. Or perhaps you’re simply worried it will break this fevered spell, that he will put a stop to it, leaving you throbbing and bereft.

“Stop thinking,” he drawls, his breath hot on your temple, intuiting you are disappearing too much into your thoughts again, your pace slowing as you slide on him. He squeezes your hips roughly to the point you squeak. “Do you want me to order you to do it?” the voice lethally low. “Is that what you want?”

“I… I…” words fail. You have no idea. 

He pulls back to cradle your jaw again, tilting your face to look at him. His hazy blue eyes are dilated to inky black, and his lips are flushed dark pink. “Y/n,” slow, sensual, rumbling from his ribcage, his fingertips warm on your cheeks. “When I tell you to do something, I mean it. Do it.” His thumb swipes your bottom lip. “Right now.”

“Help me,” it’s a desperate uncensored whisper.

“What do you need?” He smiles predatorily, his eyes sparkling in the low light.

“Hold me down; be firm,” confessing your desires. “Control me a bit.” You’ve never divulged that proclivity to any past lover, the craving for something with a hint of roughness, a light tussle. And yet, with your best friend, you can’t help but let it tumble out of you.

And perfect, perfect Ben, god, he obliges. 

The hand on your hip digs in as the other slides around the globe of your bottom cheek, and you squeal as he spanks there with a harsh flick.

“I told you to ride my leg,” his directive clipped but somehow still laced with a laid-back bemusement, “so do it.”

It's so perfect you feel an urge to shake him and yell ‘yes’ and ‘this’. But instead, you bite your lip and do as bidden, riding the rough creases in his jeans, letting the texture catch your swollen clit in your thin cotton shorts. It feels so good you shudder, but still, you crave more.

“I want to ride your jeans naked.” Again, you cannot suppress your runaway tongue.

He makes a noise that is almost feral; a sizeable, warm hand slides up your spine underneath your vest, ruching the fabric until it snags on your breasts at the front. Without prompting, you release briefly to strip off the top, then immediately wind around him again like a vine. The soft cotton of his shirt snags delightfully on your nipples, and you can feel his body heat seeping through the thin material. Moaning your approval as his fingers splay wide, touching the sensitive skin of your lower back, right above your shorts.

“Take these off,” he runs a feathery touch above the waistband, the tone gruff and challenging.

He dips slightly and backs away a half pace, just enough to give you room to strip off the last of your clothing. He has not so much as undone a button, but the bulge in his jeans makes you swallow hard as you shimmy off your shorts. He probably wasn't expecting you to be without underwear, based on the noise he makes. You are grateful you have recently trimmed (for a failed date, as it turns out). 

As your shorts hit the floor, he dives in for another mindblowing kiss. And before you know it, you are hauled back onto his thigh, completely naked, the denim feeling so perfect against your aching clit.

“You are so close, aren’t you?” he groans as your heat and wetness seep through his jeans, engulfing his quad. 

All you can do in response is nod, mildly embarrassed, bury your face in his neck and move again in earnest, making faint noises into his skin. The drag of fabric on your engorged clit is so intoxicating you couldn't stop if you wanted to. He murmurs encouragements, touch searing your skin, just this side of painful; you will likely carry his fingermarks tomorrow.

“Come on, that's it,” he encourages, shifting his leg to increase your range of motion, pressing his erection into your hipbone as you crash into him.

Over and over, you ride, getting faster and faster, chasing the high that feels so tantalisingly close, your skin turning dewy with exertion, his body heat enveloping you. You need something to make you break, and he intuits it. One hand slides up your back to grasp the hair at the base of your skull.

“Give it to me,” he orders duskily, an untamed look in his eye, twisting his grip until your hair is taut against your scalp.

Then, the other hand leaves your hip and insinuates between your bodies, grabbing your breast and pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The rush of sensation, a little rough, just as you requested, hurls you past the edge you were skating. Convulsing on his leg, he keeps his hold on your hair and nipple as you snap. Eyes rolling closed as you cry his name and curse, coming so hard the world goes fuzzy. Shuddering and shaking, him moving to brace your body upright with him as you writhe.

“That's it, yesssss,” his victorious hiss in your ear is breathy and impressed. 

There are a few moments of silence as you return to the room, so marvellously sated but somewhat mortified about what has just transpired.

“I…. I can't believe I did that,” you mutter into his skin, almost ashamed, even as your body still quivers from the best orgasm you can remember in many months.

“You were amazing,” he reassures into your ear.

“Don't ask me to look you in the eye,” you jest lightly, lips skimming his throat, unwilling indeed to meet his eye.

He chuckles, loosening his hold as he drops a kiss on your forehead.

“Are you honestly asking me to fuck you without looking at you?” he checks light-heartedly.

“I have an eye mask you can borrow,” you offer, giggling.

His responding laugh jiggles your whole body as he shifts to allow you back to your flat feet. Your leg muscles still twitching, still leaning into him for support.

“If you want to play with blindfolds, I am more than game,” he murmurs, cradling your face so you daren’t look away. This closeup and aroused he is a devastating sight, all cheekbones and blown pupils. And partnered with those words, in that hedonic tone, your insides are molten all over again. 

“Me too,” you whisper back.

Before you know it, he picks you up effortlessly and strides across the hallway toward your bedroom door. This is a seismic shift in your friendship, but as he lowers you gently onto your bed, all you feel is elation. Butterflies in your gut as he climbs on top of you, still fully clothed.

“Ben, what do I have to pay to get you naked?” you grumble good-naturedly, tugging at the shirt around his shoulders, your usual banter flaring despite this surprising development.

He laughs as his lips land on your neck, warm and plush, kissing a line down to your collarbone that is all at once too much and not enough. 

“I will get naked if you wear that blindfold you promised,” he jokes, your breath catching as you feel his chin stubble catch on the swell of your breast.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, smiling as he pouts up at you, eyes sparkling. 

The fact that the playfulness is still there makes you feel light as air, floating on feathers, him holding your gaze and slipping lower so the tip of his nose brushes your nipple.

“I was right all those years ago,” he inhales almost lewdly. “You really do have a fantastic pair of tits.” He looks up at you from your chest through heavy lashes with that same deadly lopsided smile from years ago, the one he gave you on the train, and once again, it makes you flush from head to toe.

“Naked Bridgerton, now,” you riposte with faux scolding, raising an eyebrow. 

This would have been a very effective response had he not chosen that precise moment to envelope your nipple into his mouth and suck hard, instead making you call out, eyes fluttering closed as your spine curls up off the bed, the heat and suction perfect. Swirling his tongue around and using an edge of teeth, swapping to the other side to do the same before you open your eyes. Then he kisses his way back up, claiming another fiery kiss. As you go to weakly protest again about him being too clothed, he sits up and whips the shirt off over his head instead of undoing it, throwing it aside as your eyes fall open.

“What the fuck?!” It's an unbidden but honest response to the sight before you. 

In the low light cast by your bedside lamp, he is all defined, sculpted lines—a shape you didn't think real humans came in. He laughs slightly abashed as you keep staring, raising up onto your elbows to drink in the view. You know he is in shape from the feel of his body when you hug him, but just how buff momentarily stuns you. 

“You look like a bloody Michelangelo sculpture,” you declare, compounding his coyness.

“If you keep this up, I'm not taking off my jeans,” he warns demurely, in a voice that is both amused and humble.

You mime zipping your mouth shut and throwing away a key as he leans in laughing and busses a brief kiss on your lips. Your hands map his tapered torso, revelling in the supple, warm skin and contoured, lithe muscles and the catch in his throat as you do so. You pull him down on top of you; the weight and warmth of his naked chest meeting yours makes you hungry in a way you haven't felt for years. Eventually, you reach the waistband of his jeans, circling to the front and rapidly flicking open the button of his fly. He squeaks quietly into your passionate kiss, taken aback by your boldness.

“No going back now,” you warn as you carefully lower the zip of his fly over his straining cock.

“I think that ship sailed when I felt your orgasm on my thigh,” he replies drolly, as your eyes briefly fall to the damp patch you left there, cheeks flushing. 

His bravado falters when you push his jeans down his slim hips, delving inside the back of his underwear to grab the peachy solid mass of his bottom. He groans into your cheek, and his mouth finds yours again. There is a wave of body heat as you shimmy his underwear and jeans down his leg, unseen as you kiss almost artlessly. He takes over, squirming his way out of them until they are also flung off the bed. You don't see his cock, but he presses down onto you as soon as he is naked, and you feel it brand your thigh, sizeable and hot.

“Let me see,” you almost whine, petulant.

He huffs a laugh, grabs your wrist, and guides your hand between your bodies. There, nestled within a patch of lightly trimmed hair, you feel the steely warmth of his cock. 

“Ben,” you stumble out as you encircle the heated mass, feeling a trickle escape your body as you begin to pump him lightly, a thumb swiping the sticky precum at his head, loving the way it makes him stutter and moan into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he sounds winded, pulsing under your fingers.

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry, it's been… uhh… ages since someone else touched my cock,” he rushes out, sheepish.

The honesty makes something melt behind your ribs; this wonderful, handsome man, still recovering from heartbreak, has not had sex in so long that you want to give him - your best friend - everything, a need to please him burning bright. Not wishing to dwell on consequences, what any of this might mean after tonight.

“What do you want, Ben?” you query softly as you pump his cock in your fist.

“You,” he answers sweetly, plainly, breathily, “just you.” He tilts his head and sighs into your neck. “It's been so long since I had sex that I'm not certain I can satisfy you. It’s why I made you to come before; I couldn't bear to leave you in need.”

The vulnerable admission, a true friend confiding in another, makes you crave him, this, even more. The glibness of your recent casual hookups thrown into stark relief in this singular moment of intimate honesty. It's what has been missing from sex since your breakup with Tom. The shorthand that comes from knowing someone so well artifice crumbles; them able to see through all the layers you can hide behind with strangers.

“I bet you are better than you think,” the need to reassure seizing you. “The way you took control earlier was exactly what I needed. Then there is this…,” you squeeze his cock a little, “...now I understand why Gen said she would miss you so much,” you add unabashed, enjoying the feel of his unseen demure smile against your jaw. 

“So you liked when I took control?” he queries, shifting the subject.

“Oh god, yes,” you avow, a little frisson racing down your spine at the memory from moments earlier, your grip flexing around his cock as you do so.

“Do you want me to do it again?” his cadence lowers to something more decadent as he removes your hand and traps it on the pillow next to your head.

“Yes, please,” it’s almost too keen.

Again, the noise he makes is an elixir, elation coursing in your veins. His long fingers lacing with yours, holding you down firmly, his mass weightier as he bears you down onto the mattress. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he rumbles, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. Your reply in the affirmative is a shaky exhale, a skitter of excitement across your skin at the very idea. “What was that?” his tone suddenly brusque, pushing up to look down upon you, his eyes boring into yours as he surges his cock, branding your inner thigh.

“Yes,” you enunciate crisply, struggling against his control, even though it’s precisely where you want to be, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips as his fingers sink further between yours, stretching your knuckles wide apart. He claims you in a vehement kiss, leaving you whimpering around his invading tongue, the tip of his cock rocking against your clit.

“Tell me you want me,” he orders, breath hot on your face, his hands still pinning you under him.

“I want you,” you answer reflexively, as simple and true as breathing. 

