I feel like the notes on this post would be such an interesting case study lmao like How Many Of Us just rbd this, tagged it “read later” and will Immediately forget that it exists and learn nothing 🙋🏼♀️
Hi if you ever find yourself in a relationship saying anything along the lines of "well I can't leave cause I would never be able to find something better than this because I'm trans/fat/aging/antisocial/unlucky" I beg of you to run. Please. You can find and build better but in order to do that you have to take the first step out the door. You do not have to endure abuse, mistreatment, or just plain incompatibility for the sake of a fraction of happiness. You don't.
it's come to my attention that not enough people are aware of ao3's otp:true function, and if I'm going to evangelize about one thing, it's going to be this, so: searching "otp:true" under filters > search within results lets you filter results so that fics tagged solely with the main ship show up!
in the absence of ao3 I think we should go become tattoo artists, flowershop owners, students, members of a band, long term rivals, coworkers, or get selected for a politically advantageous arranged marriage.
This might genuinely be one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written for Anthony Bridgerton. I poured every drop of angst, fear, devotion, and raw emotion I could into it, and writing a version of Anthony who is both feral with protectiveness and heartbreakingly tender afterward was… honestly, such a ride.
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Wife!Reader
Summary: When a drunk, dangerous man threatens you, Anthony Bridgerton’s fury explodes, leaving nothing but raw violence and desperate protectiveness in its wake. From the terrace to the quiet of home, fear melts into tender reassurance as your Viscount proves you are his…and his alone.
Triggers: violence against a woman, physical assault, shoving, grabbing, forced kiss, hitting, slapping, choking, fear, panic, emotional distress, bruises, injury, jealousy-fueled violence, threats of harm, trauma, crying, vulnerability, heavy angst, protective rage
MASTERLIST
Everyone in the ton knew two things the moment Anthony Bridgerton married you: first, that you were the one woman capable of softening him in a way nobody had ever managed before, and second, that nothing on this earth, not God nor king nor country, could ever stop him from protecting you with his entire soul, which - unfortunately - only made certain men, desperate, jealous, or foolishly curious, even more determined to test the boundaries of the Viscount’s temper by seeking your attention, your smile, your presence, as though you were a prize rather than a person, as though they did not fear the consequences of stepping too close to the edge of the man who had already proven himself willing to burn for the ones he loved.
Tonight, at Lord Hawthorne’s spring ball, their hunger became a little more obvious, their gazes lingering too long, their whispers too bold, their nightly drinks loosening the caution they should have held close to their chests; and while Anthony was called away by his brothers for a brief discussion about some estate matter, you felt it - an unease settling under your ribs, a prickle up the back of your neck - until a man whose name you barely remembered but whose reputation was well-known for arrogance and indulgence stepped too close, his breath thick with drink, his smile sharp in a way that made you instinctively step back, only to find the ballroom too crowded to move freely.
“Lady Bridgerton,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with a familiarity he had not earned. “Your husband… always leaves you unattended. A pity, truly.”
You stiffened, keeping your voice polite. “The Viscount will return shortly. If you will excuse me-”
But his hand shot out, fingers clamping around your wrist with a strength heightened by drink and entitlement, his nails digging in just enough to make your breath hitch as he tugged you forward with a force that left the floor tilting slightly beneath your feet.
“No need to scurry away,” he murmured, his grip tightening even as you attempted to twist free. “We are quite alone here, aren’t we?”
You swallowed. “This is highly inappropriate-”
“Oh, come now,” he whispered, leaning too close, his breath fanning over your cheek, “surely the Viscount cannot blame a man for admiring beauty when it is so very tempting.”
You jerked your arm back, but he only laughed, guiding you, step by step, toward the terrace doors - dark, half-open, unguarded - until the cool night air spilled over your skin and the room disappeared behind you, the sounds of violins muffled as he closed the door with a slow, deliberate click.
“Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your attempt to remain steady.
He did not.
Instead, he crowded you against the stone balustrade, the pressure of it pressing coldly into your lower back, his fingers sliding up your arm until they reached your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a horrifying gentleness that made your stomach drop. “You deserve someone who sees you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the corner of your lip in a gesture that made revulsion crawl up your spine. “Someone who is not too busy being Viscount to remember he has a wife.”
You twisted your head away just as he dipped toward your mouth, his lips skimming the edge of your cheek, damp and unwanted, sending a jolt of panic straight through your chest as his other hand seized your waist, pulling you closer, closer-
And something inside you broke.
You reacted without thinking, teeth sinking sharply into the skin of his cheek, just below his lip, tasting copper, hearing the hiss of pain as he reared back, shock flashing across his face before it twisted into something dark, ugly, dangerous.
“You little-”
The slap came before you could brace for it, white-hot and stunning, snapping your head sideways, the world tilting violently as his hand shoved you, hard, sending you stumbling into the stone railing, pain blooming along your ribs as your breath punched out of your lungs in a strangled gasp.
