art is to feel (Epilogue 2: A Very Bridgerton Christmas) | A Bridgerton Series
Series: art is to feel
Paring: Anthony Bridgerton x F!Reader
Summary: (post-art is to feel) The new Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton spend their first Christmas together.
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: N/A this is just tooth-rotting fluff
A/N: Let me know what you think of these little blurbs! Traditionally a Julia Quinn 2nd epilogue is about kids but I don’t write pregnancy so I wrote this instead lol
epilogue 1 // Series Masterlist
Aubrey Hall was alight for the festive season.
As the new Viscountess, (Y/N) had taken it upon herself to decorate her new home to the highest standards, going all out in preparation for the celebrations. She had even invited every last one of the Bridgerton’s neighbors to make the journey to spend the holidays celebrating with the Bridgertons. Filling into her new position with confidence.
Seemingly every corner of the house was covered in baubles, ribbons, candles, pine and fir trees, holly, and other various decorations that the servants had pulled out of storage at the new Viscountess’ behest.
You had been admiring your own handiwork in the front hall when a footman informed you that the rest of your family had begun to pull up the drive. You rushed to find your coat and meet them out on the drive.
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has only one goal for this upcoming social season. To find a wife. What will he do when a young woman with no desire for marriage comes waltzing into his life?
Word Count: 3.9K
Warnings: Some mild sexual themes, making out, heavy petting
A/N: Please send me all of your questions, comments, and concerns! This chapter was a beast to write but I’m so happy with how it came out :)
“Daphne has invited you to tea,” Lady Danbury announced as she held up a letter for you.
“I’m almost certain that reading someone else’s mail is illegal,” You grumble as you take the invitation from her hand and sit down in the chair next to her at the breakfast table and place the letter beside your plate.
“I didn’t have to open it, her mother told me that Daphne has been meaning to invite you over for weeks now,” Lady Danbury replies primly before turning back to the tea and toast sitting in front of her. “It seems Daphne wants to meet the woman who has so besotted her eldest brothers.”
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has only one goal for this upcoming social season. To find a wife. What will he do when a young woman with no desire for marriage comes waltzing into his life?
Word Count: 3.8K
Warnings: N/A
A/N: We’re really in it now! Next chapter is going to include some pretty intense revelations so brace yourselves! As always, thank you so much for reading this story, it’s such a labor of love! Please send me all of your questions, comments, and concerns!
Your morning promenade with Anthony yet again took place under the bright summer sun. The wonderful June weather had decided to hold out for yet another week.
You’d been eager to leave the house, especially for a chance to venture outdoors, and not to an event that Lady Danbury was dragging you to.
You still weren’t used to London society’s expectations that an unmarried young woman always be accompanied by a chaperone. Martha was still with you as you wandered the gravel paths of the park with Anthony. But Martha was in the practice of trailing behind you several large steps in order to give you and your company a semblance of privacy. When Lady Danbury acted as your chaperone, especially at more formal events such as balls of dinner parties, she was eager to be in the thick of it, leaving you feeling stifled more often than not.
You took a deep breath and sighed as you and Anthony made your way down the path.
Summary: Anthony Bridgerton has only one goal for this upcoming social season. To find a wife. What will he do when a young woman with no desire for marriage comes waltzing into his life?
Word Count: 2.6K
Warnings: N/A
A/N: Let me know what you think of this chapter! Also - life update: I got a new job! It’s why this chapter took a little longer than usual (so many interviews, so many emails) but I’ll officially start at the beginning of november :)
It seems that Ms. (Y/N) (Y/L/N) has caught the eyes of not one but two Bridgerton brothers! Just last Thursday Mr. Benedict Bridgerton was seen promenading with the lady in the morning while Mr. Anthony Bridgerton called upon the young lady that very same afternoon.
Will the pair of brothers be able to reconcile their corresponding interests or will the competition for Miss (Y/L/N) put a wedge between the two brothers?
And of course, the most important question of all, which brother will (Y/N) (Y/L/N) choose?
I swear I cannot stop obsessing over Anthony Bridgerton and the way he unravels every time he is forced to confront the depth of his own feelings, so of course I had to write a forbidden, breath-stealing, jealousy-filled, reputation-ruining moment between him and the reader. This is one of my favorite types of dynamics to explore, because no one spirals quite as beautifully or as dramatically as Anthony when he realizes he cannot stay away.
Summary: A single kiss stolen in the shadows leaves your reputation hanging by a thread and forces Anthony Bridgerton to confront the truth he has spent far too long denying. What follows is a desperate, intoxicating confession neither of you can take back—and neither of you truly want to.
It had not always been like this between you and Anthony Bridgerton, all tense silences and sharp glances and words that seemed to scrape against already bruised feelings, but somewhere along the way your almost-friendship, your almost-something, had slipped from teasing warmth into a slow burn that neither of you knew how to navigate. In the beginning you had dismissed him easily, thinking him too sure of himself, too accustomed to women falling at his feet, too wrapped in duty to know what real affection looked like, and for a while it had been simple to remain clever and cool in his presence. But then he ruined the safety of that distance by noticing the smallest things about you, by remembering your favorite flowers, by stepping between you and unkind whispers before you even realized he had done so, by seeking you out at every gathering under the guise of chance even though everyone else saw the truth long before you allowed yourself to.
And then he wounded you.
He had said something careless, too sharp for the moment, too intimate for the distance you tried to maintain between you. After a long evening at Aubrey Hall, after you had teased him for being proud and impossible, he retaliated with a truth you had not been prepared to hear. You hide behind sarcasm because you are terrified of your own feelings. The words had landed like a slap, and you had stared at him, stunned, humiliated, the air knocked out of you not because he was wrong but because he had seen you too clearly. You had walked out without a reply, expecting him to follow, to apologize, to show something, anything, that meant you mattered, but he let you go, and the quiet click of the door behind you felt like a small betrayal you had no right to feel and yet felt all the same.
The next day you avoided him, and he avoided you in return, and suddenly the two of you were locked in a battle of pride and longing neither wanted to lose but neither knew how to yield. All of that unspoken heat, all the arguments that tasted too much like desire and the silences that felt like promises waiting to break, coiled tighter and tighter until tonight, when you walked into the ball determined to keep your dignity while he walked in determined to hide the fact that he was unraveling.
From across the ballroom, you saw him watching you with that infuriating mix of restraint and yearning, and something inside you rebelled, because how dare he look at you like that after letting you walk away, how dare he think you would simply come back to him because his jaw tightened or his eyes softened. So you danced with another man, not because you wanted to, but because you needed to breathe again, needed to remind him and yourself that your worth did not rest on the whims of Anthony Bridgerton.