He nuzzles your face, his cock sliding temptingly through your slick folds as you shudder, your pebbled nipples catching on the slab of his pectoral muscles, sighing shakily as he gently bites the shell of your ear. He surges his cock again, this time slipping lower, teasing your entrance, parting you with his tip. You inhale sharply at the warm mass, pressing insistently, not quite at the right angle to slip fully inside yet. 

“Do you still have your IUD?” he asks quietly, the domineering mask slipping momentarily, releasing your wrists. 

“Yes, just get inside me, please,” you respond, soft but fervent, raking fingertips down his back, loving the heated contours that flex as he moves to angle better.

Then, eleven years after you first idly thought of it on that drive down to London from Scotland, Benedict Bridgerton finally slides inside your body. 

A blunt warmth spearing you open in a way that feels so good it makes your throat catch, and your eyes roll back in your head. A curse falls from you as he keeps going, finding your hilt as he bottoms out. The perfect fit, just the right side of an ache as you stretch around him. He exhales raggedly into your cheek and stills.

“Move please,” you implore, greedy for more, grabbing his bottom impatiently.

“Give me a moment,” he appeals, breaking persona again, the heat of his body cloaking yours.

“Please,” you coax gently, “Benedict.” You add, almost as an afterthought, using his formal name as if to underline the seriousness of your request.

He makes a noise and lifts to look down at you. “Call me that again,” he commands gravelly, overwrought.

“Benedict,” you repeat as if a tasty morsel you can’t resist.

He makes a hungry noise and withdraws slightly, surging back into you in a way that has your whole body rolling under him with the force of it. You groan, hands flexing on his body, your tongue pressing into the back of your front teeth, quelling the urge to call out how good it already feels.

Your walls cling to him as he sets a languid but perfect rhythm. Breathing each other's air, exploring damp skin, lips meeting repeatedly in loose, open-mouthed kisses. Once again, he grabs your hands and manoeuvres them above your head, holding you down, stretching your arms so your body cants up, your nipples grazing his chest.

“You have no idea how many times I've fantasised of this moment for so many years,” he rasps, making your breath hitch with his words and a change of angle that catches a new spot inside. “And yet, this is better,” he continues, dropping a kiss in your hair.

“Same,” you confess succinctly.

A triumphant crooked smile claims his face, and then he thrusts forcefully, wringing a loud moan from your lungs, your head smashing into the pillow as your hips tilt up in a silent request for more. Yearning for him to fuck you so hard that you feel a physical reminder; for your body to carry a tangible memory of it. 

“You want more, don't you?” he intuits, pride colouring his tone.

“Yes,” you hiss, conscious he can read you effortlessly. 

He snaps his hips in response, and you feel a tug deep inside where he nudges your hilt. It feels so good you gasp and fight to release your hands from above your head, desperate to grab his bum cheeks again and haul him deeper into you.

“Nuh-uh,” he chides bemused, shooting you a pointed look, “you do as I say, remember?” 

You struggle underneath him, eyes blazing as you stare into his glassy pupils, telegraphing silently this is precisely what you want, making a show until you finally settle and curl your bottom lip under your teeth, nodding meekly as he restarts at a leisurely pace.

“Good girl.” He even winks.

Oh fucking hell.

Your pussy pulses around him, betraying how much you like that line. 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he smirks, the smug, cocky persona he can slip into so easily fitting him like a glove. The ghost of Benedict-past rearing - that troublesome young playboy you recall from years ago. 

He chuckles richly when you don’t give him the satisfaction of a verbal response, somehow the spectre of your younger, indignant self joining the party, too.

“Don’t forget: I can tell when you’re lying,” he murmurs into your jaw, still fucking you slow and thoroughly, sliding his lips down your neck, your collarbone, down to your nipple that he bites, making you cry out. “I know you of old…” he adds, pausing for you to catch the reference.

“Shakespeare…,” you stumble incredulously.

“Mmm hmm,” he confirms, tracing a teasing circle around your areola with the tip of his tongue.

“You quote Shakespeare while you fuck?!” your tone incredulous. “You don’t fight fair,”

He laughs again before silencing any retort you may have with another heated kiss, entwining your limbs, wrapping like a protective vine around you as he begins thrusting keenly. You move with him, uncaring how vocal you are, the need for more inexorable. You stare into each other's eyes as you move in perfect synchronism, faster and harder, grabbing flesh, whispered words and endless kisses. It’s never been quite like this before.

“Come for me again,” he pleads hotly, and you can see he is teetering close to the edge now, a little vein pulsing in his temple, his neck corded, a sheen over his body where his pace never wavers.

“So close,” you vow, needing just a little more friction to fall into that abyss again.

You groan as he grabs your hand and sucks your fingers into his hot mouth, swirling his tongue around them, then releases them with an obscene pop, guiding your wettened fingers between your bodies to the apex of your thighs, silently instructing you to touch yourself. Gasping and canting up into his body, your own slippery touch like a lightning rod on your clit.  He growls as your pussy tightens around him responsively, feeling so huge as he ploughs into you.

Only a few flicks of your fingers and you are hurtling towards mindless bliss, eyes closing and body going taut, then snapping like a string as you peak, every fibre of your body fracturing as you call his name and constrict tight around his cock, fingernails leaving crescent shapes on his back as you float somewhere outside your body, mind blanking out in sheer pleasure.

Distantly, you hear him following you over, his grip almost punishing as he takes a few last frantic pumps, then stills, emptying deep inside, chanting your name into your neck as his whole body shudders and collapses on top of you.

As you flop back onto the mattress, your body sated, your thoughts race. Probably the best sex of your damn life. Even as he slides next to you, pulling you into his arms, your mind whirls until your scattered thoughts coalesce into one singular truth that makes you chew on your lip and frettingly stare at the ceiling - it was too good, too tender, too raw and honest for a first time. But all you want to do is repeat it. Over and over and over. Just never let him out of your bedroom. Except this is your best friend, and you have no bloody idea where you stand now.

Well… fuckity fuck.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhelll @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheepp @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb

[silverhallow]

🧭 Where to Find Me: AO3 / Twitter / Instagram / Wattpad

🔖 Tags: #ask ash #Benophie next generation #Bridgerton Next Gen #Ash's Wip #Ash's Luke Thompson Appreciation Post

📭 Ask Box: 💫 closed for prompts 💫

👩‍❤️‍👨 My Main Ship: Benophie

🧑‍🤝‍🧑 Other Ships: Kanthony, Philoise, Franchel, Hyreth and Grucy (please note if you ask for one of these then please be patient as my muse doesn't always cooperate with me for these)

⭐️ My Stories ⭐️

📚 Regency Series on Ao3

📖 Modern Series on ao3

💻 Ao3 reposted Tumblr only

📝 Watt Pad Stories

📇 Tumblr Drabbles

📋 Current WIPs: - Every Breath You Take - Next Gen Bridgerton (VioletxOC)

- Unexpected Details - Countess Sophie AU

⭐ Coming Soon ⭐

📌 Important Notice: The Spy Au and Singer AU have been hidden and are on Hiatus.

[triviareads]

what all do you have in the wip folder?

Here's what I got:

The Edwina/Prince Nikolas Angelovsky fic that I've just started

Francesca/John/Michael poly fic in which John doesn't die

I'm Your National Anthem which is a Kate/Anthony modern American political AU

as certain dark things are to be loved, about Selina Bridgerton and the Bridgerton next-gen

The Courtship of Charlotte Bridgerton

1846, which is the sequel to The Courtship of Charlotte Bridgerton and about the next-gen, specifically Anthony and Kate's kids

do not go gentle into that senior year (just rage), my Kathony prep school AU

she's not in the attic anymore, which is kinda based off do not go gentle

[separatist-apologist]

Out of curiosity, do you have any, let's say, reading order you would recommend among your fics? Or just favorite/best one for someone to start with? Sorry if this is a weird question but I want to read more elucien and your stuff seem very fun and while I will probably end up reading everything I feel like a person at a buffet not knowing which desert to pick first.

It feels so weird to answer this question. I'm doing too much, I think.

Honestly, it just depends on what you want to read. Call It What You Want To and I Know Places We Won't Be Found follow the established canon. They're both basically "how might this romance happen?" The difference is in Call It What You Want To, Elain leaves with Lucien willingly and in I Know Places, he kidnaps her. If you like the next gen stories, start with Call It and if you want to read my favorite of the two, start with I Know Places.

If you want an AU set in the ACOTAR world, Last of the Real Ones or Exile are better fics. Last of the Real Ones is "what if Tamlin took Elain instead of Lucien?" and Exile is set back in the time of the first war where humans were used as slaves, and it follows all three Archeron sisters when they're dragged into Prythian. Last of the Real Ones is still my all-time favorite fic I've ever written, I will never recapture that magic for myself.

As far as modern AUs go, I think the general consensus is that Holy Ground is the way to go but it's practically plotless. It's literally "What if Lucien and Elain were healthy communicators and liked to have sex?" That's it. I'm fond of Treacherous personally, which is a mafia AU and probably a quick read, and Don't Blame Me follows Lucien as a politician and Elain as another politicians fiance. When she finds out her fiance is cheating on her, she uses Lucien to get back at him.

Or you could just skip all that and read Slow Dancing in a Burning Room which is just Elucien Bridgerton

[badlucksav]

Hey, Sav💜

fanfic end of the year asks: 1, 19, 23, 25

Hey Purple! 💜

1. I’ve written so much it’s honestly hard to choose, so I’ll pick a one shot and a multi chapter!

Favorite multi chapter is definitely Black Bird in A Blizzard. This fic holds a very special place in my heart and I’m not sure why. I guess I just love the way I wrote it — melancholic, somber, but with an undercurrent of hope. There was something really cathartic about that story, and it all just fell into place so well in my head. The entire thing was written in about two weeks, so I guess I just needed to tell that story.

Favorite one shot is probably I’ll Find You When the Sun Goes Black. I love PaintedSpirit, and I love modern AUs with bending, so adding vigilantism makes this one of my favorites. I loved incorporating as much canon material into this little one shot.

19. Any new fics to start next year?

God I have so many ideas. So. Many. I do want to focus more on the WIPs I have and maybe some of my other favorite pairings before I embark on any big journeys, but I’m really itching to write a canon overhaul where Lu Ten lives and explore how that would effect canon events. This will be a big project, so I need time and to outline it. And yes, it has YuTen endgame, and Zutara too.

Another idea I’d like to do is an alternate canon Zutara arranged marriage AU. I’ve actually got about 1.5 chapters written, but I’m not too happy with it so I might scrap it and start over. I have 11 outlined chapters for it, so it wouldn’t be too big of a project really. But it will be dark.

I’m also starting to enjoy writing for LoK. I’m deep in the Irosami brain rot right now, so I might spit a few things out for them. And Kanej from Six of Crows, my beloveds. I definitely have a few ideas for them.

23. Fics you wanted to write but didn’t?

Aha so many. Soooo many. Some of which I actually started but were put on the back burner. I have a Pirates of the Caribbean AU I’ve been thinking about for months. I always wanted to write a Bridgerton AU too. And more. Definitely more.

25. A fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read.

Hmm I read a lot of fanfic this year, but my top recommendations are:

Let’s Be Alone Together by AndreaAnEnigma

Rhythm of the Rain Keeps Time by @asajjvxntress (and really anything she writes; she’s fantastic)

As the Blue Spirit Howls by ThisIsEntertaining. It’s a gen fic, but it’s really fun. Zuko is a werewolf shunned by his dad, he’s trying to capture the Avatar, and oh yeah, the Avatar and his merry gang of misfits fosters him from an animal shelter. It’s good.

