All's Fair In Love And Cricket (Anthony Bridgerton X Wife!Reader)
Hiiiiiii, Could i request an Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader fic where Anthony married reader who is from a lower class (basically like Theo) and they end up having a fight because reader did something that would be considered out of class or simply wrong while she’s trying to learn to be a viscountess. Sorry if it didn’t make any sense English isn’t my first language 😭😭😭
All's Fair in Love and Cricket (Anthony Bridgerton x Wife!Reader)
Synopsis: After getting into a fight with your new husband you decide to settle your differences in a 'sporting' fashion, whilst reminding Anthony once and for all just who he married.
A/N: Ohhhhh boy did I enjoy this one. I'm sorry if it feels a little rushed or clunky in places, I may make some more edits at some point. I struggled with the flow of writing so much action but I loved it too much not to post it. So yeah, anxiety be damned else this would join the rest of the unposted drafts I have stashed away. I hope you enjoy it. 💕
Warnings: Anthony being a stupid idiot, class references (discrimination), reference to illness
Masterlist
It was late summer and as the sun beat down on the green lawns of St James’ Palace the lords and ladies below began to wilt. Many a woman held her parasol above her head in a desperate attempt to remain cool, which was hard when you wore petticoats and had nothing to do but sit and watch the men play cricket for hours on end.
Even Her Majesty looked like she was struggling to make it through the afternoon's entertainment, her attendants desperately fanning her where she sat under her canopy. They looked close to melting in their ornate gowns, however they were clearly willing to endure if it allowed them to continue admiring the game - and more importantly, those playing it. It was like waving a bone in a dog’s face as they watched all the eligible young men of the court sprinting about the green, their physique and athletic talents on clear display.
No wonder the Queen had her opera glasses with her, despite her proximity to the field.
You almost felt bad for them, watching as the men were subjected to the same treatment as the young ladies were night after night at social functions… hence the 'almost'. After all, there was a sense of satisfaction watching them preen and dance about like show ponies on display. That, and the view wasn’t exactly a terrible one when your husband was one of those playing.
You’d have endured sitting on that blasted green a thousand times over, baking in the afternoon sun and surrounded by swooning women, just to watch Anthony Bridgerton as he captained his team.
Being one of Anthony’s oldest and dearest friends, his competitive nature was well known to you (for which you had one too many games of Pall Mall at Aubrey Hall to thank), but it seemed to be out in full force today. You’d simply lost track of how many times he had dashed back and forth, working up somewhat of a sweat as he barked orders at his teammates in a desperate bid to ensure victory. It was no surprise to you that he had subsequently been forced to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves, exposing his rather sculpted arms to those watching.
As you said, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon - and normally, you’d have been smugly lapping it up, however, today you were unable to truly enjoy yourself. Not when all you wanted to do was march over to him, take that cricket bat and give him a good whack or two. Maybe that would knock some sense back into idiot…
That was the issue with being in love with your dearest friend: those who knew you best also knew the best ways to hurt you, and Anthony’s behaviour at dinner the following evening had proven just how true a statement that was.
It had all started after the entire family had been summoned to the townhouse for a dinner, to toast you and what had so far been a successful first Season as Viscountess Bridgerton. At first, everything had appeared normal, with the usual laughter, merriment, and ease that one would typically experience at a Bridgerton gathering. It was what had first endeared the family to you, back when you had been but a small child, living at Aubrey Hall as the only daughter of their Stable Master.
They had never been anything other than kind to you, inviting you to play with their children, and join them in their daily lessons. They had also bought you gifts on your birthdays, invited you to join them at events, and even paid for the finest doctors when your father had fallen unwell several years ago. It was as if, to the Bridgertons, your family was their family - an attitude that they extended to the all members of the staff that kept their ancestral seat running. It didn’t matter if you were Head House Keeper, or the greenest of scullery maids. Everyone was counted and cherished, and the Bridgertons had earned utmost loyalty in return.
The rigid rules and divisions of high society didn’t appear to exist within the wisteria covered walls, and it had been that way well into your young adult life. In fact, it had been you that had initially rejected Anthony when he first declared his love for you one day, after taking you along with him on one of your many afternoon rides.
You’d been the one to remind him who he was and that society expected him to marry someone they deemed worthy of him and his title - and that wasn’t you. You didn’t have a penny to your name beyond the small sum you’d saved from helping with the younger Bridgerton children as a governess. You didn’t have a title or an estate or anything to bring to a marriage.
“Except the most important thing!” Anthony had pleaded. “Love… I love you, and there is no one else for me in this life except you. Life is short, terrifyingly short. Look at my mother and father… to be without the person you love most in the world is an agony and I cannot bear it. Please. I can’t lose you. I will not spend my life without you, knowing love is within both of our reach but that we were too afraid to grasp it? If I cannot spend my life, no matter how long it may be, with you then I will have no-one. No-one. My brothers can have the title. I don’t want it. I only want you.”
He’d continued to insist that for the following 6 months, even after his family had moved to their London house for the Season. It didn’t matter how many beautiful, eligible, wealthy heiresses he was introduced to. He would entertain none of them. He would have none of them. Only you.
It’s what he’d continued to insist until you’d eventually accepted, realising that he was right; Love was the most important thing and you both deserved to have it in your lives, come what may.
So, you’d said yes.
You’d become engaged and gradually made your way out into society as the new Viscountess Bridgerton, armed with the support and guidance of the Bridgertons.
Which brought you to last night and the dinner that had been organised to mark the end of the most challenging, but rewarding, Season of your life - and the dinner had started so wonderfully. Yet, somehow it had all gone to hell in a hand basket in the mere blink of an eye thanks the well meaning, but ill timed, teasing of Colin and Benedict.
Your brothers-in-law had both decided to raise a toast to your first Season as an ‘official’ member of the family and they'd got off to a rather complimentary start, if you were being honest. However, they had somehow moved from their praise on to reminiscing about the many years and many adventures you had had since joining their family.
Whereas every anecdote had caused the rest of the family to spiral into more laughter, your husband had looked more and more infuriated. In fact, Anthony had warned them not too kindly to ‘sit down’ and ‘shut up’ about your childish behaviours, which of course had only encouraged them further.
“Oh, hush, brother,” Benedict had quipped, raising a glass to your successful debut. “She knows we mean it all in good fun. After all, she once had a phase where she refused to wear shoes and would walk barefoot around the estate, traipsing mud everywhere! I think we’re allowed to be surprised by how far our dear darling Y/N has come.”
“It’s true - It’s a miracle,” Colin added, wiping the tears of laughter from his cheeks. “The transformation is remarkable. Who knew she would go from feral ragamuffin to lofty Lady Bridgerton.”
Anthony’s only response had been to tighten his grip on his glass to the point it looked like it would shatter.
Whether it was the residual stress of your busy social calendar, or something else entirely you had no idea. All you did know was that Anthony was angry, and even your gentle touch would not soothe him.
In a desperate attempt to calm him, you’d pulled Anthony out onto the terrace shortly after dessert had been cleared and asked what was happening. Much to your surprise, he had turned on you, venting about how childish his brothers were and how embarrassing it was that they were discussing things unbefitting someone who was a Viscountess.
“They’re just joking, my love. They were doing it to get a rise out of you.”
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” he’d growled, causing you to bristle. “They’re so immature. They need to grow up and realise we’re not children any more. That… that you’re my wife and joint head of this family.”
“So? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t, Anthony,” you snapped, the warning clear in your tone. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, I just - it - they’re… it’s embarrassing.”
“So, you’re embarrassed? By what? Your family? Or me? Because everything they said tonight is true. I did do those things, as did you. I may not have been born a noble lady but you knew that when you asked me to marry you. So don’t suddenly act like you're ashamed, that you are somehow better than your family - than me.”
Somehow the argument had only spiralled from there, with both of you saying things you didn’t mean, and with both of you storming off and slamming the doors behind you.
Even now, sat on the edge of the cricket pitch, the thought made your blood boil. How dare he? How dare he act ashamed of you and the wondrous memories of your youth together? It wasn’t as if you hadn’t grown and matured since then. You had done everything within your power to be worthy of him and his family, and yet all it took was one mention of the girl you had once been to make him upset?
As if sensing your silent fury, Eloise had been glued to your side since the moment you'd left the house. Her company had been a blessing, with her numerous whispered remarks and jokes, making the day almost bearable. One remark in particular from Eloise had caused you to burst out laughing in a most undignified fashion after watching Anthony trip over one of the opposite team - the Duke of Hastings of all people.