It worked instantly.
The Viscount went still, utterly still, his jaw clenching, his hand tightening around the glass he held until you feared it might shatter. Every polite laugh you gave your partner struck him like a blow, every light touch of your hand across another man’s shoulder made his expression darken with something dangerously close to possession. His jealousy was not subtle. It radiated from him like heat, like pressure, like a storm waiting to break, until you almost wanted to step away out of mercy but refused, because he had made you ache for two days and now he could feel a fraction of it.
When he finally moved, he moved as though the floor belonged to him, slicing through dancers and onlookers with polite apologies spoken in a tone that left no room for argument. He stepped between you and your partner without hesitation, without shame, without the slightest pretense of propriety. Your poor dance partner barely had time to stammer an objection before Anthony offered him a look sharp enough to send him retreating in confusion.
You glared at him, breathless with disbelief and anger.
“How dare you,” you hissed, pulling your hand from his grip.
“You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
“And you are making a spectacle of us,” he shot back, voice low. “You know precisely what you are doing.”
“I know only that I am not yours,” you snapped, lifting your chin. “And I refuse to be treated as though I am.”
For a moment he simply stared at you, fighting some internal battle, his breaths uneven, his eyes burning with everything he refused to say aloud. The music swelled around you, dancers turning with unbothered grace while the two of you stood locked in a war only the two of you understood.
“I will not do this here,” you stated, stepping back. “I will not play whatever childish game you think this is. If you wish to be offended, that is your burden to carry, not mine.”
Then, to the absolute shock of half the ballroom, you turned away from him and left. Anthony Bridgerton had likely never been dismissed in his life, and certainly not by a woman he wanted to the point of madness. Gasps followed you but you kept walking, heart pounding, skin hot with frustration, air feeling too thick to breathe.
You stepped out into the quiet corridor leading to the gardens, needing distance, needing the cool night air to stop your thoughts from spiraling. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, a wave of relief washed over you.
Then you heard footsteps.
Firm, determined, unmistakable.
“Do not follow me,” you warned, not turning around.
Which of course meant he kept going.
He ignored your warning, ignored propriety, ignored the fact that being alone with you could ruin everything you had both tried to deny. He reached you just as you stepped into the lantern lit garden, his hand catching your wrist, not tightly, but firmly enough to turn you toward him.
“You should go back,” you said, breath shallow. “We should not be alone. If someone sees—”
“Let them,” he said, and the quiet intensity of his voice sent a tremor down your spine. “I do not care.”
“Well I do,” you insisted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held it, gently, stubbornly, with a look that made your pulse stumble. “Anthony, this is not appropriate.”
“No,” he murmured, stepping closer, “but neither is the way you make me feel, and I cannot seem to stop that either.”
“Stop what?” you whispered, almost afraid to ask.
His eyes dropped to your lips, and in that moment you knew he was past pretending, past restraint, past every wall he had tried to keep between you.
“Stop wanting you,” he said, and the words seemed to melt the air between you.
“Anthony,” you breathed, backing up until your spine met the cool stone of a garden pillar.
He followed.
Not predatory.
Not cruel.
But with a certainty that left your knees weak, with a longing that had been simmering beneath every argument, with a confession burning behind his eyes that he had no intention of taking back.
“You would protest,” he said softly, one hand bracing beside your head while the other hovered inches from your waist. “You would argue. You would tell me I have no right.”
“Because you do not,” you whispered, voice shaking.
“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you feel it too.”
You did.
God help you, you did.
“Anthony,” you tried again, but the word came out like a plea.
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, as though he was giving you one last chance to push him away.
You did not.
And he knew it.
His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and reverent.
“Forgive me.”
He kissed you before you could think, before you could build your walls again, before either of you could pretend you did not want this, and the moment his lips met yours the world seemed to tilt in a way that felt dangerously inevitable.
The kiss began like a question, but it turned into something far more dangerous the moment you answered it. Anthony deepened it with a desperate certainty, as though he had waited far too long, as though he had spent months choking on all the words he had never dared to speak. His hands cupped your face with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, his body pressing just close enough for you to feel the tremor of restraint running through him. When you gasped softly against his lips, he exhaled like a man finally breaking the surface of the water after drowning beneath it. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, achingly earnest, and for a moment you didn’t push him away. For a moment you leaned into him, fingers curling in his coat, heart beating against his like a frantic confession neither of you could deny.
Then reality crashed into you with brutal force.
You pushed at his chest, breathless, shaking, your lips swollen from the intensity of the moment he had stolen from you. Anthony stepped back immediately, chest heaving, eyes wild and dark with both desire and regret.
“No,” you whispered. “We should not have done that.”
He looked stricken, as though the words physically hurt him. “You did not seem so certain a moment ago.”
“Because you caught me off guard,” you snapped, stepping away from him, wiping your lips with trembling fingers as though desperate to erase the evidence. “This is wrong. You should not have kissed me. You had no right.”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“You have ruined me,” you said, and your voice cracked nearly in half. “Do you understand that?”
He flinched.
“Anthony… I am no longer untouched. No longer respectable. No man will want me now.”
He stared at you in disbelief, almost horrified, as though he could not fathom that you would think so little of yourself.
“You are not ruined,” he said firmly.
“You know it is the truth,” you insisted, turning away so he would not see the humiliation burning behind your eyes. “A kiss is enough to put my reputation in jeopardy, and you…” your voice broke again, “you took it without asking.”
His breath left him in a ragged exhale. “If I had asked, you would have run from me.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I have sense.”
“Sense,” he echoed bitterly, stepping closer, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Is that what you call this distance you cling to? This refusal to admit what is right in front of you?”
“It is what I call self-preservation,” you shot back. “Because you and I are impossible.”
He shook his head, almost angry now, though not at you, at the situation, at himself, at the universe that dared to make a woman like you someone he could not simply choose without consequence.
“You are only denying the truth,” he said, voice trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “You feel what I feel.”
You closed your eyes, because the truth of it was a curse.
“It does not matter,” you whispered, willing your heartbeat to slow, willing the world to make sense again.
“It matters to me,” he said, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat of his body but not close enough to touch you. “And I think it matters to you more than you want to admit.”
“It matters only in the sense that it will destroy us both,” you said.
“Then let it,” he replied softly, fiercely. “Let it destroy me. But do not pretend you did not kiss me back.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“Anthony…”
You didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you feel nothing, and I will walk away.”
Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. The lie stuck in your throat, thick and aching.
His eyes softened, understanding far too clearly.
“You see?” he murmured. “You cannot. Because this, what is between us, is not something a simple kiss could ruin. It was already changing us long before either of us dared to speak it.”