Burning Hands by @spicyswordlady . It’s not complete, but it’s amazing.

Everybody Hates Zuko by Keysmash Jones. It’s another gen fic, but it’s campy and tons of fun.

Send me asks!

[irishseeeker]

for the Fanfic Ask Game (the movie, the sequel), 💭, 👀 & 🏅please? thank you! 💜

hi @misskatesharma! thank you so much for your ask! so sorry for the delay, been thinking about some of my answers!

💭 What is a headcanon you have about your own work?

little ones for TSOU!

Kate and Anthony don’t have nicknames for each other. They’re not into baby, babe, sweetheart, honey or anything like that. They usually stick to Bridgerton and Sheffield, until the day Kate becomes a Bridgerton too. 

They definitely do couples costumes. Kate begs, Anthony eventually gives in-with Newton too, of course. 

Colin and Anthony’s relationships get much better once Anthony is with Kate and Colin graduated from university. They clash, but they understand it’s because they’re more alike than they think and they grow extremely close, repairing their relationship slowly. Colin is Edmund’s godfather and Anthony is Colin's best man at his and Penelope’s wedding.

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

Yup. I have some old Harry Potter fics that will never see the light of day, I just never got around to finishing them or just didn't like them in the end haha. They were just next-gen fics! I also have archived some old hunger games fanfiction I published years ago on AO3! I couldn't even tell you what they were about but they were definitely modern AUs!

🏅 What is something you recently felt proud of in regard to your writing (finished a fic, actually planned for once, etc).

I just finished my first Bridgerton WIP, the story of us! Never thought it would happen at certain points but I’m so happy it’s done and I hope people enjoy the end! I’ve three new upcoming WIPs that i’ve actually planned (something I wish I did but just jumped straight in, causing major stress later on haha) so semi-proud atm but we’ll see! 

[unfortunate-arrow]

Daphne and Simon’s Children

The duke and duchess of Hastings have five children: Amelia, Belinda, Caroline, David, and Edward. Eldest daughter Amelia takes after her mother and uncle Anthony, being a caring and protective person especially when it comes to her younger cousins and siblings. As the first to marry, Amelia’s courtship and husband are considered less scandalous, even though her husband had a bit of a reputation that he was trying to overcome. Second daughter Belinda takes after her uncle Benedict more so than anyone else in her family. She’s perhaps the most sensitive of the Basset children and can be a bit of a hopeless romantic. Like her sisters, Belinda has a fairly scandal-free courtship and marriage. Third daughter Caroline takes after her uncle Colin a lot and just like him, she is able to look innocent when she gets in trouble. Caroline also has a fairly scandal-free courtship and marriage. Eldest son and fourth child David secures the future of the dukedom. He takes after his father a lot, preferring to stay out of the spotlight. David finds his match in a dowager countess, with a slightly complicated love story. Youngest child Edward inherits his father’s stutter but has a better relationship with it than his father ever does. He's been given the space to be imperfect and knows that his worth isn’t tied to his ability to speak fluently. Edward finds his match in an American heiress from New York City and it’s a slightly scandalous match.

Amelia Diana Violet Basset

Born in 1814, Amelia is an interesting cross of her Uncle Anthony and her mother in terms of personality. As the eldest, both in her immediate family and her extended family, she takes on a similar role to her uncle, while also possessing the nurturing nature of her mother. She takes her role as the eldest very seriously and can sometimes be too much of a mother hen, especially when it comes to her younger cousins. 

Amelia’s godfather is Anthony and her godmother is Francesca.

Despite having a very close relationship with her mother, Amelia was always a little bit of a daddy’s girl. Part of it was being the first child. Simon was always besotted with her and it was a different type of besotted than the way he was with his other children. He was floored by how easy it was to love Amelia, this tiny little human who was a mix of himself and Daphne.

One summer, when she was about 17, Amelia accidentally discovered that she really loved cooking and baking. However, it was not considered an acceptable pastime for a duke’s daughter, so Amelia had to conceal her love for it. She does bribe her cooks to teach her how to make her and her family’s favorite dishes.This also allows her to forge a close relationship with her cousin, Miles’s wife, Grace who is a baker. 

Amelia’s first season ends up being a bit of a disaster… on many fronts. Her family is too protective and doesn’t back off. She escapes one too many unsavory encounters. It results in the whole Bridgerton family having to take a step back and reassess everything. Her second season is much smoother, especially given that she has Belinda to turn to. 

Amelia married Robert Joliffe, Viscount Lowestoft, in 1835, when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-nine. Their relationship starts fairly low-key, with them continuing to run into one another at events. Robert’s got a bit of a reputation, but he’s been working on being better because he cannot shake the look of disappointment in his late father’s eyes. Eventually, their interactions become tinged with romance and Robert’s working to be the complete opposite of his reputation. Amelia’s fascinated by all of these combating aspects of his personality and by the end of the season, they’re engaged. Their marriage has a rocky start, though, as they both try to find what feels right for them and their relationship. 

Canonically, Amelia and Robert have two sons named Charles and Thomas. Charles’s middle name is Robert, while Thomas’s middle name is Simon.

Belinda Minerva Daisy Basset

Born in 1815, Belinda is similar in personality to her Uncle Benedict. She has a lot of traits from her mother as well, but in general, she has a similar role in her family to her Uncle Benedict. She’s sensitive and kind and has a creative mind, often jotting down random poems and is talented at the piano. She also tends to be the most sensitive when it comes to names and does not like when people make fun of her name or other people’s name. 

Belinda’s godfather is Colin and her godmother is Eloise.

Belinda is, in many ways, more Bridgerton than Basset. Appearance wise, she looks a lot like her Bridgerton relatives with chestnut brown hair and her Uncle Colin’s green eyes. Her personality also aligns more with the Bridgerton family than her father and his family members.

Belinda ends up having a close relationship with Lady Danbury. It doesn’t really happen until Belinda has her debut into the ton. She’s standing there, watching some sleazy, old lord trying to make his way to her when Lady Danbury shows up. She’s always been a fixture in Belinda’s life, but suddenly there’s something different about it. Agatha Danbury is going to keep an eye out for the Basset kids, her own great-grandchildren, and their many cousins. 

In 1838, at the age of 23, Belinda married Kellan Butler (30), the earl of Wexford. He was not what Belinda expected for a husband. He’s Irish and Anglican and doesn’t come to London that much, as he wasn’t one of the representatives in Parliament of the Irish peerage. It wasn’t until the winter of 1838 that Kellan found himself having to serve in Parliament and his mother suddenly set herself on finding him a bride. Eventually, he and Belinda met. Belinda, determined not to make any mistakes after watching her sisters marry, put Kellan through his paces. Despite this, it was a relatively simple and straightforward courtship.

Canonically, Belinda and Kellan have one daughter named May, who was born in 1839. Her full name ends up being May Agatha Butler. She’s named after her paternal grandmother, Mary Butler, and Agatha Danbury.

Caroline Agatha Daphne Basset

Born in 1816, Caroline takes after her Uncle Colin quite a bit. They’re both the third sibling. They’re just similar in personality. Caroline is quite friendly, always ready to make a new friend. She’s also figured out how to look innocent whenever things occur and it doesn’t go the way that she wants to. She doesn’t have his appetite, though. She shares his desire to make her own mark on the world and have them remember her.

Caroline’s godfather is Benedict and her godmother is Kate.

Caroline starts talking a few months later than both of her older sisters. She wasn’t delayed, and she started walking before Amelia and Belinda, but it still scared the hell out of Simon. Daphne has to remind him that even if Caroline did stutter, that doesn’t mean they won’t love her any differently than their other children.

Caroline is closer to Simon than Daphne. She also takes after Simon in appearance, the only one of her sisters to take after the Basset family in appearance as opposed to the Bridgerton family.

Caroline really admires her Aunt Francesca and Aunt Hyacinth. There’s just something about them that makes Caroline want to be like them. She’s more like Hyacinth than she is Francesca, which isn’t surprising given that she’s rather similar in personality to Colin.

Caroline married Lord Geoffrey Findlay-Wyatt, a second son, in 1837, when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-five. They’ve got a bit of a love at first sight vibe, where they caught one another’s eye across the ballroom and fell hard. It’s not the easiest journey towards love, but it is simpler than her sister, Amelia’s courtship. However, a lot of people sort of laugh off Geoffrey’s pursuit of Caroline because he’s young and everyone assumes that he wants to spend his 20s unmarried. Maybe he would have, but he really loves Caroline and wants to be married to her. 

Canonically, Caroline and Geoffrey have two children named Henry and Victoria. Henry’s middle name is Simon, while Victoria’s middle name is Caroline.

David Anthony Edmund Colin Basset

Born in 1817, David is more outgoing than Simon, but not by much. He’s still an introvert and prefers to observe everything that goes on in front of him. His sisters are the true extroverts of the Basset family. David is the first Basset child to take after Simon and not a Bridgerton. 

David’s godfather is Gregory and his godmother is Hyacinth. 

David is a momma’s boy. He has a very close relationship with Daphne.

Upon learning that he finally had a son, Simon worried and stressed. The biggest worry was that David would stutter and that he’d screw David up because of the grudge that he had held towards his father. There was also a momentary sadness that Hastings line would continue, but that disappeared the moment that he finally saw and held David.

David is very close with his cousin, Miles Bridgerton. They’ve always been close and even end up getting married the same year. There’s something about being born in the same year and attending school together that bonds you forever. In fact, Miles is the godfather to David’s only son, Reg. 

David takes his duties as the heir to the Hastings dukedom quite seriously. He’s not as serious as his cousin, Edmund, but David knows that being the heir isn’t something that you can take lightly. People will be depending on you and screw ups can be devastating for those that rely on you.

David has had a crush on Phoebe Wycliff, the dowager countess of Royce since he first saw, when she wasn’t yet a dowager countess as her first husband was still living. Nine years later, David finds that his feelings for Phoebe are still there. So, when she approaches him with an offer to become her lover, David jumps at the chance. Slowly, but surely, David’s feelings grow stronger and all he wants to do is make her smile with a genuine smile.

David married Phoebe in 1844, when they were both twenty-seven.

David and Phoebe have three children, Rex (or Reg), Seraphina, and Goldie. Their eldest is a son named Reginald David Simon Basset, who is called Reg by David and Phoebe and Rex by everyone else. Their second child is a daughter named Seraphina Daphne Basset, who is three years younger than Rex. Their youngest is a daughter named Marigold Tabitha “Goldie” Basset, who is four years younger than Seraphina.

Edward Simon Gregory Benedict Basset

Born in 1834, Edward takes after Simon. He is quiet and taciturn and the most introverted Basset. He also stutters, much to Simon’s dismay. However, Edward never had the issues with it that Simon did. His family were very supportive and gave Edward the space to be imperfect. It probably helped that he was the spare. In fact, it takes Simon longer to accept Edward’s stutter than it does for Edward himself to accept it. Edward has always known that his worth and intelligence is not tied to his difficulties speaking.

Edward’s godfather is Phillip and his godmother is Sophie.

Edward is a momma’s boy, but he is also quite close to Simon. There’s such a large age gap between himself and his siblings, that Edward spent more one-on-one time with his parents than any of his siblings ever did. 

Edward is quite close with his cousin, Anthony “Ant” Bridgerton. In fact, Edward takes on a similar role to his father in their friendship, as Ant is rather similar to their Uncle Anthony. Ant is also the godfather to Edward’s son, Gus. 