You still weren’t quite sure how they had been positioned on opposite teams, but you were sure there was some kind of wicked divine intervention responsible. Who else would think it a good idea to put two competitive men against one another? Your hosts, perhaps? After all, Lady Danbury and Her Majesty had organised the game and you had learned long ago not to underestimate the women - especially when they decided to conspire together.
“How long is this delightful game again?” Eloise’s polite remark oozed with sarcasm as she leant back against the tree behind her.
It was obvious she was bored senseless. In fact, you half suspected she would have already left had her mother not been sat on the opposite side of the green, watching her like a hawk.
“I’m not sure,” you groaned in reply. “I lost count of who was winning about an hour ago.”
“So, we’re to be trapped here for eternity?”
“Pretty much, considering this part will not end until either Simon or Anthony lose, and we both know that neither one of them will concede defeat easily.”
Eloise rolled her eyes. “And I thought they were bad at Pall Mall-”
“-LOOK OUT!”
The cry interrupted both of you as you turned in surprise. Given the so-far sedimentary tone of the day, neither of you had expected such excitement as numerous Lords and Ladies began to hurl themselves out of the way as a stray cricket ball rocketed through the air, towards the crowd.
“Good god!”
The exclamation seemed apt as both you and Eloise ducked, watching as the ball sailed past, causing several yelps and groans from the people around you. You were pretty sure you also spied a glass of lemonade flying through the air in all the chaos. However, your attention was drawn to the figure charging towards you to retrieve the offending item as it rolled to a stop.
Anthony.
“Pardon me, Y/N,” he murmured, reaching down to collect the ball that now lay a small distance from your feet. You nodded in greeting, aware of the many eyes watching but you elected not to say anything, not trusting yourself not to make some snide remark.
As it was, you both had barely said more than a handful of words to each other since your argument last night.
Clearly sensing the lingering tension between you, Anthony quickly turned to address his sister instead. “Eloise.”
“Ah, brother," Eloise cheered. "Splendid play so far. Tell me, when did the object of the game become the decapitation of the ton? I would have attended far more cricket matches had I known that was the aim of the game.”
“You can blame Simon for that one,” he replied, his taunt hidden beneath his neutral smile. “Still, good dodging back there. I thought he might have nearly caught you both.”
“Almost.”
“But alas he missed, like most of your players today,” you quipped, enjoying the way Anthony seemed to redden at the reminder of his team’s less than stellar performance. “Still, good effort. You’ve almost caught up with Her Majesty’s team. I believe that’s better than last year.”
“Well, that might have had something to do with the fact that she does have Simon,” Anthony grumbled.
It was true, no one could out-run Simon - even if Anthony always gave it a damn good try: hence why the Queen often had him captain her team when he was in London for the season. Besides, the head of the other team was usually Lord Duval, due to his position as the Queen’s chief administrator. However, it seemed his brains and financial strength were all he had, due to the fact his social skills, and athleticism were sorely lacking.
“Touché, and who is up next?” Eloise asked.
“I don't actually know. The other team seem to be taking remarkably long to sort themselves out.”
Just then, almost as if on cue, three men began to hurry towards them.
A quick glance revealed that one of the gentlemen who was approaching was Colin Bridgeton, and the other the Duke of Hastings; that much you knew. The third was rather unfamiliar to you, however, you were pretty certain he’d been playing on Simon’s team. Regardless of his identity, neither he nor any of the other gentlemen now stood in front of you looked very pleased. Rather, they looked as if they had all sucked on a lemon, their frowns were so deep.
“Sorry to interrupt ladies, but I must reclaim Lord Bridgerton here for a moment. It appears Anthony will be needed to bowl again,” Simon sighed by way of explanation.
“What on earth for?”
Colin was the first to answer. “Lord Dingby is unable to bowl on account of the heat, and the Baron will not play.” His skepticism was clear as he shot the so called Baron a disapproving look. “He ’twisted his ankle’ or so he claims, thus we are down a bowler and the other team is down a player.”
You all rolled your eyes.
“So then, who will bat?” questioned Eloise curiously. “If Anthony is bowling you still require one more man to take their place on the other team?”
Wasn’t that the question of the hour. However, no one appeared to have an answer, and by the disapproving glare steadily growing on the Queen’s face, they didn’t have long to come up with one.
“Maybe Lord Stevens?” suggested the third man hastily, staring around at the crowd.
“No. He injured himself riding the other week,” Simon replied. “And unfortunately our hosts only saw fit to invite enough male guests as were playing. We aren’t exactly spoilt for choice regarding possible options.”
It was true. There didn’t seem to be any visible answer in sight given that those most suited to the game were already positioned on the field.
“What about female guests though?”
Your question hung in the air for a moment, causing everyone around you to turn in surprise.
“Excuse me?” Anthony looked at you suspiciously as you began to rise from your seat. He was well versed enough to know when mischief was afoot. A fact that was proven right a moment later as you held your hand out towards a shocked - and excited - Colin.
He was only too happy to oblige your silent request as he placed the bat in your grip. It was rapidly becoming the most exciting event of the season and lord knows he wasn’t about to spoil the fun - especially if he got to rub salt into Anthony’s wounds at the same time.
After all, given his display the previous evening, it was time you truly gave him something to feel embarrassed about. Losing.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Perfectly,” you smiled. “You’ve seen me when we’ve played Pall Mall. I have a decent enough swing. Besides, you said yourselves you need an extra player and there isn’t exactly anyone suited left - not anyone male, anyway.”
“Anthony?”
To his credit, your husband was also smiling, even if you could see the sudden tension forming behind his perfect smile. “I see no problem with it. I’m sure our hosts would prefer the game finished rather than called off because we ran out of players.”
“Agreed. Well, it’s settled then.” Simon cheered, clapping a hand on Anthony’s shoulder as they looked back towards the field. “It seems she will be taking his go.”
Then they noticed the rain cloud of a man next to them.
"She can’t play!” protested the third man. Everyone looked at him in silent disbelief. “This is a gentleman’s game. A Lady can not play."
“Her Majesty seems to have no objections,” Eloise commented smugly, glancing across the field. Indeed, it was true Her Majesty seemed to have no objections to the turn of events, choosing instead to exchange a wad of pound notes with the man beside her. If anything she looked exhilarated by the prospect. "Besides, I doubt a feeble female such as ourselves will pose any threat to your team, your Lordship.”
“Well… I… Bridgerton, I still don’t think-”
Thankfully, Anthony was all too busy gazing at you to take any notice of the pompous oaf’s objections.
It was a look you were more than familiar with, the unspoken desire and encouragement obvious in the way his gaze softened. It was the same look he always gave you when you’d done something amazing (and most things were amazing in his eyes). It didn't matter if it was taming a particularly unruly horse, solving a maths problem that left the rest of them scratching their heads, or daring to step onto the dance floor at your first ball, knowing not another soul in that room other than him.
It was a look that made you feel invincible. That you could do anything and everything you put your mind to as long as you had Anthony cheering you on from the sidelines... you were a team. Always.
"Anthony?" you asked, the challenge obvious - but also your sincerity. If he truly did not want you to play then you'd have marched back to your chair and sat right back down.
You'd meant it before. You loved your husband and wanted nothing more than to be the best partner you could be. Your hurt from last night had stemmed from the fear that, for a moment, that wasn't enough for him anymore.
Fortunately, it appeared you were wrong. Your husband wasn't embarrassed by you. If anything, he looked ready to kiss the ground you walked on as he leaned over and whispered in your ear, "If you can get four runs, I will personally pay you 5 pounds."
"You have a deal," you laughed. "As it is, women and ladies alike play cricket up and down the country. It’s high time we had a chance to show you boys up."
The other man began to protest again. "My Lady, my La-"
He never got very far. You simply stopped, turning and handing him your parasol and shawl.
"Thank you," you cheered marching away.
He paused, taken aback. It didn’t help that Eloise was only too eager to firmly pull him back into your now vacant seat with a glare that could have melted ice.
All around applause broke out as the players resumed their positions on the field. It took a moment or two for them to prepare for play but now everyone seemed to be watching intently.
Oh well, if you were to dare to play at all then you may as well dare to achieve something from it, you mused, gripping the bat handle and aligning yourself with the wicket. Victory seemed a rather good start, especially given the fact you had no idea what Lady Whistledown would make of this turn of affairs. You’d already had a shocking enough entrance into the world of the Ton, what was one more daring display?
"Go easy, Lord Bridgerton," the referee cautioned from the side of the green.
Anthony nodded obediently at the crowd’s titters. You could see the restraint he was demonstrating, choosing not to hurl the ball at you the way he would had you both been in the privacy of your home. Instead, it took all his will power to grip the cricket ball and resume his position on the field.