Your heart hammered painfully.
You hated that he was right.
You hated that he knew it.
You hated that the worst part of being kissed by him was how desperately you wanted him to do it again.
“Please,” you whispered, stepping back before you could fall into him again. “Do not make this harder.”
“It was already hard,” he said quietly. “You are only frightened because the moment I kissed you, it became real.”
You swallowed. Hard.
Maybe it had.
—————
like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.
Your one-word drabbles are so sweet! What would you say to ‘flowers’ for Anthony? 💐
One Word: Flowers
Pariring: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Warnings: none
Author's note: Hi Nonny. Thanks for your kind words; I hope you enjoy these 250 words of marital fluff. Thanks for your prompt 😁🧡🧡
Lurking in the doorway, behind a bunch of violets, is a rather sheepish Anthony Bridgerton. His demeanour is hesitant as he edges into the room.
“Those look beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you…” he contends, hovering closer to your bedside now.
You deflect his compliment as he places the flowers into a jug of water on an adjacent dresser: “You need not bring me flowers, husband. I am uninjured, merely fatigued from the slight scare.”
“Tis my fault. Reveller can be a handful at the best of times…” he remarks, referencing his most prized stallion. Who had seen fit to nearly unseat you earlier today when spooked by something out in the woods.
“I can more than handle him most days,” you rebut, “today I concede that I was… a little out of sorts. I am still getting used to my condition.”
“Condition?” his brow creases in puzzlement.
It's then you belatedly realise, in the hubbub of the day, that you have neglected to tell him your news. So you sit up and take both his hands in yours.
“I believe I am with child, my love,” you explain softly.
His face is a catalogue of emotions, pulling you into his arms, radiating joy and showering you with words of affection.
“No more riding Reveller,” he chastises softly as he releases his hold.
“That is fair…” You concede. “Then no more stealing your mother’s prized flowers,” you counteroffer, glancing sideways at the admittedly beautiful florals.
Since you're looking for more prompts, may i ask cuddling + Anthony please? 💖
One Word: Cuddling
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Warnings: none
Author's Note: Hi Nonny. I hope you enjoy this 150-word drabble about the secretly adoring Viscount. Thanks for your prompt 😁🧡🧡
It's a secret at odds with his somewhat stoic public persona.
Viscount Anthony Bridgerton very much enjoys cuddling.
Purely behind closed doors, of course. But in the privacy of your home, especially when you are sojourned at Aubrey Hall, he frequently seeks you out. Wrapping you up in an enveloping embrace, breathing deeply, his warm nose in your hair or by your ear - taking comfort from your scent.
And it is not necessarily a prelude to intimacy. Often it is merely to reset and restore himself - seeking you out like a beacon, as if you are where he gathers his strength from, a balm to his very soul.
His soft brown eyes speak the words he may sometimes struggle to articulate. That he loves you. So wholly, so utterly, so completely, that your name is carved into his heart. And yours is etched with his in the very same way.
Could you write an Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader fic? They are newly weds and the reader wishes to pamper Anthony while he is bathing. He’s a bit cautious about it at first because he is not used to such affection. Thank youu I love your writing a lot especially the truth or dare fic.
In Your Hands (Anthony Bridgerton x Wife!Reader)
A/N: First of all, thank you so much! And I hope you like this. Thanks for sending this ask in, luckily I was already toying with a few Bridgerton ideas thanks to the new trailers so this came surprisingly easy.
Also, if any of you guys enjoy my work, or just feel like it, then consider buying me a cup of coffee here: https://ko-fi.com/ithebookhoarder ☕️
Warnings: Nudity references, the start of sexy-times, alcohol
Masterlist
Anthony was someone who hated routine. After all, as much as he was devoted to the day to day duties that came with being the head of his family, if he had his way he would escape the city and the ton, choosing instead the peace and tranquility offered by the countryside, at Aubrey Hall. He dreamed of being able to be just a brother, son and - as of recently - a husband.
Only married a few months, your new husband was keen to seize each and every opportunity to escape his duties when they appeared - whether it was sneaking off for long rides in the countryside, or making an early exit from whatever social gathering you both had been forced to attend as the new Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton; Whatever allowed you both to be alone and back in one another’s arms (usually sans clothes) as soon as possible, was a good idea to him.
It was no surprise then, that there was one part of his daily routine that Anthony actually relished: bathing.
Oh, yes. There was little more in the world that could bring your fully-grown husband such child-like joy as being able to soak in a tub of steaming hot water for an hour or two. The sight always made you smile as you entered your bedroom: Anthony, half asleep, looking as if the stress had physically melted away.
It was your favourite sight - and not just because of the exquisite view it granted you of his sculpted form - but because of how calm and peaceful he looked. It was as if he had transformed back into the mischievous and carefree boy you’d first fallen in love with all those years ago. Back when your only concerns had been not tripping on your skirt at your presentation, making sure you were actually asked to dance at a ball, and surviving the social season without embarrassing your family or getting yourself roped into some scandal.
Whilst you knew neither you nor Anthony would ever change a single thing about your life together, you knew it came with a cost. In fact, today it had been enduring hours of talks with local tenants, the family’s book keeper, estate managers, and even several possible suitors looking to secure some kind of marriage contract with one of his younger sisters. (You’d been informed by several members of the household staff that those meetings had been remarkably swift, however, with each unfortunate man looking rather dejected as they were shown from the house).
If you’d been able to spare him the pain or share his burden you would have, but unfortunately you’d been occupied with matters of your own. Being the lady of such a grand estate came with duties of its own, and you were quite done looking over seating arrangements, replying to correspondence, and paying social calls for one day.
Still, at least you’d both survived to tell the tale - no wonder Anthony looked half asleep. Then again, maybe it had something to do with the open bottle of whiskey that sat on the table beside the tub. You knew without looking at the label which bottle it was, having smuggled it out of the library yourself to enjoy together.
“Anthony Bridgerton!” A fake gasp of horror escaped your lips as you appeared in the doorway, a hand pressed to your chest. “You are a sneak and a traitor. That whiskey was for me too, you know.”
“And a good evening to you too, my love. Never fear, there’s plenty to share,” he teased, head relaxed, tipped backward as he took a sip from the glass in his hand. Your eyes were transfixed on the hollow of his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Besides, I would apologise but I simply couldn’t wait a minute longer. Not when I couldn’t feel my back from sitting at that desk all afternoon.”
The moan that escaped his lips was almost sinful as he sank a little lower in the water.