Edward is the tallest Basset. He is an inch taller than David and is very pleased by that fact. He enjoys being the tallest. 

Edward marries Molly Campbell, an American heiress. They have a slightly rocky start and Molly was supposedly engaged, but eventually they fall in love.

Edward married Molly in 1859, when he was twenty-five and she was twenty-one. 

Edward and Molly have four children, each two years apart. Their eldest is a daughter named Evelyn Daphne Basset, their second child is a son named Augustus Simon Edward “Gus” Basset, their third child is a daughter named Julia Molly Basset, and their youngest is a daughter named Violet Agatha “Lettie” Basset.

Bonus: August Edmund Colin “Auggie” Basset

Born in 2014, Auggie only exists in my modern AUs, where he is the twin brother of Amelia and he’s younger than her by ten minutes. However, he doesn’t take after either of his parents. Instead, he takes after his Uncle Colin. He’s a daredevil, too, and always comes traipsing in with some new minor injury, usually a black eye or a split lip.

Auggie’s godfather is Colin and his godmother is Eloise. 

Despite his daredevil ways, Auggie’s profession is rather mundane. He follows his father’s footsteps and becomes the vice president of the Hastings Foundation, a nonprofit his father founded to provide education and therapy services for people with communication disorders. He sees the good it does firsthand, with his kid brother, Edward, and the way his younger sister, Belinda, works as one of the foundation’s speech language pathologists.

Auggie is bisexual, something he realized as a fairly young teenager. He comes out at 16, during one of the family’s gatherings. His mother is interrogating him about his broken wrist and he just blurts it out, mostly to divert attention from his broken wrist and the grounding that he knows was coming. Plus, his family has always been chaotically supportive and he trusts them. 

Auggie falls in love with a man named Ernest Livingston. Ernest is an electrical engineer and also shares some of Auggie’s daredevil ways. They first meet when Ernest brings his nephew to the Hastings Foundation. 

Auggie married Ernest in 2044, when he was 30 and Ernest was 29 (and four months shy of thirty). 

Auggie and Ernest adopt two children. They adopt a three-year-old girl, Nova Eunice Livingston-Basset, and two years after Nova, they adopt an infant boy who they named Amos Simon Livingston-Basset. Therefore, there's a five year age gap between Nova and Amos.

Anthony & Kate’s children • Benedict & Sophie’s children • Colin & Penelope’s children • Eloise & Phillip’s children • Francesca & Michael’s children • Gregory & Lucy’s children • Hyacinth & Gareth’s children

[unfortunate-arrow]

for the au game, modern coffee shop au for your choice of bridgerton next gen ship ☺️

Jonathan “Jack” Fullerton is an English hockey player. Violet Bridgerton (ii) is an English teacher, following in the footsteps of her parents — an art teacher and an English teacher.

In a coffee shop in London, Jack has just learned that he’s come into a massive inheritance courtesy of his Uncle Martin, whom he had never met. Violet is coming in for her morning latte. Stunned and awkward, Jack accidentally spills his entire (cold) black coffee on Violet. Even though she knows that she should be pissed at him, she can’t be. He’s tall and handsome and cute. Plus, he can’t stop stammering his apologies. After that incident, Jack and Violet go their separate ways.

However, they both keep visiting that coffee shop in the hopes of running into one another again.

After a few weeks, they do run into one another at the coffee shop again. Numbers are exchanged and a date is tentatively planned. The date goes well and a second one is planned.

Of course, by virtue of Violet having three older brothers, 31 first cousins, seven aunts, and seven uncles, the date is crashed. Jack’s awkward AF with the enormous Bridgerton clan and always feels like he’s making a fool of himself. But the Bridgertons like Jack, thinking that he’s a much better choice for Violet than her previous boyfriends.

send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ or an aesthetic about it

[unfortunate-arrow]

Eloise and Phillip’s Children

Sir and Lady Crane had five children with the older two being from Sir Crane’s first marriage: Amanda, Oliver, Penelope (better known as Penny), Georgiana, and Frederick. Amanda was the eldest, by seven minutes, and preferred to stay out of the spotlight. She grew out of troublemaking ways by the age of ten, although they never fully left her. Amanda was also the one Bridgerton granddaughter not to take a season, but it wasn’t a worry. She found her match in a neighbor’s cousin. Oliver was the eldest son and the second eldest. His troublemaking ways stayed with him a lot longer than they did his sister and he was always down to cause a little bit of a scene. He was, perhaps, an unusual choice but still eligible and eventually gave his heart to a merchant’s daughter, much to the ton’s displeasure. Penny could usually be found with her cousin and best friend, Agatha Bridgerton. They were inseparable, until it came to finding their matches. Penny fell for a duke… who also happened to be a fourth son. Georgiana was the most introverted of the Crane children, inheriting her father’s temperament. She became a sort of wallflower, but was still considered a good match as she was, after all, a Bridgerton by blood. However, Georgiana refused to bend when she fell in love with a viscount (and earl’s heir), who was rumored to be illiterate. Frederick was the youngest and that could be innately obvious at moments. He was a barrister, although he also had a wild side and eventually fell in love with an earl’s daughter. 

Amanda Mary Crane

Born in 1816, Amanda’s middle name was a play on her mother’s name. It was her father’s idea, just as he made the suggestion that Oliver’s middle name be George.

Amanda is the older twin and never lets Oliver forget that. Much to her displeasure, he ends up taller than her.

Amanda outgrows pranking shortly after her sister, Georgiana is born. However, she will still get into prank wars with Oliver. It’s part of how they love each other.

Amanda had a revolving door of interests, and tends to find a new one every few months. She’s been interested in botany, zoology, architecture, Roman history and more. 

Amanda also finds that she really enjoys writing. She ends up writing a diary, which isn’t something she shares with people. However, she does end up gifting it to a granddaughter who she sees as a kindred spirit.

Amanda is also rather close with her cousin, Caroline Basset. They just clicked.

Amanda married Charles Farraday in 1840, when she was twenty-four and he was twenty-seven. Parts of their love story can be found in the second epilogue of To Sir Phillip With Love.

Oliver George Crane

Born in 1816, Oliver is very light-hearted. He’s always made it his mission to lighten the mood, which is usually accomplished by jokes and pranks. It takes him a while to grow out of the pranks, which truly occurs shortly after his little brother, Frederick is born. He never truly grows out of pranks, though.

Oliver never lets Amanda forget that he’s the taller twin. 

Oliver loves having cousins. He’s in-between Edmund Bridgerton and Miles Bridgerton and David Basset in age, so he doesn’t have a very close cousin. However, he is good friends with all three boys, even if he brings out the worst in Edmund.

Oliver does not enjoy his time at school. For him, the only saving grace is that his friendship grows with his cousins and he makes other friends. In a modern AU, Oliver would probably have a mild case of ADHD.

Oliver falls in love with Alice Linfield, a merchant’s daughter. She is from a middle class family that can afford to mingle with the ton. Alice is one of the few people who can understand Oliver’s impulse to lighten the mood but can also call him out. 

Oliver married Alice in 1847, when he was thirty-one and she was twenty-four. They have one of the larger age gaps. 

Oliver and Alice have four daughters, Victoria, Adelia, Vinnie and Zadie. Victoria Alice Crane is two years older than Adelia Eloise Crane. Adelia is three years older than Lavinia Amanda “Vinnie” Crane, who is four years older than Zadie Marina Crane.

Penelope Violet “Penny” Crane

Born in 1825, Penny’s temperament is a combination of her parents’. She is generally fairly even-keeled, but can also lose her temper easily. In addition, she is a hopeless romantic and is not something people expect from her. 

Penny’s godfather is Anthony and her godmother is Francesca. 

Penny is quite close with her cousin, Agatha Bridgerton. They are almost like a Penloise 2.0, with fewer secrets. It never fails to amuse their mothers, and grandmother. However, she also really looks up to her older cousin, Amelia Basset. 

Appearance wise, Penny looks like Eloise and therefore a Bridgerton.

Penny has a wild and fun-loving side, which often masks the personality traits that she inherited from Phillip. However, Penny embraces all of it.

Penny marries Christopher “Kit” Barrington, the Duke of Morcott. He also happens to be a fourth son, which means there’s all sorts of rumors swirling around Kit while they’re courting. 

Penny married Christopher in 1849, when she was twenty-four and he was twenty-eight. 

Penny and Christopher have five children, Alexandra, Hugo, Matthew, Robbie, and Viola. Their eldest child is a daughter named Alexandra Eloise Barrington, who is two years older than the twins, Hugo Christopher Phineas Barrington and Matthew Phillip Ambrose Barrington. The twins are four years older than Robert John Edmund “Robbie” Barrington. Robbie is three years older than Viola Penelope Barrington.

Georgiana Eloise Crane

Born in 1826, Georgiana has her father’s temperament. She’s introverted, somewhat awkward, and generally fairly even keeled. She also has her father’s love of botany and plants. Georgiana is also closer to Phillip. 

Georgiana’s godfather is Benedict and her godmother is Penelope. 

As a child, Georgiana often trailed after her sister, Penelope, and cousin, Agatha Bridgerton. They rarely let Georgiana join in, despite the fact that Georgiana was only a year younger than them. 

She is a wallflower during her entire time as a debutante. However, she does manage to form her own friend group with two other wallflower debutantes.

Georgiana and Eloise are often at odds with one another. Their arguments really hit fever pitch during Georgiana’s courtship with Viscount Wivenly.

Georgiana falls in love with Lucas Wivenly, a viscount. He’s an heir (and former spare) to an earl, and also has dyslexia. However, because this is the mid-1800s, no one knows what dyslexia is and there are many rumors swirling around Lucas’s struggles with reading and related-tasks. Eloise does not like Lucas at first. Phillip thinks that Lucas is a good man and that Georgiana truly cares for Lucas.

Georgiana married Lucas in 1850, when she was 24 and he was 27.

Georgiana and Lucas have two sons named Nicholas Phillip Edmund Wivenly and Isaac Lucas Benedict Wivenly. Nicholas is two years older than Isaac.

Frederick Phillip Anthony Crane

Born in 1829, Frederick reminds his grandmother of his Uncle Colin. He’s jovial, friendly, and troublesome. He also has his uncle’s massive appetite. In addition, Frederick has Eloise’s temperament and takes after her more so than Phillip in personality. 

Frederick’s godfather is Colin and his godmother is Daphne.

Frederick is older than his cousins, Richard Bridgerton and John Stirling by approximately two months. He is also extremely close with Richard and John, forming a trio with similar roles and personalities to their uncles ABC with Frederick being Colin, John Benedict, and Richard Anthony. 

His siblings, parents, and grandmother are the only ones Frederick lets call him “Freddie.” Eventually, his wife is added to that list.

Frederick becomes a barrister. He decides that he would like to try and help those who are less fortunate for him. Frederick also has a strong sense of honor, something he inherited from both parents.

Frederick falls in love with Lady Beatrice Winslow, an earl’s daughter. Their match happens quite slowly, as Richard Bridgerton marries Beatrice’s twin sister and John Stirling marries Beatrice’s close friend. They are both a bit oblivious about their growing feelings over the two seasons that occur prior to their courtship beginning. 

Frederick married Beatrice in 1857, when he was 28 and she was 24.

Frederick and Beatrice have two children, Louis and Dotty. Their eldest is a son named Louis Phillip Frederick Crane, while their youngest is a daughter named Theadosia Beatrice “Dotty” Crane.