Unfortunately, you never knew when best to desist from poking proverbial bears. That, and Anthony was too easy a target.
"Yes, do go easy on me," you jibed. Everyone who knew you could hear the sarcasm buried in your voice as you took the bat and fluttered your eyelashes at him. "I’m only a delicate woman, but I must endeavour to ensure her Majesty’s team at least has an opportunity to best you, Lord Bridgerton. You’re only losing by what? A few wickets?"
Oh. You were in for it now.
Anthony’s grin was devious as he stepped back a few paces, weighing the ball in his hand till finally he charged at you, swinging his arm over in the perfect bowl.
It was then you brought up your bat to send the ball back in a high arc.
There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone followed the ball with their eyes. It was as if they couldn’t believe you’d actually managed to hit it. However, the shock quickly wore off as everyone remembered the point of hitting the ball in the first place.
"GO!" came a yell from the crowd as excitement began to spread.
So, you did.
Hitching your skirts in one hand, you began to sprint towards the other set of wickets, grinning as your partner passed you along the way.
Of course, you would have liked to protest that you could have indeed run faster had you not been encumbered by your stays and petticoats. Your slippers were also rather terrible for any movement. What you wouldn’t have given for a pair of trousers right then.
"Come on!" came another yell - it seemed as if everyone was forgetting their dignity in all the excitement as you tore back and forth across the grass in a mad blur.
Had it been anyone but you, it would have been a terribly scandalous moment. Yet, your name - and the status of your betrothed - meant this was all merely seen as sport. Besides, from the way Her Majesty was whooping from her perch by the trees, it was clear where her loyalties lay.
"Come on Y/N!"
"Anthony! Run!"
"Over here!"
"Come on!"
The cries blurred into one as you finally turned at what you planned on being your final run, only to spot Anthony as he came sprinting back towards you… and the wicket.
"Oh no, you don’t," you laughed, charging onwards in a final burst of energy.
You could hardly catch your breath as the world slowed around you.
All that remained was you, Anthony, and the closing distance between you.
You could see his desperation laced with delight as he watched you stagger towards the wicket… just as the ball he’d thrown hit it.
"IN!"
The referee’s declaration initiated an eruption of noise as all around the green, men and women celebrated the spectacle they’d just witnessed, and the victory you had now ensured. Within seconds you were swarmed, mobbed by well wishers and triumphant team mates. There were so many hugs and snatched ‘well done’s that you were quite at a loss what to do other than stand there and accept it. Thankfully, Anthony seemed to have read your mind and was at your side as soon as he was able to fight through the jubilant throng.
The moment he reach you he took your hand in his. His expression was a mixture of awe and contrition, clearly unsure what to say to you.
"Good game," he praised. "Simon better watch out - I think Her Majesty will be asking you to captain her team next year."
"What a tremendous idea, Lord Bridgerton. I may just do that."
As if summoned by the very mention of her, a voice rang out clearly from behind you. Without even turning you knew exactly who was standing behind you, as the throng suddenly fell silent around you and parted like the Red Sea. In all the excitement you had failed to notice the Royal party making their way across the field to join in the celebrations.
With a gulp, you turned and dropped into the most respectful curtsey you could manage without falling flat on your face. "Y - your Majesty."
The Queen chuckled. "I must thank you, Lady Bridgerton, for providing such excitement to our proceedings today. I also must thank you for the twenty pounds I just procured off of Brimbsley - that’ll teach him to bet against me."
You merely dipped your head in gratitude, unsure whether this was actually happening or not. After all, the closest the you’d ever been to monarch was your hasty presentation several months ago and that had barely earned you more than a curious glance, like you had been some exotic animal on parade at the Zoo. And now, the Queen was addressing you? A lowly Stable Master’s daughter?
It was enough to make you feel as if this was all some kind of surreal dream.
"Anyone who bets against your Majesty deserves to be relieved of their coin."
"True, True," she preened, gesturing for you and everyone else to rise. "I gather you have played this game before?"
"Growing up around the Bridgertons ensured I had little alternative," you confirmed, relieved when the Queen proceeded to chuckle good-naturedly.
"I dare say you didn’t, my dear. Well, it certainly makes for a rather entertaining afternoon, as well as a victorious one. Perhaps we aught to have women playing more often." She turned her head and chose to direct her next words directly to your husband. "You’ve chosen quite the bride, Lord Bridgerton - you are to be congratulated on choosing such a spirited partner. I hope you realise how lucky you are."
"Indeed, your Majesty," Anthony replied, the earnestness clear in his eyes. "I’ve realised just how truly unique and remarkable she is… and how lucky I am that she chose to be on my team, even if not on the cricket pitch."
Another round of laughter echoed out at his declaration but you knew it was more than just a jest. In fact, by the all-too-clear pride radiating off of the eldest Bridgerton you knew what he truly meant with his honeyed praise.
It was all the apology you could need and had you not been in such company you’d have dragged him into the bushes and shown him just how much you forgave him. Besides, your victory on the Cricket pitch was enough pay-back for both of you.
As if sensing the amorous tension steadily rising around her, the Queen chose that moment to make a well-timed departure, in search of a refreshment. She barely gave you all a final nod before marching off to greet the rest of her guests, leaving you stood there with a rather gobsmacked expression on your face.
"Well… that really happened," you murmured, struggling to maintain your newfound confidence now that the whole saga had come to an end. "Did I actually just do that? Did the Queen actually just … talk to me?"
"She really did," Anthony confirmed, hands grazing yours nervously, as if unsure whether or not you’d accept his touch. However, your hands accepted his readily, fingers intertwining as you squeezed his palm in an obvious attempt to ground yourself. "You truly were incredible today - I know you don’t need to hear it but, for what it’s worth, I am proud of you."
"Thank you."
"And I truly am sorry for being such a world class fool, last night," he continued swiftly, clearly keen to make his apology whilst you were willing to receive it. "I didn’t mean to make you feel as if I was embarrassed by you. I never could be. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I was vexed with my brothers and because of several other trivial matters, but I allowed my temper to get the better of me and I handled it poorly. I lashed out at the wrong person - the one person who deserves nothing less than to be told how incredible she is, every single day. I am unworthy of you, Y/N. I know no one else in the entire world so awe inspiring and to let you think otherwise for even a moment was my failing entirely. You are brave and smart and funny and kind and beautiful-"
"Ok, Anthony. I get it."
"-and I am unworthy of someone with such skill on the cricket pitch-"
"Anthony," you squealed, trying to hide your laughter as he pulled you into his arms and smothered your face in kisses. "It’s fine. I forgive you. After all, I also lost my temper and said some things I didn’t mean. Can we just agree we’re both sorry and put this mess behind us?"
"Yes! God yes," he sighed, looking like a weight had visibly lifted from his shoulder. "Because I really do not like fighting with you. Instead, I think we should be enjoying your victory parade. Today is your triumph, after all - the Queen’s champion."
"Hmmm, I rather like that title," you purred, gazing up at him. "But between us? I prefer being your wife, much much more."
More Posts from Olaflookalike and Others
this is what i hoped for in season 3 🥹
A pleasant surprise
Summary: Colin returns from his travels with more than just teas and stories.
Paring: Colin ‘my wife’ Bridgerton x Female Reader
—————-
Saying you were nervous was an absolute understatement. In fact the honest truth is that you were on the verge of a panic attack. You knew this meeting was inevitable, had known really ever since you laid eyes on him. But the prospect of shocking, nay disappointing, his entire family made you feel nauseous.
Colin’s hand gently gripping your thigh, stopping your legs nervous bounce, was the only thing keeping you grounded. You could see the grand houses of the ton out the carriage, feel it coming to a halt. It was time, you wanted to run. However the man beside you was enough reason to stay. Colin was the love of your life, and you his. Hopefully his family could see that.
The valet opened the carriage door and you took a deep breath. Colin alighted first, then giving you his hand to help you out. Bridgerton house was stunning, flowers drooping from vines that ran up the brick walls. The sweet smell of the flowering wisterias engulfing you. You gripped Colin’s hand as he led you straight in, not bothering to wait at the front door.
The grand entrance opened in front of you, and you could see it was just as beautiful as the exterior. The walls, painted a lovely shade of baby blue, hung portraits showcasing the happy family. You let go of Colin to examine a painting of him in his youth but was interrupted by a shriek.
“Colin, your home!” A young girl screamed with delight as she ran and wrapped him in a hug. ‘This must be Hycainth’ you thought smiling. The commotion caused a flurry of footsteps and soon a mass of people were descending into the foyer from all directions. Each gave Colin a spirited greeting ranging from tight hugs to affectionate forehead kisses. Last to arrive was a beautiful women who had to be Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, taking him in her arms and whispering how happy she was he was home. The closeness of the family brought a grin to your face.