“Well, you’re forgiven. You look far too content for me to even dream of being mad,” you sighed, drawing close and perching on the rim of the tub. Anthony handed over the whiskey glass with a soft smile, letting you take a sip of your own before you placed it back onto the table.
You could feel the warmth seep into your bones immediately, even if that was also likely in part to your proximity to the tub and your naked husband.
“Do you want me to wash your hair?”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose at the question, the surprise written across his face. “What?”
“You heard me,” you teased, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft strands of hair atop his head. “I can wash your hair, and get your back for you. Unless you’d rather do it yourself, or I can ring for someone?”
“What? No, that’s uh, that’s not necessary,” he chuckled, visibly flustered - which was amusing and perplexing. After all, it wasn’t as if you two hadn’t seen and touched every single inch of the other in the weeks since your wedding. However, he looked almost confused at the idea that you would offer such a thing. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to,” you soothed. “Let me take care of you, for once. Husband.”
It was probably below the belt to purr his title like that, but you knew how that one little word had the power to reduce the great Viscount Bridgerton to a puddle. That, along with the warmth of the water and the buzz of the whiskey, made him almost pliant to your every whim. Still, you knew him well enough to recognise the lingering hesitation in his eyes as he nodded in agreement.
He very rarely let his guard down or allowed anyone to assist him in any way. You sometimes believed that had the servants not been dependant upon their work to make a living that Anthony would have dismissed them long ago and tried to run the entire estate single handedly just to prove he could. That he was worthy of the title he bore, and that he was every bit as great a man, brother, and husband as his father.
It appeared he was the same way when it came to letting himself be taken care of and it made your heart ache for the man you loved.
Pressing a triumphant kiss to his lips, you swiftly manoeuvred yourself, pulling up a stool and grabbing a jug from the dresser.
“Just relax… trust me,” you murmured, waiting until he did as he was bid. The gesture alone said volumes, more so than any words ever could.
Waiting until his eyes were shut, you reached for the soap, tilting his head against your chest as you began to massage the mixture into his scalp. Yet again, your husband seemed to transform into a cat, purring with every touch in a way that made it suddenly very difficult to resist the urge to strip off and join your husband in the water instead.
“Enjoying yourself?” You giggled as Anthony barely managed more than a groan in reply.
It was taking every ounce of your self control to focus your attentions solely on Anthony, and not on the way his body seemed to be reacting to your ministrations. Thankfully, you were able to last long enough to finish the job, using the jug to rinse the water through his hair, making sure to angle his head upwards so the water ran off him instead of into his eyes.
But you were only human; the minute you were done washing the last suds from his scalp you made your move. Sliding off the stool, you knelt beside him and reached out to caress his cheek, causing him to open his eyes almost sleepily. Leaning forward you planted a soft, delicate kiss to his lips, causing him to groan in response.
Without saying a word, his hands rose, twisting their way into your hair as he deepened his kiss. It was clear what he wanted next.
“Now, wife,” he growled, pulling back just long enough to reach down and tug teasingly at the tie of your dress-robe. You could feel the warmth of his touch as his wet body began to dampen the material. “I think it’s your turn to let me take care of you… so you’d better get in here, before I drag you in here.”
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Content Warning: NONE. this one is just wholesome/angsty
A/N: wickedposting in the year of our lord 2026???
Fleeing to the forest. It was all you could think to do…
Ash clung to the undersides of the leaves overhead, making everything look bruised and dimmer than usual. This was what Oz had become. Awash of the color and life it once had, and you knew who to blame.
Creatures that once chirped and chattered fell silent as you passed. Even the wind seemed cautious, moving through the branches with long, mournful sighs.
Tragic as it was, at least you were alone…
Since you’d helped Elphaba expose the Wizard—truly expose him, not merely embarrass him—the world had shifted against you. Emerald City guards hunted you. Citizens fearfully whispered your name like it was a curse, as if saying it aloud might summon you. The Wizard’s remaining loyalists wanted blood. Some wanted yours.
And Fiyero…
You didn’t know what he wanted anymore.
He had vanished after Shiz, returned a different man in service of the Army of Oz, heroic, hardened, carrying a weight behind his eyes that didn’t belong to privileged princes. He had chosen sides long before you did, but neither of your choices aligned. Not entirely.
You could feel him approaching long before you heard him. By the time his voice broke through the trees behind you, soft and trembling, you already knew it was him.
“Stop running,” Fiyero said. Not an order, so much as a plea.
You froze, and almost ran faster. Yet slowly, painfully, you turned.
He stood between the blackened trees, half-shadowed, half-lit by the fractured moonlight spilling through the canopy. His uniform was dusty from travel. His tawny hair was disheveled in a way that didn’t suit a prince of any kingdom, but suited him, strangely. His breath rose in shallow clouds from how fast he had pursued you.
But his gaze held the same softness it once had when you were both younger, when the world was easier, and he’d grin lazily across the Shiz courtyard just to make you roll your eyes. Except now there was something else too.
Fear.
He lowered the crossbow in his hands the moment you faced him fully.
“Y/N…” He said your name like it cracked something inside him. “Thank Oz. I thought—” His throat closed. “I thought I’d find something else.”
He approached slowly, each step cautious, as though afraid one wrong movement would send you running again. As if you were a frightened deer, who could be sent scurrying at the sound of a branch snap.
You swallowed hard. “Why are you here, Fiyero?”
His laugh was small and painful.
“Why am I—? You tell me. You vanish with a fugitive witch, help overthrow the Wizard, then disappear into the woods like some tragic folk tale. Of course I came.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” Your voice wavered, fragile as ash.
“No,” he whispered. “But I did, didn’t I?”
There it was. That old warmth beneath the worry. The memory of falling for him without meaning to.
He stopped a few steps away.
“Y/N…” His jaw tightened. “You helped Elphaba imprison the Wizard. You stood with her. Against Oz. Against the Council. Against—”
“Against corruption,” you corrected. “Against evil. As you should be, as everyone should be.”
Fiyero’s mouth pressed into a thin, miserable line. “I know. I know. But that doesn’t change what they want to do to you now. The danger you’ve put yourself in.”
You looked away, unable to meet the sorrow in his face. “Is that why you’ve brought a weapon with you?”
He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “I brought it for everyone else. Not you.” His fingers fluttered at his side, restless with unspoken things. “I can’t hurt you. You know that.”
You didn’t answer. His voice broke first.
“Do you remember Shiz?” he asked. “Before all this? Before the politics, before the fights, before the world demanded we grow up overnight?”
You nodded. A small, aching movement.
He smiled faintly. “I remember you studying by the library windows. I pretended not to stare. Everyone else noticed before I did.”