Anthony & Kate’s children • Benedict & Sophie’s children • Colin & Penelope’s children • Daphne & Simon’s children • Francesca & Michael’s children • Gregory & Lucy’s children • Hyacinth & Gareth’s children

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Chapter 4 - You've Got A Friend

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Set a couple of months after Chapter 3, Benedict and you are becoming best friends.

artwork credit @colettebronte

Warnings: discussions of sex, swearing, publically faked orgasm

Word Count: 3.1k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. A multi-chapter modern rom-com retelling of When Harry Met Sally. In this chapter, we see vignettes of Benedict and reader's growing friendship. And well... this ends with a twist on the famous scene. Yep. You know the one. Enjoy <3

21 months ago (3 months later)

Benedict Bridgerton is one of your best friends. 

If you had uttered that sentence to yourself ten, even five, years ago, you would have laughed your head off. But it's funny how life turns out. In the months after you reconnect, you start to meet up regularly, at least once a week, sometimes more, and you text almost constantly. Becoming each other’s crutch as you rebuild your lives as single people. 

On the surface, you couldn’t be more opposites, but he’s matured, and you find his company the most soothing and the most fun. Be it while having dim sum in Chinatown, wandering Victoria Park or helping him set up his new warehouse flat. There's always a tiny frisson, an undercurrent of something between you that, to be honest, makes it more appealing. A pilot light of heat that could, maybe one day, become a bonfire if the timing were right. You are not sure it ever would be, but it would be stupid to deny to yourself that it's there. There is certainly no one you like to verbally spar with more.

He FaceTimes you as you lay in bed on a regular Tuesday in September; it's become a habit. Just jabbering away until one of you falls asleep. Talking about everything, anything, and something nothing, watching a show or film together in digital silence. A comforting presence. 

“What are you watching?” he hums, scratching his beard.

“Don't judge me,” is your instant response, and he chuckles.

“Tell me,” his voice drops an octave in a way you are sure he knows has an effect on you. Physically. A little shiver down your spine. Bastard.

“Titanic,” you mutter as he bursts out laughing.

“You hate that film!” he exclaims, and you wish you could throw a pillow through the screen.

“That doesn’t sound like not judging!” you bemoan but concede he is right.

“Channel?” he asks, still giggling.

“Four… wait, are you going to watch too?” 

“Of course, then we can argue about it in real-time,” something in that offer makes you feel comforted. “It's near the end!” he decries after briefly pausing to change channels.

“How would you know?” you lobby, and he fixes you with a pointed stare.

“Please. This was Gen’s favourite; I had to sit through it five bloody times.”

“How is she?”

“No idea. She didn't speak to me after the breakup. Besides, wasn't she your friend?!”

“Yeah, but we lost touch,” you sigh, “sometime about seven or eight years ago, she moved to Bristol, and then we sort of drifted.”

He hums noncommittally, watching the movie, “So you’re saying Rose should not have saved him by sharing that door,” he states as the final scenes unfold onscreen before you both.

“I never said that!” you argue.

“Yes, you did! In the car on the way from uni!” he smirks.

“No, I didn’t!” you volley back indignantly.

“Fine, okay, you didn’t.” He rolls his eyes.

“I mean, that dick was so good, they fucked one time, and she returned to the ocean to say goodbye to it 70 years later,” you point out drolly.

He tosses his head back and laughs so hard you can’t help but join in. 

“Fuck that’s the funniest take on this film I’ve ever heard,” he wheezes.

“Right?! I can’t take credit; it's a comedy routine; I’ll send you a Spotify link,” you offer.

“Look forward to it,” he giggles.

The urge to ask him if he’s ever had sex so good he’d go to the spot it happened to commemorate it is on the tip of your tongue. You’re almost surprised he doesn’t use the opportunity himself. He’s definitely grown up.

“Are you sleeping okay?” he asks, rubbing his eye wearily.

“Doing better,” you admit, “not completely there, but better than I was.”

“Do you still sleep on ‘your’ side of the bed?” he inquires with air quotes.

“No. I’ve taken to sleeping wherever now,” you answer truthfully.

“Wow, you’re doing so well,” he sighs. “I feel weird if even a leg wanders over to ‘her’ side… and this isn’t even a bed we shared.” 

“Yours was a marriage, mine merely a long-term relationship,” you try to justify why he might still be more impacted than you.

“Same difference, except you don’t have a lawyer bleeding you dry arguing about shit…. Urghh, I need a drink.”

“No, you don’t,” you argue, “stay in bed and drink your water.”

“You can be very bossy sometimes, you know?” he opines but reaches for his glass of water on his bedside table as he says it, doing exactly what you suggest.

“It’s for your own good,” you point out.

“I know, I know. I suppose I should thank you. You’d be surprised how little men give a shit about their friends' well-being, even their best friends.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” you fire back. “You’re all clueless idiots with the EQ of a shrimp.”

“Wowwww, okay,” he mimes being shot in the chest, “please don’t take out your Dr Tom issues on the rest of us unsuspecting shrimps.” It’s in jest, but you can hear the underlying argument and know he’s right.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You don’t have the EQ of a shrimp. I’ll give you, hmmm, a crawfish,” you offer with a giggle.

“Oh great, thanks,” he deadpans, “Could you not at least give me lobster?”

“Okay, fine. I hear lobsters are very smart, so you flatter yourself there, but yes, okay, lobster Ben. Please go get some sleep.”

“Alright,” he yawns, “can I call you my lobster too?”

“Why?” you frown sleepily, bemused.

“Some lobster thought it could predict the World Cup winning team—always thought it was right. That’s very you,” he stares pointedly down the phone camera at you.

“Fine, I’m your lobster too,” you stick out your tongue a little.

He chuckles as you settle deeper into your pillow, flicking off the TV as the credits scroll. Even you can acknowledge having a person to talk to is so comforting right before sleep. 

“Goodnight, lobster Ben,” you yawn, your eyes drooping.

“Goodnight, my little blue lobster,” he murmurs.

“Why blue? Cos I’m sad?” you hum, eyes closed.

“No,” he chuckles gently, “I have my reasons,” he says quietly, and you pass out as the call drops off. 

——

“So I had that dream again,” you mention offhand as you wander down the Southbank from Waterloo a few weeks later. It’s a crisp October day; you’ve taken the afternoon off work to visit the Tate Modern—there’s some exhibit he wants to see.

“The sex dream?” he verifies, weaving around an old lady who shoots him a disapproving look.

“Yup,” you confirm, kicking through the colourful pile of leaves under one of the trees. “So we are going at it up on this roof terrace, and this time he flies away just before I orgasm. I mean, what the fuck is that!?”

“Let me get this straight: you’re having sex with some mythical half-man half-dragon creature?” he seems completely bamboozled by the idea. “And just before you can come, he flies off?” 

“Yeah. What do you think it means?” you ponder.

“I think it means you need to get laid,” he laughs.

“Great fucking insight Sherlock Holmes,” body-checking him with your shoulder. “What about you? What’s your latest sex dream?”

“It’s always the same one. There’s this woman. She walks in, just wordlessly strips off my jeans and climbs onboard,” his cheeks have a high dot of pink that looks adorable, almost as if he’s embarrassed to say it.

“What does she look like? Are we talking Halle Berry? Helen Mirren? Florence Pugh?”

“I dunno… she’s just sort of faceless,” he gestures vaguely.

“Hmmm. Unusual. So then what happens?”

“I always wake up,” he sighs, staring into the middle distance, over to the Millennium Bridge.

“Wait….,” you stop walking and grab his arm, “...a faceless woman strips off your jeans and sits on you, and that’s the only sex dream you’ve had… ever?!” You can scarcely believe it.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous, I know. I’d like to state for the record that I’ve had a much more varied actual sex life. And daydreams? Top fucking notch. But my unconscious, sleeping dreams? Very not sexy or just this one recurring one.”

“Does it ever change? At all?”

“I mean, sometimes I’m wearing trousers, not jeans?” he offers, looking nonplussed as to what else to add.

You cannot think of anything to say to that, so you just shoot him an exasperated look and walk away towards the entrance. How on earth can he get to sleep at night if that’s all he’s got to look forward to?

“Dinner after this?” he offers as you stare up at the giant sculpture suspended in the main Turbine Hall. It's been a fun few hours of wandering the exhibits.

“Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t,” you obfuscate, feeling sheepish as you bring your gaze to him.

“Hooking up?” he inquires with a comedy eyebrow wiggle.

“Maybe,” you deflect, tucking your hair behind an ear, somehow bashful to talk with him about your first date in six years. “I’ll have to see how the date goes first.”

“A date? That’s wonderful!” He seems genuinely enthused, a big smile claiming his whole face.

“Yeah, I mean… I hope so? Let’s see. It’s been a bloody long time,” and saying that, nerves flare in your belly. “Not sure what I should wear, to be honest,” you admit, glancing down, self-conscious of your jeans and simple black top. “You think this is okay?”

“Of course it is,” he dismisses casually. “You look as beautiful as you always do,” the compliment just falls from his lips as if you asked about the weather. It still gives you that slightly gooey sensation under your ribs. Bastard.

——

The next evening you’re three cocktails down at Bar Americain on a night out with some work friends when your phone buzzes. 

BB: How was the date?

Y/N: He cried about his custody arrangement at the table.

BB: Divorced dad, eh? How fast did you scarper?!

BB: Guess it will be a while until you can get that orgasm, lol.

Y/N: ... I err, didn't?

Y/N: Oh, I got one.

BB: You slept with him?!? 

You always love to push it with him when you are tipsy, be a little daring with what you say. So you have your tongue in your cheek, wishing you could see his face when he reads what you are about to reply.

Y/N: Yeah, I mean, to be clear, the crying didn't turn me on. Not one of my kinks. But he had these nice hands, and I could tell from his jeans something good was going on down there. I was right. 8 out of 10, very nice. 

Y/N: And he didn't grow wings to fly off before I had an orgasm, either…  so win!

BB: How does one hang up on a text….?

Y/N: 😜

Five minutes later, your phone buzzes again.

BB: Wait. Do all women rate the dicks of the men they sleep with?

Y/N: I don't know all the women in the world, Ben…

BB: How is that an answer?

Y/N: 🤷‍♀️

“Ant…” Benedict calls, tossing his phone aside on his kitchen island and going to consult his brother across the room. He’s pretty sure that can't be all women, can it?

——

“I don't understand this at all,” Kate frowns, resting her weapon on her shoulder like a lumberjack.

“What don’t you understand?” you reply, staring at the target at the other end of the cage. You've decided this is an excellent cathartic way to do girls' night—just flinging axes at Whistle Punks after a hard work day in early November.

“You think he's attractive?” she pauses to applaud your throw as it smacks just below the bullseye.

“Yup.”

“You get on really well and Facetime and text every day?”

“Yup.”

“He’s straight?”

“Yup.”

“But you’re NOT fucking?” Kate quizzes, shooting you a look as she steps up to the plate.

“Nope.”

“I literally don't understand,” brow creasing as she takes her aim.

“Why can't you be proud of me? Not just crawling into bed with him on the rebound. He’s become a really close friend. Plus, I get the straight man’s perspective on things. It's really helpful now that I’m back on the market again. I can talk to him about sex stuff, and he's honest,” you argue.

“Sounds wrong to me…”

“Kate, you are fucking a married man,” you point out her hypocrisy archly.