And then suddenly you were spotted Hycainth and with a shout of “Who’s this?” all attention was directed to you.
“Family, I have an announcement.” Colin began, grabbing your hand in his. “This is my wife,” he declared introducing you by name.
“Your what?” One of the brothers, Anthony you presumed, muttered; the first to recovered from the shock.
“We met in Madrid while I was travelling”
“Madrid as in Spain? Does she even speak English. She probably just tricked you to marry into English money,” Anthony proclaimed, earning an elbow from his wife in the process.
Colin went to reply, but you gave him a gentle shake of your head.
“Viscount Bridgerton, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You are just like Colin describe,” you smirked, your polite words not matching with your tone of voice. “As you can see I do speak English, in fact I am from this country. Just outside of Bath to be exact. I too was doing some travelling when I met your brother in Madrid. My father, a Duke, was there on business and he asked me to accompany him. Colin and I met studying Spanish in a local language school, I wanted to understand the language so I could help my father negotiate his deals.”
“My apologies for my son, I believe he sometimes forgets he is not the only member of the family with some sense,” Violet said, a gentle smile gracing her face. “But may I asked what brought on marriage,”
“I knew Colin was feeling homesick, wanting to be nearer to his dear family yet my fathers business in Spain was not due to end for many months. We couldn’t bear the thought of being apart, and I didn’t want to be the reason Colin stayed away from his family.”
“She made the sacrifice to leave her family so I could be with mine,” Colin confirmed, pulling you in to his embrace. “I knew we were going to have to marry so we could travel together without scandal, and in all honesty I could not wait to call her my wife,”
“Oh sweethearts, congratulations” Violet muttered pulling you both into a hug. “But don’t think you’ll get out of having a celebration, there will be a ball thrown in your honour!”
One by one each family member came to greet you and give their congratulations.
Benedict gave you a giant hug followed by angrily whispering to his brother ‘How dare you leave me to face the ton’s mamas on my own, we had a pact’.
Eloise gave you a half smile, ‘I can’t say I see why you chose to marry my brother, clearly the imbecile is lacking in the upstairs department. However it would be nice to have another intelligent woman in the house, How would you feel about teaching me Spanish?’ You readily agreed.
Hycainth and Gregory both wanted to know if Colin and yourself had brought them anything from abroad, in which you winked conspiratorially as an answer.
Daphne and Kate both gave you warm hugs, and promised to get to know you more over tea once you settled.
Anthony was the final one to approach. He gave you an apologetic smile before muttering ‘I would be grateful if you could come help me with some documents in my study sometime. We have business in Spain and I admit that I know nothing of the language. Your insight would be a major asset to the family.
————-
Hope you all enjoyed! Honestly I just see this on brand for Colin. As if he didn’t fall in love with every female he crossed paths with. Basically I just picture him as young Bill in Mamma Mia
P.S. no surprise who greeted Colin with a forehead kiss xx
Gregory House with a teenage daughter (platonic!!)
------------✙------------
General Hcs :) (more like rambles)
🩻House & teenage daughter that looks juuust a bit too much like him? Buddy don't get me started-
🩻I feel like he'd really get along with a teen daughter (he's just a teenage girl too, I fear)
🩻Like he's one of those cool dads that you can share anything with without getting scolded/grounded or anything like that. Don't get me wrong, you're getting raised with manners, but you're also getting raised to be a menace when it comes to standing your ground.
🩻I mean c'mon, it's Greg House we're talking about, he's pretty goddamn stubborn.
🩻You guys also have a bunch of inside jokes. One of which being referring to eachother with the most exaggerated, old-fashioned, formal forms ever known to the English language, when in reality you're just telling him to buy toilet paper on the way home because there's none left
"Father, I regret to inform you that I require hydration, however am far too away from the only water source in our fortress and am far too lazy to raise myself upon my feet."
"My dearest, dearest daughter.
No fucking way, get your lazy ass up and pour a glass yourself." "But dad-"
🩻Btw swearing is 100% something natural for your household. House would probably squeeze in a remark or two if you overdo it, but overall he has no problem with hearing swears from you (because he also swears every now and then)
🩻(Off topic, but you'd regularly make puns about the apartment being a 'House-hold' and he'd pretend to hate every single one of them, but deep down he'd actually find them amusing)
🩻Apartment is a mess. All the time. Almost everywhere.
🩻But I don't mean filthy mess. I mean just untidy, but you guys know what's where and find a way around it
🩻Unspoken rule that you tell eachother whenever you move something, just in case the one that did the moving forgets
🩻You probably know how to cook better than he does, for some magical reason
🩻You convinced him to try cooking dinner once. Almost burned the kitchen down. But you did have a laugh about it later, so it's all good
🩻Most times you guys order takeaway, but if you step up and decide to whip something up yourself? He wouldn't tell you face-to-face, but you can see the flicker of pride in his eyes and the hint of an almost fond grin on his face
🩻He might not be able to cook dinner, but he can definitely make breakfast. Expect scrambled eggs and sausage/whatever ham he could find in the fridge greeting you when you wake up. He might even make pancakes on weekends/rare dayoffs
🩻Aaah he loves that you share a music taste with him if you do!!
🩻If you don't, he won't stop you from listening to it ofc, he'd just complain about it whenever it wasn't on headphones (🙄)
🩻But if you did share a music taste? ... Getting noise complaints from the neighbours about classic rock getting blasted past 10 pm wouldn't be the most uncommon
🩻Would support you in any hobbies you have, 100%. Both financially and by psyching you up.
🩻You draw? He has a sketch/artwork of yours framed somewhere in his office. Crochet? He still keeps the mini crochet doll of himself on his keys. Knit? He wears the scarf you made him every winter. Read? He's buying you at least one new book every month or two. You'd have to help with installing new bookshelves though, he'd do nothing but lay on the couch for the most part and blame it on the leg™. Play any instrument? You have the whole ass setup for it in your room at home. If the instrument is suitable for piano duets, he's so down to do one with you
🩻Would so be down to playing any type of video game with you. You guys probably have a gamecube/nintendo 360/xbox/whatever the hell there was in his time I have no idea
🩻Lets you mess around on his Gameboy if you ever come to work with him and get bored
🩻Greg might be kind of an asshole to people and he might claim not to care, but he definitely cares, especially about you.
🩻If you're happy, he genuinely feels at ease too. But if he senses any shift in your normal behaviour, anything that he might find alarming? He wouldn't push it more than an "Anything wrong? Or are you this frowny all the time?" or a "Wanna talk about it?". But he'd do his best to subtly show you he's here for you and you can talk to him. About anything that might be troubling you, anything
🩻House isn't used to saying 'I love you', but he does his best to show it to you.
🩻Until one day you come home crying and he realises - he has no idea what to do. So he does what feels most unnatural to him, but knows that you need. He offers a hug. If you accept it, he gladly wraps his arms around you and tucks your head under his chin. Rubs your shoulders and back a little. Offers to hear you out if you need to talk. Then proceeds to trashtalk whoever/whatever made you cry with you. He's a number 1 gossip buddy, makes you feel so much better by doing it too. He'd then order your fav food and offer to do whatever you wanted, really. Ends the night by sending you off to bed with an awkward shoulder rub, but a look of soft longing in his glossy eyes (he wants to kiss your forehead and tuck you in like he did back when you had nightmares, but he's scared of being vulnerable with you cuz you're older now)
🩻Overall, House is pretty emotionally constipated at times and doesn't like being vulnerable or showing affection. But he'd be a cool, loving father and I die on this hill.
Spn Opinions That’ll Have Me Burned at the Stake Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo
I’m back and bitchier than ever. For reference, here’s part 1.
• Season 5 wasn’t that great.
• D*stiel isn’t real, it’s a sucky ship, and that confession scene was just the writers pandering to the rabid deancas fans cause they knew they were the only ones still watching the show lol. And they left it ambiguous enough that they could still say it was meant platonically if they needed to.
• I hate how they watered down both angels and demons post-season 5ish.
• I liked Ruby 1.0 better than Ruby 2.0.
• I hate Honey!Cas. They just did that cause they didn’t know where to take his story from there, needed him out of the way, and thought it would be funny. It was insulting.
• Jack should’ve been played by an actual child so everyone’s abuse of him would resonate with the audience for what it was (casual fans are brain dead and need to be spoon fed).
• Victor Henrikson deserved more time on the show.