“Fiyero—”
“No. Let me say this.” He stepped closer, desperation shimmering beneath his calm facade. “I should have told you then. Before everything changed. Before I—” He swallowed hard. “Before I chose her. Before you chose this.”
His hand lifted, trembling, and for a moment it hovered between you, as though caught between reaching and retreating.
Finally, he touched your arm, in a soft and revering way. Your breath caught, and you wanted to flinch back, yet you stayed put. It shocked you, and yet as soon as you felt it again, you realized just how much you had been yearning for it.
“I’m supposed to bring you in,” he whispered. “They want a traitor for the crowd to fear. They want a public example. They want someone to blame for the chaos.” His fingers drifted to your wrist. “And the Council doesn’t care how you’re treated once you’re in their chains.”
He grimaced.
“No doubt they think that by capturing you, it will be enough to lure Elphaba as well.”
His grip tightened.
“I can’t let them have you,” he spoke, quiet and fierce. “Even if it means betraying Oz.”
Your chest ached at the confession.
“Fiyero…what are you saying?”
“I’m saying…run.” His voice trembled on the edge of breaking. “Run before they find you. Before I have no choice. Before they see my hesitation and replace me with someone less…” He inhaled shakily. “Less attached.”
“Attached?”
The word escaped you before you could soften it.
He looked stricken.
“You know,” he whispered. “You always knew.”
Leaves rustled around your ankles. A single moonbeam cut through the trees, illuminating his face, the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the softness in his eyes that he could only show when you were alone together like this.
You stepped closer still, so your chests nearly brushed.
“Will I ever see you again?”
His breath hitched.
“I shouldn’t promise that.”
“But do you want to?”
Your voice was barely a whisper.
He closed the final distance gently, his forehead gently brushing against yours.
“I never stopped wanting to,” he murmured. “Not even once.”
The world held still.
His lips brushed your cheek. But it was no mere kiss. It was a farewell.
“Go,” he breathed into your skin. “Before I make the wrong choice.”
“But this is the wrong choice,” you whispered.
His eyes shone with something tender and tragic.
“For Oz, maybe.”
He cupped your cheek at last, warm thumb brushing just under your eye.
“But not for me.”
He didn’t follow when he let you go. He only watched.
Watched you turn. Watched you walk into the dark. Watched the distance grow like a wound.
You didn’t know then if it were the last time you’d see each other. If the next time you did, you’d be true enemies.
But you knew this:
He had chosen you.
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8 years ago
To be raised as the daughter of a traveling merchant meant many things. It meant you were familiar with the land of Oz and all it had to offer. It meant you knew the art of the trade—how to barter, negotiate, and sell for the best deal. But most of all, it meant knowing how it felt to spend your thirteenth birthday all alone in unfamiliar land.
It wasn’t for long, your father reassured you, just a few hours running shop until all of his attention can go to you. You couldn’t find it in you to be upset with your father, but it didn’t make it feel any better.
You’d only been in Winkie Country for about three weeks and finding anyone your age you could relate to was impossifying.
So you found ways to fill your time. Ways to make the day feel somewhat special so it didn’t feel completely ordinary.
You took to wandering. You knew the land of Winkie County was vast, but maps couldn’t capture the multitude of it all. Within it all, that’s when you found it: a wildflower field.
It spread so far that it touched the horizon with its green and yellow and red and more. The grass was soft as you walked through, coming up high enough that your shoes disappeared into it. Most of all, it was peaceful as the sun shined down over you.
You found a patch to sit in: not too many flowers that you might crush them and perfectly so that the sun might shine over you with comforting warmth. You stretched out, leaning back on your arms as your body slowly let go of the tension you naturally held.
This was the silence you yearned for. A peace and break from stresses and worries and all you couldn’t stand. But unfortunately, as the light always comes with darkness to split it up and as goodness is always met with wickedness, a disruption of the highest bothers was soon introduced to your long sought-after peace.
“Beautiful day isn’t it?”
You didn’t need to crack open your eyes to know who cast a shadow over your sun. With a frown, you looked up and found exactly who you suspected.
“Prince Tiglaar.”
He cracked his smug smile and lifted a brow at you. “I told you, you can just call me Fiyero.”
Your lips twitched downwards, your mood slowly dampening. But you didn’t let it irk you much, closing your eyes and laying flat on your back. “You’re in my sunlight Prince Tiglaar.”
After only a moment, you felt the sun slip over you once more like a blanket. With a sigh, you smiled again, your peace finally coming back to you. At least until—
“I don’t see you out here often.”
With a sluggish turn, you peeled your eyes open to find the boy laying beside you, eyes closed and humming as he faced the sun just like you. “Don’t you have lessons to attend to?”
What was an attempt to chase the boy away simply rolled off his shoulders with a dismissive shrug. “She thinks I’m in the bathroom.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“And you never answered mine,” he hummed.
You scoffed out a laugh. “You never asked me a question.”
That made him pause, replaying the conversation back in his mind before a broader smile split across his lips and he looked over to you.
“It seems I didn’t.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Does that mean you’ll leave me alone? Prince Tiglaar?”
His brows dipped down in amusement, his smile never ceasing. “Maybe. Only if you answer me one question.”
Your expression drooped, disappointed yet still willing to entertain him if it meant he left quicker. “And what’s that, Your Royal Highness.”
“What are you doing out here?”
Your lips quirked to one side, hesitation lingering as you debated this question of all questions. With a sigh looked away from him, eyes tracing an outline of the clouds before finally, “I wanted to make today special.”
His eyes jumped over to you, propping himself on an elbow to face you to some capacity as you kept your gaze to the skies.
“Special? How come?”
Hesitation beat you to the punch, looking away from him. “It’s…it’s my thirteenth birthday. Father’s working so I’m just whiling away time until he’s done.”
And that’s when you heard it for the first time since Fiyero made his presence: silence. It wasn’t quite the same as before, though. It was more like a pregnant pause, the gears in Fiyero’s brain very audibly churning.
“It’s your birthday.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
More silence as you sat and wondered what could possibly be going on in Fiyero’s head that’s taking up so much time and brain energy.
Then he finally did something. With a sudden movement, he stood up and dusted his pants off.
You looked up to him, satisfaction settling in your chest. “Don’t get lost on your way back Prince Fiyero.”
“I won’t,” he sighed with his smile before reaching out to you with a hand. “Because you’re coming with me.”
Your brow flinched down as you stared at him and as if he grew an extra one to extend out to you. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Well I can’t let you spend your birthday alone. C’mon, it’ll be fast.”
You sat up, your hand hesitantly at your chest. “I don’t…”
“If you find yourself not having fun you can turn around and walk away and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day. I promise.”