“Yeah… and that's the point! I'm actually fucking him. What sort of Bert and Ernie shit do you and this Ben have going on?!”

“Please. Bert and Ernie are lovers,” you answer scornfully.

“Well, if they were, all the more reason you guys should be?!” she practically yells, hurling her axe with such gusto the manager comes to check on you.

——

Benedict takes you for dinner in the run-up to Christmas at some place so trendy it doesn't even appear to have a name. It's also where something transpires that haunts your spicier dreams for weeks. 

As usual, it starts with you both squabbling.

“Oh please, women fake them all the time,” you dismiss, stirring your soup.

“I don't doubt it,” he agrees, “but men can do it too.”

You shoot him a withering look. “Please. Half of men can't even fake enthusiasm; there's no way a man could fake an orgasm,” you argue with finality.

His eyebrows shoot up briefly as you take a triumphant sip. He puts his fork down and wipes his face with a napkin. Then he makes a low rumbling noise. Perhaps the food doesn't agree with him. When he does it again a second later, you get concerned.

“You okay?” 

He doesn't answer; he just makes the noise again. It's a low growl that almost reverberates around in his chest cavity, and something about it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Is your food bad?” you ask, a frown flitting over your face.

Again no answer. Benedict just makes another noise, louder this time. It’s definitely closer to a moan, and he takes a deep breath rolling his head to one side as if he's stretching his neck and really enjoying the sensation. Somehow you can't look away; you just stare at him, spoon in hand. Wondering what the hell he is doing, but captivated at the same time.

“Mmmm, that's it, baby,” he groans, and your insides are suddenly aflame. You've never heard his voice go into that register, it's low and throaty, and you feel a flush creeping up your chest. 

“Don't stop,” he moans and throws his head back with a gasp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing hard, and it's then you realise what he is doing. He is faking an orgasm. Right here. In public. In a bloody restaurant.

“Okay, Ben,” you hiss, “fine, you win the argument,” attempting to get him to stop.

But it doesn't work. His head tips back down, and two dilated pupils bore into yours, a hazy ring of blue around black.

“Do you like that?” He’s staring you down as he says it, panting slightly, his jaw firm, challenging, goading.

You want to crawl into a ball and disappear. How much of that is because your fellow diners are starting to look over versus how much your body is rioting is undetermined.

“Yesssss,” he hisses, closing his eyes and biting his lip. 

“Ben,” you warn, but again it falls on deaf ears. There is nothing you can do to stop this. Mortification routes you to the spot—that and the pounding in your ears and the little frisson of static running down your spine.

“You feel so good, baby,” he groans with a tiny tilt of his body; it's enough to make your imagination run wild—places it shouldn't. Dear god, this isn't right. He is your friend, one of your best friends; you can't be thinking such things.

To distract yourself, you look around at your fellow diners apologetically, shrugging as if you don't understand what he is doing. Thankful there are no kids in sight.

“Look at me,” he commands gruffly, and without thought, you obey; your eyes tear back to his. He is doing this deliberately, goading a response from you, from your body. And something in your snaps, you won't let him win like this.

“Go ahead, do it,” you mutter through slightly clenched teeth, so quiet only he can hear it. If he is going to do this, damn him, let him. 

His hands wrap around the edges of the small table separating you, long fingers splaying out, and then his short blunt nails scratch down the wood. You don't think about those big, shapely hands doing the same thing on your body, no, definitely not. He is groaning and panting hard now, and it's utterly convincing. You can just picture him on top of….. STOP IT! You screech your mind to a halt. Don't go there.

“Come with me,” he snarls softly, just for you, and part of you wants to whisper back: yes, please, but instead, you bite the corner of your tongue to prevent a sound from escaping.

Then he turns theatrical, open hands thumping the table, grunting hard and rhythmically, and you just have to sit there and take it, so to speak. Just endure this weird mix of utter embarrassment and confusing arousal. Knowing you are flushed from head to toe. You daren't look around at the rest of the place, the buzz of conversation mostly dying out as they watch this formidable reenactment.

“Yessss, yesss, yessss,” he chants, and with a few convulsive body jerks and a long groan, his head lolls back, and he exhales a ragged breath loudly. 

There are a few seconds of silence, and then he clears his throat, straightens up in his chair, shoots you a shit-eating grin, picks up his forks and jubilantly takes a bite of his dinner. He doesn't even bother to say anything; he knows he has won that argument, fair and square. You are still too shocked and disconcerted to speak.

“Sir, Ma’am,” the maître d' is suddenly at your table, “we would like you to leave, please.” his tone is decidedly stern. After a brief exchange of glances, you both burst into spontaneous giggles.

As you are bundled out of the door unceremoniously, not even being asked to pay, you hear a man ask a waiter a question that makes you laugh even louder.

“Did he have the daily special?”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Chapter 1 - A brand-new start

Masterpost PREV | NEXT

Pairings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (also features Benedict Bridgerton x Genevieve Delacroix), Modern AU

Chapter Summary: A long drive from St Andrew’s to London with a virtual stranger

artwork credit: @colettebronte

Warnings: none really… some language, bickering and flirting.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Welcome to Chapter 1 of my next multi-chapter. A modern romcom heavily inspired by When Harry Met Sally. Thank you to @makaylan and @colettebronte for reading through. I hope to update this fic every couple of weeks. Please enjoy! <3

12 Years Ago

When you pull up outside her halls of residence, she has her tongue down some man’s throat—typical Gen. 

She finally acknowledges your presence when you lower the window and cough pointedly. A few days ago, when she said her latest boyfriend needed a lift from St Andrews to London, you didn't offer; she volunteered him to join you before you could conjure a believable excuse. Someone to talk to on the long journey wouldn't be such a bad thing; you tried to convince yourself reluctantly. You were slightly worried about who he might be. Gen’s taste in men could be best described as random. Or questionable if you were feeling less charitable. But as he turns towards you, something in your chest flutters. 

Oh. 

He looks different to her usual choices. He appears rich, just from a glance. But the sort of rich that dresses in ratty clothes as a style choice rather than out of economic necessity. His jeans are distressed around the knees, and there’s an almost threadbare patch right around his rather shapely - don't look there, you admonish yourself - arse. He wears a faded grey t-shirt and converse that are speckled with paint.

“Y/n, meet Ben,” he nods briefly before she pulls him back for another completely inappropriate kiss.

Ben...? Really, Gen? Matching names is a bit too fucking twee.

As they break away, he tosses his bags in the boot of your car and, after another round of tonsil tennis, climbs into your passenger seat. He smiles crookedly, and you see his blueish eyes catch a ray of late Spring sun; his voice instantly makes you shift in your seat as you exchange hellos. Definitely a posh boy. Definitely a playboy. Definitely not the type to keep his bed empty for long. You already dislike him. You especially dislike how attractive your body seems to find him, despite yourself.

This is going to be a long journey.

“You want to drive the first shift?” you ask politely.

“You are already there,” he shrugs, “go right ahead.”

As Gen becomes a waving figure in your rearview mirror, something tells you you will likely never see her again. It's that time when life goes in a million different directions—the end of university. You've been here for your undergraduate course. Apparently, he has been here for his master's in Fine Arts. 

“What takes you to London?” he asks as you pull out of the university grounds.

“I'm going to be a journalist,” you state proudly.

He laughs. “You and the rest of the world.” 

You bristle at his amusement. You are a talented writer; you know it will happen for you someday. You have a summer internship at the Guardian. Okay, it's unpaid, but it's a start.

“You?” you shoot back, squinting in the sun.

“Artist. I’m setting up a studio in Hoxton.”

Urgh. That's so achingly trendy you actually want to smack him.

Your phone buzzes, and you check it discreetly at the next traffic light. It's from Gen.

Yep, I know exactly what you are thinking. Posh boy twat. His cock is amazing though. Safe travels x

You squeak and drop your phone into the footwell. Ben cuts you a curious sideways glance. 

“I can grab it,” he offers rather chivalrously as he sees you groping blindly around your feet as the light turns green.

“No!” you startle, “it's fine, just uhh leave it there, I don't need it. I know the way to Edinburgh from here.” your voice takes on a high-pitched quality that sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

He seems to stare at your profile for an inordinate amount of time.

“Gen said you were a little high-strung,” he says drolly.

You frown over at him. “I'm just particular,” you argue back.

He laughs and looks out the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” you prickle, “that’s a disgusting habit, and you should give it up.”

“She said you were opinionated too,” he adds, his tone so casual and laid back it just makes you more wound up.

“My car, my rules,” you retort, glancing irritated in your rearview at the lorry getting far too familiar with your rear bumper.

“That's fair enough.” 

He suddenly lunges for something in the backseat, twisting so his t-shirt rides up, his whole body thrust towards you. You see a flash of toned abdominal muscle and a tantalising line of hair disappearing into his jeans.

You quickly cut your eyes back to the road and have to slam on the brake not to hit the car in front, praying momentarily that the lorry behind is paying more attention than you are. Damn him. 

“Fucking hell!” he exclaims, falling back into his seat and grabbing the dashboard to right himself.

“Sorry,” you mumble, knowing you are blushing. “Can you please not do that when I'm driving?”

“Do what?” he feigns ignorance, but you can tell he knows exactly what just happened, the cocky bastard.

“Climb into the backseat,” you grumble.

“I leaned back to grab something; I didn't climb anywhere,” he disputes, shaking a packet at you. “This is for your benefit, I might add,” he says pointedly, ripping open the box and fishing out a nicotine patch.

“Well, just sit still, please,” you huff, spying a flash of very shapely bicep out of the corner of your eye as he rolls up the sleeve and slaps on the patch.

“Yeah, not highly strung at all,” he mutters under his breath.

Yep. You absolutely want to kick him.

—

It’s almost 2 hours later and lunchtime when you pull into the services just outside Glasgow, needing a toilet break.

“Want a sausage roll?” he asks casually, stretching his limbs in a somewhat distracting manner as you lock the doors. Out of the car now, you realise he's taller than you expected; around 6 feet would be your guess. 

“No thanks, I uhh don't eat that stuff. I made a salad; I'm just going to eat that,” you respond, tapping the little bag on your shoulder.

“You made a salad? For a road trip?” he looks at you like you have three heads, and again your dander is up.

“Nothing wrong with being prepared,” you sniff.

He chuckles and shrugs a shoulder as you wander into the building and agree to meet at a table after.

Just as you are neatly drizzling your salad dressing, he saunters over a bright red plastic tray in hand, holding an assortment of beige foods and a large bottle of Coke. You can’t school your horror at the contents of his plate.

“What?” he laughs, taking a seat next to you.

“If smoking doesn't kill you, that might,” you say airily.

“You really do have just so many opinions,” he looks at you as if you are some fascinating species, dons a stupid broad grin and takes a huge bite.

“Am I wrong though?” you raise an eyebrow in challenge, waiting for him to take the bait. Instead, he changes tack.

“Gen never said you were so pretty,” his statement, muffled around the sausage roll, is so matter of fact that you don't think you heard him correctly for a split-second.

“Excuse me?!?”  you can't hide the disdain in your voice. “You are Gen’s boyfriend,” you say slowly.

“So?”

“So you shouldn't be flirting with me!” you explain, feeling as if it's unnecessary to do so.

He laughs so hard that some pastry sprays across the table. “I'm not!” he dismisses.

“Yes, you are!” your indignancy rising.

“Can’t I say you are pretty without it being flirtatious?” he posits.

“No!”