You barely had time to catch yourself before he grabbed your shoulders, shaking you once, twice, his grip unforgiving as you tried to push him away, voice trembling: “Stop… please… stop-”
And then-
A sound you had never heard from Anthony before tore through the night.
It wasn’t a shout.
It wasn’t a call.
It was a roar.
Animal.
Raw.
Murderous.
“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE.”
The man barely had time to turn before Anthony collided with him, the impact so violent you heard the air punched from his lungs as they hit the terrace floor, Anthony’s fists already swinging, relentless, punishing, each blow a horrific crack of knuckles against bone as he straddled the man’s chest, eyes wide and wild, breathing like a man who had been denied oxygen for too long.
“You touched her,” Anthony growled, voice low and shaking with rage so deep it bordered on madness. “You dared lay a filthy hand on her-”
Another punch.
“And you think you will breathe after that?”
Another.
Your voice scraped out of your throat. “Anthony-”
He didn’t hear you.
He couldn’t.
He was gone.
Lost.
You watched with trembling limbs as Anthony seized the man by the collar, dragging him upward only to slam him back down, the sickening thud echoing in the night as the man whimpered, blood already streaking down his chin.
Anthony’s hands moved to his throat.
“No-” you gasped, stumbling forward, “Anthony, please-”
But Anthony’s fingers tightened, squeezing, pushing the man’s head back into the stone, his jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of his fury as he leaned over the man, voice low and lethal: “I should end you for touching her. I should end you right here.”
The man choked, struggling weakly.
Anthony pressed harder.
“ANTHONY!” Benedict’s voice cut through the night like a blade.
Suddenly there were hands grabbing Anthony’s shoulders, arms wrapping around his torso, pulling, tugging, fighting him; Benedict on one side, Colin on the other, both straining from the sheer strength of a man gone feral with fear and rage.
“Anthony! Stop! You’ll kill him-”
“Let go of him, brother- he cannot breathe-”
“He hurt her,” Anthony shouted, voice cracking with something guttural and shattered. “He hurt her, let me go… LET ME GO-”
But his brothers held him, panting, grunting with the effort, until at last his hands slipped from the man’s bruised throat, leaving him gasping and coughing on the ground.
And then Anthony saw you.
Finally saw you.
The bruises forming on your arm, the reddened handprint on your cheek, the tear tracks you hadn’t even realized were there.
Anthony froze.
Everything inside him - rage, movement, breath - stilled.
He stumbled toward you, eyes wide, horrified, devastated in a way that made your heart twist because you had never seen him look like that, never seen him genuinely afraid.
“Sweetheart…” he breathed, voice breaking, “my love- what has he- what did he -”
He reached for you, then stopped, hands hovering inches from your skin as though he feared he might hurt you simply by touching, his chest rising and falling too fast, too sharply.
“Anthony,” you whispered.
He crumpled.
Quite literally - his knees hit the stone as he pulled you into his arms with a gentleness that contradicted every violent breath he’d taken moments before, his hand sliding behind your head, his other sweeping around your waist, holding you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“I’m here,” he whispered into your hair, his voice shaking as tears slipped down onto your shoulder. “My darling girl, I am here, I am here, you’re safe, you’re safe now, I swear it-”
You trembled in his hold, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the scent of sandalwood and clove and the warmth of his chest pressed tightly against yours.
Benedict and Colin exchanged a look - relief, horror, pity - before stepping away to retrieve their mother, who emerged moments later with a gasp of horror, hands covering her mouth, her eyes shining with sympathy and devastation as she hurried to your side.
“My dear,” Lady Bridgerton whispered, cupping your uninjured cheek with a mother’s tenderness. “Come, let us get you home.”
But Anthony was already rising to his feet, scooping you into his arms without hesitation, his jaw set, his eyes burning, his voice firm and low as he addressed his mother:
“I am taking her home. No one else touches her. No one.”
His mother nodded softly, surprised by neither his protectiveness nor the terrifying certainty in his tone.
You buried your face in Anthony’s shoulder as he carried you through the house, ignoring the shocked gasps and murmurs that spread like wildfire through the guests. He did not slow. He did not explain. He did not acknowledge anyone.
He simply held you.
As though you were the only thing that existed.
————————
The carriage ride home felt strangely silent despite the pounding of hooves, the creak of wheels, the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Anthony had you gathered in his lap the entire time, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as though you were made of glass and he feared even the vibration of the road might cause you more pain. His chin rested against your temple, his breath shaky every few seconds - he tried to hide it, but he couldn’t, not like this, not when the adrenaline had faded and left nothing but fear and guilt in its wake.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse. “Tell me the moment you feel discomfort, and I will stop the carriage, I’ll carry you the rest of the way, I do not care how many miles remain.”