• I said it in the last post, but Alex is way more interesting than Claire and should’ve been given the lead role in the wayward sisters storyline instead.
• Dean is canonically straight and for Christ sake if you guys wanted bi rep, there’s about a thousand other characters that are strongly coded or implied to be bisexual (including Sam!) but y’all didn’t focus on them because it wasn’t actually about representation, it was about making it more plausible for your dumb fetishised gay ship to actually happen (spoiler: it didn’t).
• Season 3 and Season 6 were some of the best ones, you guys just don’t have any taste.
• Claire is not Castiel’s daughter and saying she is erases Jimmy and insults her, and even Cas himself acknowledged that on the show.
• Castiel is canonically NOT gay and Misha constantly saying he is is annoying and airheaded. He’s been attracted to women IN THE SHOW and he’s not even really male, so calling him a Gay Man is reductive and just plain wrong. Also, it’s veeery sus that- given how bi/pan folks are even more underrepresented than gay people- that one of the rare times where the bi/pan label actually fits a character BETTER in CANON……. the allies and monosexuals adamantly reject it. Hm.
• “Curing” vampires or werewolves or demons shouldn’t have been a thing.
• The Winchesters cause most of the bad shit that happens and then they just force supernatural beings to fix it for them- tell me again how they’re Super Special Heroes.
• It shouldn’t be possible to make angels human by removing their grace, because (unlike demons, werewolves, etc) they were never human to start with. If you drained me of all my blood, I wouldn’t magically transform into another species, I’d fucking die.
• Making Billie go crazy was dumb.
• Rowena was one of the most interesting and charismatic characters on the whole show- they just didn’t know what to do with her character.
• The archangels, Lilith, and Azazel should’ve been the biggest threats on the show. No other knights of hell, no god and his sister, no Cain, nothing like that. Having every villain just get progressively more overpowered made the show unbelievable and repetitive and annoying.
• The kernel sanders king of hell guy was hot.
• Dean is misogynistic as HELL, homophobic, likes racist porn, is a narcissist, pervs on teen girls, & thinks all non-human people should be exterminated… and that is all CANON.
• Most of John Winchester’s abuse is fanon.
• Fans portraying Cas as a smol bby who colours in colouring books and has a bee plushie is so fucking annoying.
• Instead of having so many gigantic cosmic storylines with god and his sister and alternate dimensions and even the angel and demon tablets, they should’ve just scrapped those and made the stein family and the bmol and the alpha vampire storylines way bigger than they were. Less cosmic stuff, more earth-based stuff.
• They ruined Lucifer’s character post-season 5. Before that, he was more sympathetic and reasonable than Michael. After, he was a spoiled child hurting people for fun.
• Everything from season 7 on is garbage. All of it. There’s bits of goodness here and there but overall seasons 7-15 are trash.
• How the fuck are there actual people who are deangirls and hate Sam?? The space where your brain should be is empty, I swear to god.
• If there was gonna be any lgbt rep in the Wayward Sisters group, it should’ve been Jody and Donna instead of Claire and Kaia. Those two were boring as hell and had zero chemistry or build-up, but Jody/Donna had plenty of chemistry and was very believable.
• Meg has the best and most realistic redemption arc of anyone on the show.
• Chuck was not likeable or charismatic enough to carry off as big of a villain arc as they gave him. Also that whole thing was stupid and WAY too Out There.
• All the angels should’ve been aroace. All the demons should’ve been pan.
• I stanned Cole so hard up until he changed his mind about hating Dean. That was disappointing.
• Sam went through the same shitty childhood Dean did (plus Bonus Abuse on top of it) and he didn’t turn out Like That.
• I cannot think of a single person that was asking for a spin-off about the Winchester family, like that has to be the most boring thing.
Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton
Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.
Word count: 1210
Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.
Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.
The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.
Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.
Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.
“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”
“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.
“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”
“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”
Benedict blinked hazily around the room.
His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.
Who was y/n?
And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?
He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.
His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.
“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.
“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.
“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”
Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”
“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.
“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”
“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.
His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.
A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.
Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.
“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.
“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.
He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”
Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.
He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.
As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.
“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”
“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.
You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”
“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.
“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”
Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.
“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”
From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.
You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.
“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”
“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.
“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”
Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”
“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”
The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.
Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.
“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”
“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.
“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”
“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”
At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.
The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.
The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.
Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.
“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”
Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”
“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.
Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”
The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.
As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.
“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”
“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”
You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”
“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.
“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”
Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.
“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.
*unshed tears shining in my eyes*
So beautiful and brutal at the same time😭
The Last Goodbye
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader
Warnings: Infidelity, major character death, emotional distress, pregnancy loss, grief, regret, angst
Word Count: 1,000+
Inspired by @writing-fanics
It began as a whisper of discomfort. A slight fatigue that settled in your bones, an ache that did not fade even after hours of rest. At first, you dismissed it. A lady of your station had little time to entertain sickness—there were balls to attend, guests to entertain, and a household to manage. Anthony, always busy with his responsibilities, hardly noticed.
You told yourself it was nothing.
But then, the fevers came.
They crept in during the night, leaving you shivering beneath layers of blankets, yet drenched in sweat. The coughing followed—deep, wracking fits that left you breathless, clutching your chest as if you could hold your very life in place.
Still, you told Anthony nothing. He had already been so distant. His late nights had become more frequent, his excuses less convincing. Parliament meetings. Affairs of the estate. And yet, his cravat smelled of perfume that was not yours.
So you suffered in silence.
-
The physician confirmed what you already feared.
Your condition had worsened. There was no cure, only time—time that you did not have.
Benedict was the first to notice. He saw the way your hands trembled when you lifted your tea, the way your complexion had lost its color. He sat beside you more often, watching, worrying. It was Benedict who sent for Anthony the first time you collapsed, body too weak to carry you forward.
But your husband had not come home that night.
When he arrived the next morning, his eyes were tired, but not from concern. His cravat was slightly undone, the buttons of his waistcoat not fully fastened. You had seen him leave in pristine condition—he had not slept in your bed.
“Where were you?” you asked, voice hoarse from the previous night’s coughing.
Anthony hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, before forcing a smile. “Matters of business, darling.”
Lies.
But you were too tired to fight.
-
You were mostly confined to your bed now.
The sickness had taken too much of you—your strength, your appetite, your breath. Each step was a battle, each word an effort. The physicians tried what they could, but their expressions told you the truth.
You were dying.
And Anthony still had not noticed.
He came home later and later, his excuses becoming nothing more than background noise. He did not see the hollows beneath your eyes, the way your hands trembled when you reached for him. He did not see the way Benedict looked at him—how dare you leave her like this?—or the way your ladies’ maids turned away, unable to hide their pity.
You wanted to tell him. To scream at him. To make him see you.
But what use was a battle when the war was already lost?
So, you smiled when he kissed your forehead. You forced yourself to laugh when he told you of his day. You pretended you did not smell her perfume lingering on his coat.
And at night, when he did not come home, you wept.
-
Anthony had finally noticed.
It was Benedict—of course, it was Benedict—who had forced him to look at you.
“She is dying, Anthony,” Benedict spat, gripping his elder brother by the collar. “And where have you been? With her?”
Anthony had scoffed at first, had shoved Benedict away with a roll of his eyes. “You are being ridiculous. She is—”
Then he had seen you.
You had been sleeping when he entered the room, your form barely more than a shadow beneath the sheets. Your skin, once so full of warmth and color, was ghostly pale. Your lips were dry, cracked from fever. Your breaths came shallow, labored, the rise and fall of your chest so faint it terrified him.
“Y/N…”
He had whispered your name, but you had not stirred.
For the first time in months, Anthony had sat beside you. He had taken your hand—too thin, too cold—between his own and felt his heart plummet.
How had he not seen it?
How had he let this happen?
That night, Anthony left for Sienna’s townhouse, but not for the reasons he once had.
He was going to end it.
But Sienna did not make it easy.
“So now you remember you have a wife?” she had scoffed, draping herself over the chaise, eyes dark with amusement. “Is that not what I’ve always been to you, Anthony? A distraction from your duties? And now, because guilt tugs at your heart, you come to rid yourself of me?”
Anthony had clenched his jaw. “I should never have come to you in the first place.”
Sienna’s laughter had been bitter, cruel. “And yet, you did. Over and over again. While your wife lay dying in your grand estate, you were in my bed.”
He had left without another word. But the damage was done.
-
Anthony rushed through the doors of your chamber, breathless, desperate.
“Where is she?” His voice was frantic, cracking under the weight of fear.
Benedict was still seated beside you, his expression unreadable as he lifted his gaze.
“She is gone.”