“Okay, fine,” he capitulates, wiping his greased fingers on a paper serviette, “I take it back.”

“Well, that’s just rude,” you huff.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't want you to say anything! Just… don't notice me at all! You are dating my friend!” your voice again takes on that shrill quality you dislike.

“Sorry,” he raises his hands in defeat. Then after a few moments of silence where you just poke at your lettuce leaves, your eyes meet again. “Genuinely,” his hand on his chest, “I am sorry. I'm an artist. I can't help but notice objectively beautiful things. I truly meant nothing untoward,” the sincerity taking you slightly aback. 

You would think it a line he’s using, but his hazy blue eyes somehow give away the truth—he means every word. You are also trying to ignore how the words, ‘objectively beautiful’, echo in your head. 

“Well… just… remember, Gen is my friend; I don't want her hurt,” you volley back defensively.

“Neither do I,” he replies, taking a sip of his drink and turning to look out of the nearby window.

The fact you notice an adorable little bump in the profile of his nose is something you pretend doesn't happen.

—

It's mid-afternoon when the rain rolls in somewhere in the Borders. He had taken over driving duty at the rest stop. You were initially concerned about handing the keys to your mum’s old Ford Focus, but to be fair, he seems a sensible enough driver. 

“Music?” he asks brightly as he flicks on the wipers.

“An old iPod is connected via the aux,” you shrug. 

“Oh, what's on it?” he queries.

“God, all sorts. A lot of 90s indie stuff and Britpop, Im afraid.”

“Brilliant! Put on some Blur.”

You perk up. “Really? I thought us too young for Blur,” you jest.

“I’ve got a few years on you, remember?” he chuckles as you select a random shuffle of their music.

As the opening chords of Country House ring out, he starts to nod his head comedically.

“City dweller, successful fella,” you both chant in unison as the song starts, and you giggle.

You find yourselves singing along loudly. It appears he knows all the words as much as you do.

“I'm a professional cynic, but my heart's not in it,” you say loudly as he points for you to take that line.

“I'm paying the price of living life at the limit,” he picks up as you mirror the gesture. 

Your fleeting thought is that the lyrics are the right choice for your different personalities somehow. Or what you know of him so far.

“He lives in a house, a very big house in the country!!!” you both almost yell, laughing heartily around the words.

And that's how the next twenty minutes are spent. Singing along slightly tunelessly to Blur as you cross the border into England, and the journey continues.

—

You stop at motorway services outside Manchester around tea time, having listened to most of your Blur back catalogue and lots of Pulp too. You frown as he tucks into a Big Mac and fries as you pick at a soup and roll. 

As you eat, you quarrel about the best American 90s sitcom - Friends or Frasier - you claim the latter until he plumbs for Seinfeld instead at the last minute. You throw down your spoon in annoyance that he changed the rules of his own game, splashing your jumper, which makes you even more pissed off. You make him get up and recycle your empty soup bowl for you, pettily refusing to get out of your chair. He counters that you look adorable when you have a tantrum, and you snatch the keys, threatening to drive off without him. To the people around you, you look, to all intents and purposes, like a bickering married couple, not someone you only met a few hours prior.

When you hit the road, you take over driving duty again. You plan to drive the rest of the way to London; it should only be another three and a half hours.

After his junk food dinner, he passes out in the passenger seat for over two hours. You don’t mind the silence; it’s a novel respite from your squabbling. And if you steal a few glances at his very attractive face as it lolls around, well, you’re not going to admit that to anyone. (What you don’t see is his eyes opening periodically and staring at you, too, between drifts of sleep.)

It’s almost certain you have never met anyone in your 22 years on this earth that you spar with more than him. But it’s not bitter; it’s just like you are so opposite you can't help but be drawn to each other’s orbits, even if all you do is rile each other up. You’ve never met anyone quite so contrarian as him. Or anyone quite as troubling to your hormones. You want to smack his face AND pull him in for a deep kiss, jump on his lap and grind hard. It’s quite the most disconcerting thing.

__

It’s just after 10 pm when he offers to take over driving duty again on the outskirts of London, as he knows it quite well. His family have a pied-a-terre in Mayfair. Yup, posh twat. However, you’re grateful for the offer, this being your first time in the city except for brief day trips as a child. And as the suburbs give way to the glow of the inner city, you are talking, well, arguing, about movies. Specifically, Titanic that he claims Gen made him sit through last week.

“You're wrong”, you argue, shaking your head.

“There was room on that door for both of them,” he defends.

“It would have sunk if he climbed on too. He did the right, noble thing, sacrificing himself like that,” you assert.

“Please, they could have laid on top of one another and kept it mostly afloat. It’s not as if it would be a big issue; they already had sex, for fuck’s sake,” he counters, waving his hand.

“Yeah, but so what? Sex is great, but it’s not a reason to risk both of you dying by SINKING THE DAMN DOOR,” you huff.

“Oh, I see,” he gloats.

“What? What do you see?” you shoot back, riled up. This man’s ability to get under your skin is almost frightening.

“Obviously, you haven’t had great sex yet,” he shrugs, staring ahead as he drives. 

“Yes, I bloody have!”

“No, you haven’t,” the dismissive tone is so irritating.

“So have!” 

He chuckles. “Okay then. Who? Who have you had great sex with?”

You flick through your collage of university experiences. A mixed bag, if you were honest. Then a triumphant smirk covers your face.

“Melissa.” 

The smirk grows wider as he swerves the car a little, almost taking out a delivery cyclist, and snaps his head over at you. You can practically see his brain buffering. He was expecting a dull boy’s name so that he could argue back.

“Tell me more,” his voice has dropped an octave and goosebumps erupt on your upper arms at the sound.

“She knew her way around between a woman’s legs,” you shrug, meeting his eyes and feeling temporarily unmoored by how dilated they suddenly are, rubbing your bicep instinctually to tamp the evidence of the effect he has had on you, hidden beneath your jumper though it is.

“Tongue and fingers?” His question is soft.

“Whole face and hands,” you counter, not missing how his tongue shoots out to lick, then bite his parched lip and his subtle shift in his seat.

The idea of him physically turned on by the mental picture he is building for himself should make you affronted. Instead, your hand itches to shock him, reach out and grab him, order him to keep driving as you palm him over his jeans. You are horrified by where your thoughts turn. This is your friend's boyfriend. You can’t stand him… can you? 

“Lucky lady,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I was,” you tilt your head to one side in reminiscence.

“I was talking about Melissa,” he replies, and you don’t know how to respond to that. So you don’t. You just reach for your bag of Maltesers you bought at the last petrol station and snag one.

“How’s far til yours?” You ask, changing the subject.

“Hmm, interesting,” he says thoughtfully but doesn’t elucidate. “Not long now, we’re passing Swiss Cottage,” he responds as if that’s supposed to mean something to you.

Suddenly a hand is hovering right before you, almost brushing your breast.

“What?” You frown, pretending not to jump.

“Malteser,” he requests, raising an eyebrow and glancing over.

“You should have bought some for yourself at the last stop if you wanted some,” you volley back, smirking and popping another into your mouth obnoxiously.

“You aren’t very likeable sometimes, you know,” he pouts, withdrawing his hand when he realises you mean it.

“I am to people I like,” you counter.

“Guess we are not going to be friends then,” he says sarcastically.

“Guess not,” you chime back.  “It's a shame; you were the only person I knew in London...”

And as he pulls up outside some fancy building in Mayfair, you shake hands somewhat stiffly after helping him unload his bags. You part ways without exchanging information. Such a strangely abrupt ending to your twelve-hour trip where it seems you ran the gamut of human emotion together. You try not to be too bothered by it as you follow your sat nav towards the less salubrious environs of Leytonstone, where you have rented a studio flat—deciding to put Ben Bridgerton as far out of your mind as possible. You doubt you’ll ever see his face again. After all, what are the chances in this big city?

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya

[fayes-fics]

It Had To Be You: Upcoming Fic Excerpt

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Teen and Up, except one chapter which could be skipped

Summary: Modern AU romcom. A love story heavily inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

Note: Hi all, as a Valentine's Day gift to you all, I present below the opening scene of my upcoming multi-chapter - It Had To Be You. I plan to start publishing this in March. I hope you enjoy <3

UPDATE: full fic is now posted HERE

12 Years Ago

When you pull up outside her halls of residence, she has her tongue down some man’s throat—typical Gen. 

She finally acknowledges your presence when you lower the window and cough pointedly. A few days ago, when she said her latest boyfriend needed a lift from St Andrews to London, you didn't offer; she volunteered him to join you before you could conjure a believable excuse. Someone to talk to on the long journey wouldn't be such a bad thing; you tried to convince yourself reluctantly. You were slightly worried about who he might be. Gen’s taste in men could be best described as random. Or questionable if you were feeling less charitable. But as he turns towards you, something in your chest flutters. 

Oh. 

He looks different to her usual choices. He appears rich, just from a glance. But the sort of rich that dresses in ratty clothes as a style choice rather than out of economic necessity. His jeans are distressed around the knees, and there’s an almost threadbare patch right around his rather shapely - don't look there, you admonish yourself - arse. He wears a faded grey t-shirt and converse that are speckled with paint.

“Y/n, meet Ben,” he nods briefly before she pulls him back for another completely inappropriate kiss.

Ben...? Really, Gen? Matching names is a bit too fucking twee.

As they break away, he tosses his bags in the boot of your car and, after another round of tonsil tennis, climbs into your passenger seat. He smiles crookedly, and you see his blueish eyes catch a ray of late Spring sun; his voice instantly makes you shift in your seat as you exchange hellos. Definitely a posh boy. Definitely a playboy. Definitely not the type to keep his bed empty for long. You already dislike him. You especially dislike how attractive your body seems to find him, despite yourself.

This is going to be a long journey.

“You want to drive the first shift?” you ask politely.

“You are already there,” he shrugs, “go right ahead.”

As Gen becomes a waving figure in your rearview mirror, something tells you you will likely never see her again. It's that time when life goes in a million different directions—the end of university. You've been here for your undergraduate course. Apparently, he has been here for his master's in Fine Art. 

“What takes you to London?” he asks as you pull out of the university grounds.

“I'm going to be a journalist,” you state proudly.

He laughs. “You and the rest of the world.” 

You bristle at his amusement. You are a talented writer; you know it will happen for you someday. You have a summer internship at the Guardian. Okay, it's unpaid, but it's a start.

“You?” you shoot back, squinting in the sun.

“Artist. I’m setting up a studio in Hoxton.”

Urgh. That's so achingly trendy you actually want to smack him.

Your phone buzzes, and you check it discreetly at the next traffic light. It's from Gen.

I know exactly what you are thinking. Posh boy twat. His cock is amazing though. Safe travels x

You squeak and drop your phone into the footwell. Ben cuts you a curious sideways glance. 

“I can grab it,” he offers rather chivalrously as he sees you groping blindly around your feet as the light turns green.

“No!” you startle, “it's fine, just uhh leave it there, I don't need it. I know the way to Edinburgh from here.” your voice takes on a high-pitched quality that sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.

He seems to stare at your profile for an inordinate amount of time.

“Gen said you were a little high-strung,” he says drolly.

You frown over at him. “I'm just particular,” you argue back.

He laughs and looks out the window. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” you prickle, “that’s a disgusting habit, and you should give it up.”

“She said you were opinionated too,” he adds, his tone so casual and laid back it just makes you more wound up.