“I’m alright,” you murmured, your voice still trembling from what had happened. “You don’t need to-”
Anthony flinched. Actually flinched.
“Do not say I don’t need to,” he whispered, pulling you tighter, “because I do. I need to hold you. I need to touch you. I need to know you’re still here. I nearly-” His voice cracked, the words breaking apart. “I nearly lost myself entirely when I saw him shove you. If Benedict and Colin had not-”
You felt his throat move as he swallowed hard.
“…I don’t know what would remain of me,” he finished in a whisper.
You tightened your grip on his waist, and Anthony made a sound - low, raw, relieved - burying his face in your shoulder.
When the carriage finally stopped outside Bridgerton House, Anthony didn’t wait for the footman. He simply stood, lifting you into his arms with a strength that was gentler than anyone would have expected from a man who’d been moments away from killing someone with his bare hands.
The maids rushed toward the door the moment he crossed the threshold, but Anthony’s voice was firm, icy, brooking no argument.
“No one touches her,” he ordered. “No one enters our room. I will tend to her myself.”
They curtsied and disappeared quickly, wide-eyed and whispering - but none dared disobey.
Anthony carried you through the halls with steps that grew faster the closer he came to your room, as though the only place he trusted the world with you was behind that locked door. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his shoulder and set you down only when he had no other choice, his hands sliding slowly down your arms as though afraid you might dissolve the moment he let go.
“Sit, my love,” he whispered, guiding you to the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me take care of you.”
Your throat tightened at the way his hands trembled as he reached for the laces of your gown. Anthony Bridgerton - your husband, your steady, fierce, impossibly controlled husband - was shaking.
“Anthony,” you whispered.
“Please,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your bruised cheek like it physically hurt him to look at it. “Let me do this.”
So you let him.
He unlaced your gown with slow, reverent hands, peeling away the fabric inch by inch, murmuring apologies every time you winced, even when you insisted the pain was mild. His jaw flexed when he found the bruise forming on your shoulder from where you had been shoved. His breath hitched when he saw the angry red marks around your arm where you had been grabbed.
And then he dropped to his knees.
Just… dropped.
As though the sight of the damage had pulled the ground out from under him.
“Anthony-”
“I should have been there,” he whispered, his hands hovering just above your skin. “I should never have let you walk away alone. I will never - never - allow such a thing to happen again.”
“Anthony, it wasn’t your-”
“It was,” he said sharply - not angry at you, but angry at himself, furious in a way that trembled beneath the surface. “Your safety is my charge. Your wellbeing is my duty. Your happiness is-” He broke off, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “I failed you tonight. I failed my wife.”
You lifted his chin gently.
His eyes were wet.
“Anthony,” you whispered, “I’m not afraid of you.”
He froze.
Actually froze.
You cupped his face more firmly, bringing his forehead to yours. “Look at me,” you whispered. “I’m not afraid of you. Not your anger. Not your temper. Not your fists. Not your voice. Not anything you did tonight. You were protecting me.”
He inhaled sharply, a wounded sound that split your heart in two.
“You cannot know how that comforts me,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You have no idea what a mercy that is to hear.”
You brushed your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Come here.”
He climbed onto the bed slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid he might break something by moving too quickly. You lay back, pulling him with you until his body was half draped over yours, his head on your chest, his hand pressed over your heart like he needed proof it was still beating.
For a long time, he didn’t speak.
He simply breathed you in, his fingers tracing your ribs, your waist, your thigh, as though reacquainting himself with every piece of you he had feared losing.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft, vulnerable, shattered in the way only a man deeply in love can be shattered.
“May I… kiss them?” he whispered, nodding to the bruises.
You nodded.
So he kissed them.
Every one.
Your cheek.
Your shoulder.
The marks on your arm.
The small bruise forming on your hip.
Each kiss was slow, reverent, full of apologies he didn’t have the words to say.
When he reached your lips, he paused, his forehead against yours.
“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “Name it, and I will give it to you.”
“I just need you,” you murmured, threading your fingers into his hair. “Stay with me. Lie with me. Hold me.”
Anthony exhaled shakily, the relief in his eyes almost painful to witness.
“Always,” he whispered.
He slid beneath the blankets with you, pulling your body against his chest, wrapping himself around you as though trying to form a shield with his own limbs. His hand splayed over your back, warm and steady. His lips brushed the crown of your head again and again, murmuring soft reassurances between breaths.
“You’re safe.”
“You’re mine.”
“I’m here.”
“I won’t let anything hurt you again.”
“I love you. God, I love you.”
The room grew quiet.
Your breathing steadied.
His heartbeat settled.
And in the darkness, with his arms tight around you, with his breath warm against your skin, with the weight of his devotion pressing softly into your bones-
You felt safe.
You felt protected.
You felt loved.
And for the first time since the terrace, the terror finally melted away.
———————
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