The words knocked the air from Anthony’s lungs. His eyes darted to the bed, to your still form beneath the blankets, your face peaceful, untouched by the pain that had consumed you for months.
“No,” he whispered. “No, please—please, my love, wake up.”
He was at your side in an instant, grasping at your hands, pressing frantic kisses to your fingers, your knuckles, your wrists—anywhere he could reach. But you were so cold.
“Y/N,” he choked out, tears falling freely now, his whole body trembling. “Please, I am here now. I—I was going to fix this. I was going to—” His voice broke. “I should have been here.”
Benedict stood, his face void of sympathy. “Yes,” he said simply. “You should have.”
Anthony let out a strangled sob, his forehead pressing against your still chest. He had failed you. He had abandoned you in your final days, had left you to suffer alone while he chased after foolish, meaningless desires.
And now, it was too late.
You would never hear his apologies.
You would never know that in the end, he had chosen you.
All you had known before you left this world was his absence.
And for the rest of his days, Anthony Bridgerton would carry that unbearable, unshakable grief.
-
The world felt like it had stopped. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender still lingered, but it was stale, lifeless—just like the room, just like you.
Anthony’s hands trembled as he held yours, the warmth he had once taken for granted completely gone. You weren’t asleep. You weren’t waiting for him.
You were gone.
A strangled sob tore from his throat. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, willing his love into your lifeless fingers, hoping—praying—that it would bring you back. But there was nothing left. Only the sound of his own broken breaths and the weight of the silence pressing down on him.
This was his fault.
He had left you to suffer alone, blind to the pain in your eyes, deaf to the way your voice had weakened. He had been with Sienna while you lay here, waiting for him, needing him. And now, when he finally realized what he had done—when he had finally chosen you—you were already gone.
He had failed you.
Benedict stood quietly by the door, watching, his gaze unreadable. He had been here, Anthony realized bitterly. He had been the one to hold you as you slipped away. He had been the one to witness your last breath.
Not Anthony.
Never Anthony.
“I told her you would regret this,” Benedict finally said, voice hoarse with grief. His fists clenched at his sides. “I told her you would come crawling back too late.”
Anthony couldn’t even argue.
He deserved every ounce of venom in his brother’s voice.
A rustle of parchment broke the silence.
Benedict reached into his coat, pulling out a folded letter, sealed with wax. He stepped forward, shoving it into Anthony’s hands, his eyes burning with something between sorrow and rage.
“She wrote this for you,” Benedict said, barely holding himself together. “She told me to give it to you only after…” His voice caught, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “After she was gone.”
Anthony could barely breathe as he looked at the letter. The edges were slightly crumpled, the ink slightly smudged—had she struggled to hold the pen? Had she been in pain while she wrote this?
With shaking fingers, he broke the seal.
My dearest Anthony,
If you are reading this, then it is already too late.
I wish I could have seen your face one last time. I wish I could have told you that I still love you, despite everything. But life is cruel, and time has run out for us.
I have known for some time now that I was not meant to stay in this world much longer. I felt it in the way my body betrayed me, in the way the pain settled into my bones, refusing to leave. I wanted to tell you, to beg you to stay, but I could not bring myself to do so. I knew your heart was elsewhere.
Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted you to choose me on your own.
I wanted you to come home because you wanted to, not because you felt you had to.
But you never did.
And so, I made my peace with the silence.
But, my love, there is something I did not tell you—something I could not tell you.
I was with child.
Your child.
I found out only weeks before the sickness took hold of me. I had dreamed of telling you, of seeing your face light up with joy, of feeling your hand against my belly as our child grew. But I was afraid.
Afraid that you would not care.
Afraid that even this would not be enough to bring you home to me.
I wanted so badly for our child to know a father’s love, but as the weeks passed and my strength faded, I realized that they never would. I realized that I would never hold them, never hear their cries, never see them take their first breath.
I lost them before they ever had a chance to live.
And it broke me, Anthony.
It broke me in a way that nothing else ever could.
I know that you will carry guilt for this. I know that you will grieve. But I do not want my last words to be ones of anger or bitterness.
Despite it all, I loved you.
I loved you with every part of me, even as my heart shattered.
And I hope—no, I pray—that one day, you will learn to love again. That you will cherish what you once took for granted. That you will never let another love slip through your fingers as you did with me.
Goodbye, my love.
Yours, always,
Y/N
Anthony couldn’t see past his tears.
The letter crumpled in his grip, his hands shaking violently. A strangled, guttural cry tore from his chest, echoing through the room.
She had been pregnant.
With his child.
And he had never known.
He had left her alone to suffer, to mourn, to grieve the loss of their baby all by herself. She had gone to bed every night with the weight of their unborn child pressing against her ribs, knowing she would never hold them.
And he had been with Sienna.
Benedict turned away, unable to watch as Anthony broke completely.
He did not comfort him.
He did not tell him it was alright.
Because it wasn’t.
Because Anthony Bridgerton had done something no man should ever do—he had abandoned the love of his life in her time of need.
And now, he would have to live with it.
Forever.
Its soooooooo goooooooooddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
More Than Honour
Chapter 23: Threadbare Composure
Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Introduction: They called it dinner. With candlelight and wine and the illusion of civility. But beneath the silver and silk sat something hungrier. A table of secrets. A room of witnesses. A game no one agreed to play— and everyone was losing anyway.
Anthony sat rigidly in his chair, hands folded too tightly over his napkin. Lucien was too quiet. Edwina too radiant. And you—too far away. Still laughing softly at something Hyacinth had said. Still occasionally turning toward Lucien like he was gravity.
Violet had nearly succeeded in shifting conversation toward something neutral—opera seasons, carriage redesigns, the weather in Bath—when Daphne, seated beside her husband, lifted her wine glass and gave her brother a look that could only be described as wicked.
“Well, since we’ve all touched on the subject of Anthony’s impressive... need for control,” she began, smooth as clotted cream, “did you know he once challenged Simon to a duel?”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then—
Gregory gasped audibly.
Hyacinth knocked her spoon into her bowl.
Lady Mary made a startled noise into her wine glass.
Edwina blinked rapidly. “A duel?”
Colin groaned. “Not this story again.”
Colin dropped his spoon. Benedict leaned back, suddenly grinning.
“Oh, absolutely this story again,” Benedict said, leaning in with an almost reverent grin. “I had to physically stop him from marching Simon into the woods like a madman.”
Simon, calm as ever, lifted his glass with a small smile. “He was halfway through threatening my bloodline before Daphne even finished adjusting her hem.”
Anthony shot him a glare. “You laid your hands on my sister—”
“I kissed my fiancée,” Simon corrected, eyes twinkling. “You responded like an unhinged opera villain.”
Lucien, very casually cutting his meat, didn’t even look up. “That explains the dramatics. I did always sense you had a flair for duels, Bridgerton.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched. “At least I didn’t court my scandals publicly.”
“Oh no,” Lucien murmured, still not looking at him. “You just escorted yours into the woods and declared war.”
A collective snort erupted from Colin, Benedict, and Hyacinth.
You, despite yourself, let out a sharp laugh—and quickly masked it behind your wine.
Anthony’s gaze snapped to you.
You were already composed again. Almost.
“I do recall Daphne mentioning the incident,” you said mildly. “And something about you screaming something dramatic about honor while she was still smoothing her skirts?”
Eloise grinned. “He did. I heard about it from the butler before breakfast.”
Simon chuckled. “I believe his exact words were: ‘This family shall not be disgraced by a Duke with no intentions.’”
Benedict added helpfully, “And then he tripped over a tree root and tried to duel anyway.”
Hyacinth, delighted, leaned forward. “Did you use swords or pistols?”
Anthony, visibly exhausted, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Pistols.”
Lady Danbury, who had been silently sipping her wine through the entire affair, spoke for the first time. “I remember that morning. The ton nearly combusted. You know, if you’d fired a moment earlier, half the gossip circles would have had to rename the Bridgertons entirely.”
Colin mock-gasped. “The Bleedgertons.”
Lucien, shaking with silent laughter, raised his glass. “To duels poorly thought out, and reputations narrowly saved.”
Anthony ignored him, turning to Daphne with something that looked suspiciously like pleading. “You couldn’t have picked any other story?”
Daphne’s smile was sweet. “You chose to escalate. I chose to educate.”
Gregory, still wide-eyed, turned to Simon. “Would you have shot him?”
Simon looked contemplative. “Possibly in the leg. Nothing fatal.”
Lucien finally looked up, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “And would you have apologized, afterward?”
Simon met his gaze evenly. “Depends which leg.”
Even Kate cracked a reluctant laugh at that.