“My car, my rules,” you retort, glancing irritated in your rearview at the lorry getting far too familiar with your rear bumper.

“That's fair enough.” 

He suddenly lunges for something in the backseat, twisting, so his t-shirt rides up, his whole body thrust towards you. You see a flash of toned abdominal muscle and a tantalising line of hair disappearing into his jeans.

You quickly cut your eyes back to the road and have to slam on the brake not to hit the car in front, praying momentarily that the lorry behind is paying more attention than you are. Damn him. 

“Fucking hell!” he exclaims, falling back into his seat and grabbing the dashboard to right himself.

“Sorry,” you mumble, knowing you are blushing. “Can you please not do that when I'm driving?”

“Do what?” he feigns ignorance, but you can tell he knows exactly what just happened, the cocky bastard.

“Climb into the backseat,” you grumble.

“I leaned back to grab something; I didn't climb anywhere,” he disputes, shaking a packet at you. “This is for your benefit, I might add,” he says pointedly, ripping open the box and fishing out a nicotine patch.

“Well, just sit still, please,” you huff, spying a flash of very shapely bicep out of the corner of your eye as he rolls up the sleeve and slaps on the patch.

“Yeah, not highly strung at all,” he mutters under his breath.

Yep. You absolutely want to kick him.

[unfortunate-arrow]

general disclaimer: expect spoilers for both the book and the show, although my stuff usually has more book elements. auggie basset & ernest livingston are only in a modern au. in addition, all the important links to my bridgerton: next gen ‘verse can be found here.

𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽’𝓼 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓷

Edmund • Miles • Charlotte • Mary

Charles • Alexander • William • Violet

Agatha • Thomas • Jane • George “Georgie”

Amelia • Auggie • Belinda • Caroline • David • Edward

Amanda • Oliver • Penelope • Georgiana • Frederick

John • Janet

Katharine • Richard • Hermione • Daphne • Anthony “Ant” • Benedict “Ben” • Colin • Eloise • Francesca “Frannie”

George • Isabella

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓹𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓼 (𝓪𝓴𝓪 𝓜𝔂 𝓞𝓒𝓼)

Juliet Knight • Grace Hill • Rupert Townshend • Arthur Townshend

Nell Shepherd • Emma Rutledge • Róisín O’Connolly • Jonathan “Jack” Fullerton

Stephen Ridlington • Eleanor Dane • Morgan Howell • Olivia Sharpe

Ernest Livingston • Phoebe Wycliff • Molly Campbell

Alice Linfield • Christopher “Kit” Barrington • Lucas Wivenly • Beatrice Winslow

Adeline Meadows • Jasper Prentice

Gabe Montgomery • Elizabeth Winslow • Neil Pemberton • Timothy Macmillan • Felicity Holroyd • Evie Wright • Vivian Marsh • Adam Howe • Nathaniel Moore

Lilliana Steele • Patrick O’Donovan

𝓢𝓷𝓪𝓹𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓼 𝓘𝓷 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮: 𝓐 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Note: As they have canonical spouses, I have not included stories for Amelia Basset, Belinda Basset, Caroline Basset, and Amanda Crane. Auggie Basset and his story are set in a modern AU. Each story is a one shot with snapshots of moments in their love stories.

TBD [Edmund Bridgerton & Juliet Knight, 1843]

TBD [Miles Bridgerton & Grace Hill, 1844]

TBD [Charlotte Bridgerton & Rupert Townshend, 1846]

TBD [Mary Bridgerton & Arthur Townshend, 1851]

TBD [Charles Bridgerton & Nell Shepherd, 1846]

TBD [Alexander Bridgerton & Emma Rutledge, 1847]

Don’t Care About Religion [William Bridgerton & Róisín O’Connolly, 1848]

TBD [Violet Bridgerton & Jack Fullerton, 1848]

TBD [Agatha Bridgerton & Stephen Ridlington, 1847]

TBD [Thomas Bridgerton & Eleanor Dane, 1853]

TBD [Jane Bridgerton & Morgan Howell, 1851]

TBD [Georgie Bridgerton & Olivia Sharpe, 1860]

Tempting Into Marriage [David Basset & Phoebe Wycliff, 1844]

TBD [Edward Basset & Molly Campbell, 1859]

TBD [Auggie Basset & Ernest Livingston, 2043-44]

TBD [Oliver Crane & Alice Linfield, 1847]

TBD [Penelope Crane & Christopher Barrington, 1849]

TBD [Georgiana Crane & Lucas Wivenly, 1850]

TBD [Frederick Crane & Beatrice Winslow, 1857]

TBD [John Stirling & Adeline Meadows, 1855]

TBD [Janet Stirling & Jasper Prentice, 1851]

TBD [Katharine Bridgerton & Gabe Montgomery, 1848]

TBD [Richard Bridgerton & Elizabeth Winslow, 1856]

TBD [Hermione Bridgerton & Neil Pemberton, 1854]

TBD [Daphne Bridgerton & Timothy Macmillan, 1852]

TBD [Ant Bridgerton & Felicity Holroyd, 1860]

TBD [Ben Bridgerton & Evie Wright, 1863]

TBD [Colin Bridgerton & Vivian Marsh, 1863]

Hypothetically [Eloise Bridgerton & Adam Howe, 1861]

TBD [Frannie Bridgerton & Nathaniel Moore, 1862]

TBD [George St. Clair & Lilliana Steele, 1855]

TBD [Isabella St. Clair & Patrick O’Donovan, 1850]

𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓸𝓾𝓼

Next Gen Fics:

In Which William Bridgerton Is Born Prematurely

I’d Still Dance with You

To See My Son Become a Father

Other Bridgerton Fics:

You Belong Somewhere You Feel Free

You Must Know You Are Beloved

The Aftermath

Bridgerton Writing Requests (closed)

Main Tags: #bridgerton next generation • #bridgerton next gen • #bridgerton next gen oc

[silverhallow]

Ash! I love all the Bridgerton next gen character profiles...

All of them are such distinct individuals and are somehow exactly how I imagined them to be...I don't know how to explain it, but you got all of them exactly right and even better!

You have such a talent for writing and coming up with the most interesting plots and character arc! Love it💗

Oh nonnie that’s so sweet!!

I had such fun writing them last night and putting together the thoughts I’d had ages ago when i did an ask for the Bridgerton Enterprise AU but since then I’ve had changes of hearts and stuff about how I seen them growing up but this is basically how I imagine they are in like 90% of my modern AUs 🥰

I’m so glad that you liked them and your praise has made my day truly 🥰🥰🥰🥰

[unfortunate-arrow]

arrow | she/her | isfp | hobby writer | a menagerie of ocs 

General Tags

⤷ my writing • my aesthetics • my character profiles • aesthetic trades • my edits

Other People’s Amazing Creations

⤷ aesthetics • art • character profiles • dividers • gif edits • other edits • videos • writing

Feel free to block any tag. I try my best to tag things appropriately. Please be respectful, though.

general disclaimer: expect spoilers for both the books and the show amongst all of my bridgerton tags. my next gen ‘verse involves like 90% book canon and 10% of show canon (aka book canon supersedes show canon). auggie basset & ernest livingston are only in a modern au.

𝓛𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓷’𝓼 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓷

⤷ Edmund, Miles, Charlotte, and Mary Bridgerton

⤷ Charles, Alexander, William, and Violet Bridgerton

⤷ Agatha, Thomas, Jane, and George (“Georgie”) Bridgerton

⤷ Amelia, Auggie, Belinda, Caroline, David, and Edward Basset

⤷ Amanda, Oliver, Penelope, Georgiana, and Frederick Crane

⤷ John and Janet Stirling

⤷ Katharine, Richard, Hermione, Daphne, Anthony (“Ant”), Benedict (“Ben”), Colin, Eloise, and Francesca (“Frannie”) Bridgerton

⤷ George and Isabella St. Clair

Tags: #bridgerton next gen | #bridgerton next generation

𝓜𝔂 𝓞𝓒𝓼

⤷ Juliet Knight, Grace Hill, Rupert Townshend, and Arthur Townshend

⤷ Helena “Nell” Shepherd, Emma Rutledge, Róisín O’Connolly, and Jonathan “Jack” Fullerton

⤷ Stephen Ridlington, Eleanor Dane, Morgan Howell, and Olivia Sharpe

⤷ Ernest Livingston, Phoebe Wycliff, and Molly Campbell

⤷ Alice Linfield, Christopher “Kit” Barrington, Leopold “Leo” Wivenly, and Beatrice Winslow

⤷ Adeline Meadows and Samuel Prentice

⤷ Gabriel “Gabe” Montgomery, Elizabeth Winslow, Neil Pemberton, Timothy MacMillan, Felicity Holroyd, Vivian Marsh, Evangeline “Evie” Wright, Adam Howe, and Nathaniel Moore

⤷ Lilliana Steele and Patrick O’Donovan

Tags: #bridgerton next gen oc | #bridgerton oc

𝓢𝓷𝓪𝓹𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮: 𝓐 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽 (coming soon…)

general disclaimer: do not support or agree with jkr’s views or actions, but not here to explicitly discuss my personal or political views. canon storylines are utilized mostly for the hphm ocs.

OC x OC Relationships: HL & VE | HM | MA & NG | Misc.

𝐇𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Orla O’Rourke | profile

Cillian Lynch | profile

Tadhg Lynch | profile

Niamh Kelly | profile

Vincent Fitzroy | profile (wip)

Brianna O’Rourke | profile

Fankids (wip)

Tag: #hphl

𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Maxwell “Max” Pembroke | profile

Georgie Parsons | profile

Edmund Kennedy | profile

Minerva Kennedy | profile

Simon Battersea | profile

William Devlin | profile

Fankids (wip)

Tag: #hp victorian era

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝟏 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Ophelia Lovell | profile (wip)

Linus Sullivan | profile

Colm O’Shea | profile

Minor OCs → Eugene Lovell • Ralph Myers (wip)

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #hp wwi era | #hp ww1 era | #hp ww1 verse

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Rory O’Neill | profile

Aisling Lynch | profile

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #fbawtft oc | #fbawtft era

𝐇𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Ruth Rosen | profile

Ryan O’Donnell | profile

Cara O’Donnell | profile

Sara O’Donnell | profile

Conor O’Donnell | profile

Minor OCs → Cian Jacob O’Donnell (wip)

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #hphm | #hogwarts mystery

𝐀𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐄𝐫𝐚𝐬

Oscar Lynch | profile (wip)

Nicholas Wraxall | profile (wip)

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #hp professor oc | #hp marauders era oc

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Finn MacKade | profile

Nate MacKade | profile

Jack Whitten | profile

Thea Whitten | profile

Minor OCs → Paddy MacKade • Owen MacKade (wip)

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #hpma | #magic awakened

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐫𝐚

Sophie Power | profile (wip)

Luke Battersea | profile

Declan O’Donnell-Lee | profile

Jude Cozens | profile (wip)

Fankids (wip)

Tags: #hp next gen | #hp next gen oc

𝓑𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓷

In Which William Bridgerton Is Born Prematurely

I’d Still Dance with You

To See My Son Become a Father

You Belong Somewhere You Feel Free

You Must Know You Are Beloved

The Aftermath

Bridgerton Writing Requests (closed)

𝐇𝐏 𝐎𝐂 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

HP 12 Months of Magic (2023) one-shots

30 Day (2020) OTP Challenge

Valentine’s Day 2022 Challenge

Spring Break 2022 Challenge

Summer Break 2022 Challenge

Back to School 2022