You weren’t fond of Prince Fiyero Tiglaar by any means. He was arrogant, loud, disruptive, and a major headache to be around. Yet, something in you pulled the string attached to your hand to connect his touch to yours, agreeing with whatever plan he had under his sleeves.
“...okay…”
You realize you’d never fully been inside of the castle that Fiyero resided in. Sure you’ve seen the parts that most of Winkie Country had seen: the entrance, dining hall, and ball room, but you had no clue where Fiyero was taking you.
The castle was filled with people and Animals that passed the pair of you with no second glance, not paying you any mind as Fiyero dragged you through the hallways until you reached a large door with warm light peeking from underneath it.
With a smile, he pushed the door open and gestured to you. “After you.”
A small smile cracked on your lips as you walked in, revealing the largest kitchen you’ve ever seen in your entire life.
“Wow, this is…wow.”
He stepped in behind you, watching you softly as you marveled at the room. “I know…I come in here whenever our staff takes their break. It’s peaceful.”
You looked over to him with a hint of shock dancing across your face. Peace was never a word you associated with the boy, much less something he sought out.
“C’mere,” he gestured, pulling a large stool up to a table in the center of the room. “Sit, I’ll be right back.”
You looked at him curiously, but all he did was gesture again, eliciting the smallest of chuckles from you. So you sat and watched as he moved across the room, making an effort to conceal it from you.
“I didn’t know Prince Tiglaar knew how to cook. I assume your people did it for you.”
He looked back at you with an amused smile. “You think so lowly of me.”
A little while passed before he finally turned back to you, presenting a small cake with a single candle in the center.
“I make it anytime I find myself spending my birthday alone. No one deserves to feel alone on their birthday.”
You looked from the cake to him, your brows pinching together with disbelieved admiration.
“Don’t forget to make a wish,” he whispered.
A warmth spread across your chest, unable to fight the truest smile that’s ever graced your lips. Finally, your eyes fluttered shut and you blew out your candle.
“Happy Birthday y/n.”
Perhaps you misjudged the prince. “...thank you Fiyero.”
8 years later—present day
Fiyero remembers hearing somewhere that distance makes the heart grow fonder and that time heals all wounds, but now all he could do is scoff at the sentiment.
He watched you from his side of the courtyard, like a phantom from his past. You changed. Or maybe you didn’t. All he knew was that this wasn’t the you he had when you left Winkie Country.
This was the you he received when he first met you. Maybe even worse—all dressed up with hostility and distaste.
It made him think. More than he’d like to.
“Is everything okay darling?”
He blinked, startled back to reality as he looked down to Galinda. The one he danced with last night. Not the one who scorned him. Not the one who adamantly stated that she wanted nothing to do with him.
Galinda was easy to be with. No thinking, no wondering. She admired him and it was never a question.
Yet he still found himself tethered to you.
“...yes. Everything’s fine.”
A beat of silence found Galinda as she traced her eyes from him to you, where he was just looking. “She was awfully rude to you yesterday,” she murmured. “I can talk to her for you.”
Fiyero frowned before immediately correcting it with a laugh and smile. “No, no that’s not necessary. I just–I used to know her, that’s all.”
Galinda’s brows fell up in surprise. “Oh! You never told me that.”
Fiyeri plastered a smile on his lips, watching as you walked away. “...nothing to tell. It was a long time ago, I suppose.”
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You weren’t popular by any means. You kept your head low and made no business in making yourself stand out at Shiz.
But it didn’t take long for you to realize that your Shiz classmates are far more prone to gossip than you could ever imagine. So when they witnessed you blowing off The Prince Fiyero when he clearly wanted your attention, your name was suddenly the most well known name in all of Shiz.
One of your biggest mistakes though, was underestimating the rate at which rumors spread. It was only lunch when the whole of the cafeteria saw the prince left baffled as you pushed past him. Yet by time you reached your final class, you had heard your name spoken by your peers far more than you’ve ever spoken it.
Even in your quiet classroom, you faced no escape. Not because of the two that sat behind you, making a terrible job at whispering about you while you sat right in front of them. Rather, you faced no escape because Gemma decided that as your roommate she must give all necessary commentary every moment she could.
“You won’t believe what I heard in Dr. Dillamond’s class today.”
You kept writing as the girl leaned into your side, making poor attempts to be discreet. “It’s a history course, so I’m assuming history.”
She snorted out a laugh, nudging her shoulder into yours. “That’s funny, but no. I heard Galinda talking with Pfannee about you!”
You paused for a moment, your eyes still training itself on your paper before scribbling on. “Galinda gossiping…that’s new.”
Your sarcasm, as always, rolled right past the girl like nothing at all.
“She sounded—.”
“Miss Thorne this is not social hour,” Miss Coddle exclaimed, startling the girl from your space. “Please turn back to your own work.”
Gemma however, was persistent. It only took about five minutes until you heard the sound of her chair being drug closer to you.
“She sounded jealous to me,” she just barely whispered, pretending to write on her paper. “Galinda, I mean.”
You hummed, clearly disinterested. “Did she?”
“I mean, I don’t blame her. I’d be jealous too, given the pair of you—”
“Excuse me?”
Any attempts of ignoring the girl had been foiled as you jerked your head up at the girl, bewilderment in your eyes. “Don’t clump me up with him. There’s nothing between us, so the last thing I want is to be associated with the likes of him.”
For the first time since the beginning of that class period, Gemma was completely silent, but this time you didn’t like it. She didn’t return to her work and she didn’t look up at the board to follow along in class, rather she just stared at you with a small smile slowly reaching either side of her cheeks.
“You know…now that I think about it, I heard something from someone else who happened to be there.”
You decided you weren’t going to entertain her anymore. You were just going to return to your work.
“They had said Fiyero practically looked like a kicked puppy when you shoved him.”
“I didn’t shove him.” Evidently, you weren’t very good at ignoring the girl.
This time, she let out a hum of amusement, watching you like a hawk. “There was a saying I heard one time…or maybe read.”
Your eyes flicked over to the girl for just a moment.
“Something along the lines of love and hate being pretty much the same thing…”
You had to admit, she was good. Despite nearly never talking to her, Gemma knew exactly how to push your buttons; when you looked up at her, any attempt to finish your classwork out the window, she only met you with a knowing smile.
“I didn’t strike a nerve…did I?”
You grit your teeth at her, angry enough that you hadn’t even realized that class was dismissed. “This has nothing to do with you, okay? So for Oz sake drop it.”
With no intention of waiting on the girl, you gathered your things and slung your bag over your back, but not before leaving her one more statement.
“And for your information, he’s always looked like a kicked puppy.”