Anthony, thoroughly outnumbered and glaring daggers at everyone, turned to you—his last possible source of dignity.
But you only tilted your head with faux sweetness. “Well. I suppose this means you won’t be proposing a garden stroll tonight.”
Benedict choked on his wine.
Edwina blinked between the two of you, utterly baffled by the dynamic she could not name.
Anthony said nothing.
And Simon—ever the quiet disruptor—leaned back, swirling his drink.
“I’m beginning to enjoy family dinners,” he said.
Lucien, with barely veiled amusement, leaned forward. “So just to be clear…you threatened bodily harm because a man fell for your sister?” His gaze flicked to Anthony, eyes glinting. “Are we sure you have not scheduled my duel yet?”
Anthony stiffened.
You, ever so sweetly, patted Lucien’s arm. “If he has, I will stand between you and the bullet.”
Lucien turned to you with a grin. “Ah, my angel. Always dramatic.”
Colin snorted. “You are one to talk.”
And for the first time since soup had been served, you found yourself laughing out loud—with Lucien beside you, Anthony smoldering across the table, and the entire house two anecdotes away from burning to the ground.
The laughter from Daphne’s duel anecdote still lingered in the air like smoke — sharp, stinging, leaving behind the burnt edge of revelation. Anthony had gone quiet again. Simon had leaned back into his chair, smug and satisfied, while Benedict and Colin wore identical grins that said we’ve waited years to say this out loud.
You had barely touched your wine, fingers tracing the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere past the flickering candlelight in front of you. You weren’t retreating. Not exactly. Just… breathing. Carefully.
Which is why you missed the glint in Eloise’s eye before she spoke.
“So, Lord Blackbourne,” she said, far too casually for anyone to believe she hadn’t planned it. “Why do you call Y/N angel, anyway?”
The fork you were holding paused mid-air.
Eloise continued, elbows unapologetically on the table as she leaned in toward him with narrowed curiosity. “You don’t use her name. Not even in passing. Just… angel. Repeatedly. Sounds intimate.”
Gregory immediately turned, alert. Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled. Colin snorted into his wine. Kate tilted her head.
Anthony… didn’t move.
You felt every eye shift to you—but you didn’t flinch.
Lucien didn’t flinch.
Instead, he set down his glass with a quiet ease, his gaze finding you immediately. Not with a smirk or a laugh. But with something quieter. Something that slowed the beat of your heart.
“When I first said it,” Lucien murmured, his voice like velvet brushing against the grain of the room’s tension, “it was meant as mischief.”
Your breath caught.
“The kind of name you give someone when you’re trying to disarm them,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “Because they’re looking at you like they know your game and won’t play it. Because their smile is lovely, but not soft. Because you say it once and expect it to land lightly.”
He leaned back slightly, almost contemplative now. The room around him faded — for you, and seemingly for him as well.
“But she didn’t flinch when I said it,” he added, softer now. “She didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t fall for the bait. She just… smiled. This quiet, maddening little smile. Like I had no idea how deep I’d just sunk.”
Your throat went tight.
Lucien’s fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, once, before stilling.
“And from that moment on, nothing else fit,” he finished simply. “Not her name. Not miss. Not any title. Just angel. Because she’s never been anything less than my undoing in disguise.”
Silence wrapped around the table, taut and humming.
Hyacinth let out a breathy “oh my God.”
Colin blinked rapidly. “Did anyone else feel that in their spine?”
Daphne pressed a hand over her heart. “Honestly, that might’ve been the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Simon raised a brow at Anthony, who hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white against the silver of his fork, and the muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack.
You still hadn’t said anything.
Lucien turned to you now — just you — and, with the gentlest edge of a grin, added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I stop.”
It wasn’t cocky.
It wasn’t for show.
It was a question. A quiet one.
You didn’t look at anyone else. Just met his gaze and shook your head once, slow. “No. I don’t mind it.”
Lucien smiled.
Across the table, Anthony reached for his glass, slower this time. Measured. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a moment.
The tension still shimmered in the air like heat off stone, delicate and dangerous.
Lucien’s gaze hadn’t left yours. You held it, steady, a breath from something… more.
But Hyacinth, ever the chaos elemental in curls and silk, broke the moment with a sing-song curiosity that cut through the silence like a ribbon:
“But wait—when was the first time you said it?”
You blinked, startled. Across the table, Lucien’s mouth curved just slightly.
“Oh, I remember that,” Colin chimed in, already grinning. “It was that dinner. The one where I lost a bet to Benedict about whether or not Anthony would snap a butter knife in half.”
“I believe the final tally was… two,” Benedict added helpfully. “One bent beyond recognition. One thrown in the general direction of the fireplace.”
“I knew something was missing from the cutlery drawer the next morning,” Violet murmured, sipping her wine with the serene composure of a woman who has seen the apocalypse in cravat form.
Hyacinth leaned across Simon like a spy at court. “It was the night Lord Blackbourne flirted like the house was on fire and Y/N was the only woman worth saving.”
Lady Danbury arched a brow. “Sounds theatrical.”
Daphne chuckled. “It was art.”
“I wasn’t even there,” Simon said, “and I’ve heard the story at least three times. From three different sources. None of which included the same number of wine bottles or swooning incidents.”
“Oh, there was no swooning,” Colin said cheerfully. “Just Anthony pouring enough wine to drown a scandal.”
Anthony, seated across from Lucien and very much present, set down his glass with care. “I do hope the entertainment value outweighs the embellishments.”
“Funny,” Eloise said, swirling her wine, “I don’t remember needing to embellish. Lord Blackbourne served the tension. You roasted in it.”
Hyacinth squealed. “Yes! You were seething, Anthony. You tried so hard to look composed, but your fork nearly pierced the duck.”
Lucien, ever composed, didn’t gloat. Not quite. But the glint in his eye as he turned to you was unmistakable. “If memory serves,” he said softly, “you were the one who started the real fire.”
You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “I might’ve poured the oil. You struck the match.”
Colin snorted. “And the rest of us? Roasted marshmallows.”
Gregory, wide-eyed, stage-whispered, “Didn’t someone say ‘turn about the garden’ and it was basically a marriage proposal in disguise?”
“I asked if she wanted to walk,” Lucien said innocently. “I never said how far.”
Eloise nearly fell off her chair laughing. “And she replied ‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ Like she hadn’t just murdered him in cold blood.”
Hyacinth pointed a dramatic finger across the table. “And then he smirked. Said he never has trouble keeping up. I nearly fainted.”
Daphne’s smile was knowing. “And Anthony—”
“I remember perfectly well,” Anthony cut in, voice low.
Silence descended, taut and immediate.
All eyes flicked to him.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just looked down at his plate, then up at Lucien. Then—you.
Kate, seated beside Edwina, watched it all. Closely. Like someone reading between lines only a few others could see. Her gaze lingered on Anthony’s tightened jaw. On your hand as it rested a little too still near your wine glass. On Lucien, who—despite all the revelry—wasn’t looking at anyone else but you.
Anthony exhaled, sharp and slow, then turned his attention to Edwina beside him, reaching for the wine to refill her glass.
“I’m afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “my family takes great pleasure in exaggerating past events.”
Edwina smiled, slightly confused. “I don’t remember it being so… theatrical.”
Kate’s brows twitched faintly.
“Exaggerated?” Colin laughed. “Anthony, you were seething. Daphne tried to change the subject and you looked at her like she’d insulted your lineage.”
Benedict grinned. “You were about to quote something dramatic. Then Blackbourne beat you to it. Poetry, wasn’t it?”
Lucien didn’t confirm or deny. But he turned to you, and with that quiet cadence of his, murmured just loud enough:
“There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”
Your lips parted. Your breath caught.
“…there is a rapture on the lonely shore…”
Hyacinth gasped. “He’s doing it again.”
Anthony reached for his wine.
Kate leaned in, eyes narrowed—sharp, calculating. “That was Byron, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.
Lucien nodded. “Indeed. Quite a favorite of Lord Bridgerton’s, I hear.”
The corners of Kate’s mouth didn’t move, but something shifted behind her gaze. Slowly, she turned toward Anthony.
“Is it?” she asked.
Anthony said nothing.
Daphne leaned into the chaos like it was a chaise lounge. “To be fair, it’s one of the most romantic recitations I’ve ever heard. From either of them.”
Anthony’s fingers gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly.
You felt it.
The pressure.
The attention.
The way Lucien hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even as he dropped words like embers.
The way Kate watched Anthony with rising suspicion.
The way Anthony looked at you like memory was a weight he couldn’t put down.
It was Colin who broke the tension.
“Well,” he said brightly, “if that dinner was a fire, then this one’s at least a slow roast.”
“And dessert hasn’t even arrived,” Eloise added gleefully.
Violet raised a brow at no one in particular. “Then heaven help us when it does.”
Across the table, Lady Danbury spoke again, her voice dry as brandy and twice as strong.
“I cannot believe I missed that dinner.”
Lucien smiled. “I’m sure this one will make up for it.”
He looked at you again. Not with amusement. Not with victory.
But with something quieter.
Like he saw all the cracks in the room—and only wanted to know if he could hold them together.
Anthony, from across the table, saw that look too.
And for now?
He said nothing.
Dessert hadn’t even been announced, yet Violet’s napkin already looked suspiciously like it had been squeezed within an inch of its life.
Which is when Benedict, with the kind of grin only a man too comfortable with fire could wear, leaned into the quiet.
“So,” he said, casually tearing a piece of bread in half. “Now that we’ve revisited the dinner that shall not be named… what say we play a game?”
Colin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh no. Is it time?”
Hyacinth sat up straighter. “I knew I wore the right earrings for scandal.”
Gregory whispered, “This better be the game with secrets.”
“It is,” Eloise said brightly. “And the adults haven’t ruined it yet.”
Lucien raised a brow. “What kind of game are we playing?”
Hyacinth clapped once, delighted. “It’s simple. We take turns going around the table and ask each person to describe the last scandalous thought they had during this meal.”
You blinked. “That’s not simple. That’s social warfare.”
“It’s Bridgerton dinner,” Eloise said. “Same thing.”
Violet opened her mouth—perhaps to object—but paused. Then sighed. “I am going to need a stronger wine.”
Simon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “Shall I begin, or will you, Lord Blackbourne?”
Lucien didn’t flinch. “Ladies first.”
Eloise jumped in. “Perfect. I’ll start.” She turned to Simon. “What was the last improper thought you had at this table?”
Simon smirked. “I imagined throwing a bread roll at Anthony when he said ‘embroidered cushion’ with such confidence. Miss Sharma deserves better metaphors.”
The table erupted.
Anthony looked personally wounded.
Edwina blinked in confusion.
Kate nearly snorted her wine.
Lady Danbury murmured, “So do I. Heavens, it was dull.”
Benedict was wheezing. “Throw the whole metaphor out. Start again.”
Simon sat back, sipping his wine with the elegance of a man entirely unbothered.
Lucien grinned. “Well played.”
Colin leaned in next. “My turn.” He turned to you. “Tell us — what were you thinking when Lord Blackbourne quoted poetry to you a few minutes ago?”
You paused — dramatically. Eyes sweeping the table. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous.
“I was wondering,” you said slowly, “whether it’s possible to melt silverware from sheer eye contact alone.”
Hyacinth gasped. “That’s the quote of the evening!”
Lucien leaned in. “You’re welcome to test that theory. Privately.”
Eloise groaned, “God, I hate how good that was.”
Anthony didn’t move. But you saw it.
The shift.
The flex in his jaw. The tight grip around his spoon. The flicker of heat that bloomed in his eyes before he blinked it away.
Kate saw it too. Her gaze narrowed.
You caught Kate watching you again—not with hostility, but precision. Like a seamstress deciding where the thread frays.
You looked away first. That unsettled you more than it should’ve.
“Alright,” Benedict said cheerfully, “my turn. Blackbourne. What scandalous thought crossed your mind during the soup course?”
Lucien, unhurried, locked eyes with you. “That if I were born less decent,” he said quietly, “I would have kissed her, right there, in front of every person here.”
Silence.
Not gasping silence.
Gutted silence.
The kind that trembled on the edge of danger.
You didn’t blink.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smirk.
You reached slowly for your wine glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence stretch long enough to be felt.
Then you smiled.
And the table tilted.
Hyacinth whispered, “I think I forgot how breathing works.”
Daphne, blinking hard, muttered, “Remind me to steal that line.”
Anthony…
Anthony looked like he was about to stand. His knuckles turned white against the table.
And Lucien — the devil wrapped in velvet and candlelight — finally glanced at him.
And smiled.
It was not a taunt. It was a challenge.
Simon leaned in toward Hyacinth. “Did you get that sketch?”
Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Lucien with devil wings. Anthony with smoke coming out of his ears. I’ll add flames.”
Lady Danbury cackled. “I like him.”
Kate, meanwhile, was looking at Anthony.
“Anthony,” Benedict said brightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a room filled with gas, “your turn.”
The words landed like thunder.
Every head turned.
Even Edwina blinked, gently surprised. “Oh, yes—Lord Bridgerton, what has been your most scandalous thought this evening?”
Anthony didn’t answer immediately.
Didn’t twitch.
Didn’t blink.
Just… stared at the wine in his glass like it had betrayed him for the final time.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice calm but low, “about restraint.”
Lucien let out the softest laugh, just enough to draw attention.
Anthony continued, tone measured. “How it’s a virtue. How it separates men from boys.”
Colin raised a brow. “So… nothing scandalous, then?”
Anthony glanced at him. “You’d be surprised what a man has to restrain when people won’t stop provoking him.”
A beat.
Lucien, swirling his wine, looked entirely relaxed. “Some of us provoke without meaning to, Bridgerton. It’s just the hazard of having charm.”
Anthony looked up, sharply.
Lucien didn’t even flinch. “You should try it sometime.”
“Oh,” Gregory whispered. “Oh, he’s going to die.”
Eloise leaned forward like she was front row at a play. “Do it again.”
But Kate—Kate—cut across the table like a knife.
“What exactly are we restraining, my lord?”
Everyone turned.
Anthony blinked.
Kate was watching him—not accusing, not angry.
Curious.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Decorum. Diplomacy.”
“Desire?” Lucien offered, oh-so-softly.
The word sliced through the air.
Hyacinth actually whooped.
Daphne’s hand went over her mouth.
Edwina let out a quiet, confused laugh.
“Lord Blackbourne,” she said, still trying, bless her, “you really do enjoy dramatics.”
Lucien didn’t answer.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He was still watching you.
Anthony finally turned back to his glass. “Restraint,” he repeated. “It’s useful. Especially when others forget theirs.”
You shifted in your seat, the weight of all their eyes grazing your skin like fingertips. Your breath felt heavier now—like the air had started playing tricks.
Lucien leaned closer, voice just for you.
“Are we talking about my restraint, darling?” he asked, tone velvet and velvet thorns.
You turned slowly, your lashes low. “I think everyone’s restraint is hanging by a thread.”
“You seem fine,” he murmured.
“I’m not the one being fought over in metaphors.”
He grinned, and whispered—just loud enough for only the very worst people to hear—
“Oh, I’m not fighting for you in metaphors, angel. I’m fighting with teeth.”
Anthony stood.
No warning.
No sound but the scrape of chair legs and the unmistakable heat that poured off of him like a thunderstorm with too much pride.
“I believe I need air,” he said tightly.
Edwina startled, half-rising. “Oh—but the next course—”
“I’ll return.”
But his eyes weren’t on Edwina.
They were on you.
Just for a second.
Long enough to say everything he wasn’t allowed to speak.
Then he was gone.
The room froze.
And then, finally—
Colin muttered, “Well. There goes the thread.”
Hyacinth threw her arms up. “Best dinner ever!”
Lady Danbury toasted the candlelight. “About bloody time.”
Kate, silent until now, lifted her wine and murmured—half to herself—“That wasn’t restraint. That was retreat.”
You didn’t move.
Lucien’s hand was still resting near yours, his posture utterly unshaken. His smile was soft now. Sharpness tucked away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at you. “Did I… overstep?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Then you leaned in—close enough to make him hold his breath—and said quietly, sweetly:
“If this is your version of restraint, I’d love to see what losing control looks like.”
Lucien let out a breathless laugh, low and dark.
“Oh angel,” he whispered, “so would I.”
Across the table, Simon raised his wine glass toward Hyacinth.
She clinked her goblet with his and grinned.
There was a beat of stunned, simmering silence after Anthony exited.
The flicker of candlelight danced in the absence he left behind, a space at the table filled only by the tension he abandoned—and the heat of every gaze that followed.
Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach
I love post canon fics where Snape survives, and then he finally meets up with Harry again and it’s like
Harry: I finally respect you as a person, and I am grateful for everything you have done. We could not have won without you and your sacrifices, so thank you.
Snape: …
Snape: Ew
i just remembered that brian moser and rita are DEAD and are NEVER coming back EVER.
i need a moment
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Looove fanfics and movies, trying to stop that but it ain't working
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