In a school where you felt like you never fit in with the masses, you found the library to be your sanctuary—as cliche as it sounds.
It was a place that gave no option but to be silent and in silence you thrived. It was just you and your thoughts and occasionally Elphaba Thropp.
The two of you didn’t talk much, but sometimes the two of you would enjoy the peace that came with existing in a space communally.
No words were needed to know that no judgement was passed in the space.
You both simply were, with no fear of a Galinda disciple to harp on the girl’s green skin and no pitying attempt to be your friend because they didn’t understand you simply didn’t need any.
Night approached slowly and the two of you remained unfazed by it all. Some students came and went, but the two of you remained rooted to your own study spots: far enough that you could forget the other was there but close enough that you could likely chat if either of you desired.
In fact the first time you moved in what felt like hours was to cross the room to retrieve a book. However, in plucking it up from the shelf, you took notice of a rather shoe print vandalizing the cover.
“Who–what?”
Your voice was soft, but echoed, taking Elphaba’s attention away from her work.
“Is something wrong?”
You turned around, confusion and bewilderment clear on your face as you held up the book for her to see from where you were standing. “Who is walking on books?”
As her eyes connected to the large dusted footprint covering the very book you held, her expression drooped from her usual neutral-ness to annoyed recognition.
“You must’ve somehow avoided the chaosification a certain prince started this morning. Left everyone dancing on books and swinging from ceilings.”
With a swift gesture, she pointed up at the tie left hanging from a part of the revolving bookshelf.
Your eyes stayed with it before closing them with a tired sigh, mumbling to yourself. “I can’t seem to escape him, can I?”
“No it seems you can’t.”
With wide eyes, the two of you whipped around to see the man in question looming in the entrance of the library.
Your body tensed up, shoulders squaring in and grip tightening around the book as he strolled closer to the pair of you. “Fiyero.”
But your hostility was met with his own kind eyes looking at you curiously until he came to stand in front of you. “y/n.”
A tightness spread in your chest, glaring up at him as all negative feelings bubbled up within you. You don’t know how long the two of you stood just like that but…he was the first to look away.
Only to look up to Elphaba with a curt nod and charming smile. “Elphaba. I was actually hoping to find the two of you here. You see a number of us are going to Ozdust and—”
“No.”
Your voice echoed across the room, but unlike before. Any semblance of the softness in your voice faded as you met him with a firm distaste.
In a blink he looked back to you, once more taken aback with a startled laugh falling from his lips. “You didn’t even let me ask.”
“It doesn’t matter. My answer is no, Tiglaar.”
Poor Elphaba stood uncomfortably from her side of the room, eyes shifting between the pair of you. “I’m sorry…do you two know each other?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Fiyero looked back at you with wide eyes, more and more confused with every sentence that came from you. “No?”
Nothing in that answer helped Elphaba, the girl reaching for her things between the small yet uncomfortable pauses. “I shouldn’t get in the middle of whatever…this is.”
“Can I expect to see you at OzDust? Everyone will be there.”
Some things never change, especially not Fiyero’s desperate need to include everyone in on his mischief.
But Elphaba only cracked the smallest of smiles. “You have an interesting sense of humor.” And with a pivot she was gone, leaving only the pair of you alone in the starkly quiet library.
You still gripped the book with fierce hold, knowing that if you let go, there would be the smallest of tremors beneath your fingertips.
Just him standing there before you with such confused eyes infuriated you. Acting as if he didn’t hurt you. As if he didn’t abandon you.
You couldn’t help but wonder if it was just a sick game to him: entertain the idea of friendship when it was most convenient to him and leave you high and dry once you got attached, all for his own amusement. He wasn’t that cruel…was he?
“I’ve missed you.”
You faltered. The anger both on your face and within you flickering back and your grip on the book loosened.
With gentle hands, he grasped the book. Not taking it from you but holding it with you, your fingers brushing against each other.
“Have you?”
The nature of the question, you weren’t really sure. You wished it was a snarky reply, one that would send him into silence so that you could quickly make your exit.
But it betrayed you. It was wrapped in vulnerability, questioning if he truly did miss you.
“I have. From the moment you left…Please don’t tell me you ever doubted that.”
Your eyes stung and the tightness in your chest only amplified. “I…”
One of his hands abandoned the book, coming to touch your cheek and for one short fleeting moment, you leaned into it, wanting nothing more than to melt into his touch and forget all the hurt he ever gave you.
In that short moment, losing yourself in his eyes and touch, the walls around your heart crumbled away.
But good moments aren’t meant to last forever. You remembered the last time you felt this way. The last time your heart melted for his tricks and charisma.
You remembered why the walls were built in the first place.
You turned away from his touch like it burned you and pushed his hand from you. “You’re unbelievable. Truly.”
It felt as if needles were pricking your throat as you held back tears. You shoved the book to his chest, letting him fumble for it as you backed away and began for your things.
“Get this through your head Fiyero. We stopped being friends the second I left Winkie Country so whatever ploy you’re trying to play isn’t working. Leave. Me. Alone.”
You walked in stride towards the door as he called for you. You only stopped when he grasped your hand, but you didn’t dare look him in the eye.
“I don’t understand.”
“...don’t bother trying.”
Gemma was gone when you arrived at your room, likely off to the OzDust Ballroom. You were thankful for it, for she wouldn’t see the tears streaming down your cheeks.
You don’t remember the last time you’ve cried this hard, but it hurt more than anything.
It all felt like a cruel joke played on by the universe, waving all your hurt in your face just to get a rise out of you.
When you reached your bed, you sank down to your knees and reached for something: a simple shoebox.
In opening it, you found a myriad of objects, but you reached for one: a letter.
You don’t know why you kept it. But now, you hold it, reading it to remind yourself why you can’t rush back to him, embrace him and let all your grudges fade away. He hurt you once, you couldn’t let him do it again.
My dearest, Fiyero
I don’t know what to say anymore. You always told me that you'd never forget me like everyone else did. That I matter too much to you. A part of me still believes that’s true. Or at least wants to believe it is true.
I can’t help but wonder if it was my fault. I apologize if my words chased you away and the things I admitted ruined the bond we had. I wish nothing more in all of Oz than to take my words back.
I do not know if I’ll even send this. If I do, I fear it will be just like the rest, forgotten and discarded.
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Friends were never your strongest suit. It was an indisputable fact that you have been painfully aware of since you were young. Your father was a traveling merchant, moving all throughout Oz as predictably as the wind blew.
Never being in one place for long, admittedly stunted your ability to retain friendships. At some point in your youth, you wondered what was the point of friends at all if they were all bound to forget you when you moved away.
You found solace in loneliness— knowing that you were the only one that would never abandon you. But some tried. Wriggling themselves a hole in your heart and becoming your best friend right before your eyes.
He was a prince that you’d encountered in the years you and your father spent in Winkie Country. Most of all, he was the complete opposite of you: carefree, adventurous, with a kinship for bending the rules until they broke.
The development of the friendship was blurry, the prince going from someone you detested because he disrupted your isolated peace, to being a somewhat tolerable nuisance, to being the only person who knew how to make you laugh.
Your father always said opposites attract for a reason and he brought out the best in you.
But he also made you forget. Forget that good things never last forever. Forget why developing feelings for someone when you might be gone the next day was stupid. Forget why you avoid friendships.
In forgetting, you let your guard down. In letting your guard down…you got hurt.
That prince was the one grudge you couldn’t quite get over, no matter how many years passed. You were still holding onto the something that you were sure he didn’t remember anymore.
The world, however, made it very hard for you to forget any of it. The boy always had a way of making himself known, even in his absence—an unfortunate side effect of being a prince.
You felt it in your bones when you woke up: some sort of disturbance to your peace that tired you before you even took a step out of your bed.
But what really let you know something was awry was the door to your dorm being swung open and followed with the shrieking of your roommate Gemma and her friend, Clover.
“I told you he’d be here,” Gemma exclaimed, hands interlocked with the girl who you didn’t appreciate intruding so early. “And you didn’t believe me!”
“Who cares! He’s here.”
You tried—and failed—to wipe the sleep from your eyes as you stood from your bed. “I’m sorry…what’s so important that the two of you have to discuss it here at this Oz-forsaken hour?”
A beat of silence spread across the two as they looked over to you, eyes wide before their voices rang out in unison. “Prince Fiyero is here at Shiz!’
You could only describe it as an ice-cold bucket of water being dumped over you. You froze in your tracks, even your blinking and you were now wide awake.
“I’m sorry…what?”
Gemma ushered to you, shoving a newspaper with the most obnoxious face into your hands. And there he was: Prince Fiyero Tiglaar of Winkie Country—the one whose face you’d never forget.
“Ozland’s Homegrown Hunkthrob,” you read out, your nose wrinkling in disgust. “This has to be a joke.” Your voice was low and monotonous as you stared back at the ink and paper that made up his face.
“By Oz, no! I saw him myself, through a window…by my telescope,” Clover paused. “Well technically his back and his horse but oh my Oz, his back…Emerald Weekly wasn’t lying…”
You looked up at the girl slowly, failing to hide the expression stained to your face as he drifted off into lost thought.
“Maybe I’m dreaming,” she sighed, pretending to fall into Gemma’s arms with a hand to her forehead. “I had one just like this once except…”
“Try a nightmare,” you uttered, abandoning the paper to the ground and bee-lining to your wardrobe.
But that only elicited a dramatized gasp from the both of them.
“A nightmare,” Gemma questioned, eyes widened with shock. “That’s a little dramatic, no? It’s Prince Fiyero. Look at him!”
When you turned around, she held the paper up to you again, the prince’s eyes staring into your soul. Impulsively, you reached for it and crumbled it.
“I said what I said. Fiyero Tiglaar is nothing more than a selfish arrogant diva who cares only about himself.”
You were done with Fiyero, but evidently the world thought otherwise. Everywhere you went on campus, you found the trails of him: fainted girls, flustered boys, footprints on surfaces that have never seen a footprint before.
With every single one of these signs, you pivoted and took another route, knowing that he wouldn’t be too far from where you stood.
You held your own for quite some time, but your luck could only last for so long. You could always take another path for class, or choose to study if the library wasn’t occupied. But starving wasn’t exactly an option you could pivot on.
So you relied on hopes and prayers that taking your own table and eating fast was enough.
But it never was.
The room was quiet enough when you took your seat, kind of peaceful given the time of day. It was almost shocking, easing you to slow down, pace yourself. But that’s when you heard it: a distant chatter that seemed to get louder and louder until everything you dreaded pushed through the doors.
Fiyero.
Confidence exuded his very being as he strode into the room, a flock of chittering students and a mystified Galinda hot on his heels.
It was all so familiar: a crowd always following him, praising him, and him eating it all up as he continued his same routine.
You wanted nothing more than to be rid of it all, yet your eyes couldn’t tear themselves away. You were only taking him in, the age on him making him differ from the little boy you knew ages ago.
You watched as he circled a table and declare his seat, opposite ends of the room from you. Galinda hung off his arm and he simply smiled and continued on his preaching—likely on some plan to break a rule or slip away from the campus.
You couldn’t look away fast enough though.
His eyes swept across the room and met yours, halting him in his speech.
It was only seconds and you knew it, but somehow you still felt all the years creep up on you as you found his eyes for the first time in what felt like ever.
His eyes softened and all the happy memories came to front. The laughter, the mischief, the adventures. The memories triggered a warmth in your chest, spreading softly, making you forget.
Fiyero always somehow made you forget.
Then came the rest of the memories. The hurt, the abandonment…the rejection.
Like a dying war, the warmth in your chest turned into a staggering chill and suddenly you weren’t hungry anymore.
You moved fast, snatching your bag up and making quick to drop your tray off before ushering out of the dining hall. But you weren’t nearly fast enough for the prince.
Perhaps some things never change—he always managed to find his way to you, no matter how much you might’ve avoided him.
He stood before you, blocking your path with a broad smile adorning his cheeks. Your name fell past his lips like an old song attached to rotten memories, like a blade dipped in sugar.
“I did–I didn’t know you went here…”
Maybe in some life you would have embraced him and ignored all he did to hurt you. A life where he was easily forgiven and the past was nothing more than a memory.
But you were the one cursed to remember as the memory of you faded from everyone’s minds. You could not forget, so you cannot forgive.
“Here I am.” Dry sarcasm rolled off your tongue with ease before pushing past Fiyero and leaving him, for the first time in his life, at a loss of words.
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a little childhood best friends to enemies to lovers perchance..? This was originally gonna be a one shot or maybe a two-part but idk. Lmk what y'all think and maybe i'll make this a series xoxo
taglist: @whothehellismack
credit: @chenfordsbee for fiyero gif; @kodaswrld for text dividers
Warnings / Triggers: difficult labour, childbirth complications, panic attacks, mentions of death, blood, medical trauma, fear of losing a spouse, emotional distress, crying, discussions of maternal mortality, anxiety, pain during childbirth
Summary: The night Anthony Bridgerton becomes a father is also the night he is forced to confront his greatest fear: losing the woman he loves. As labour turns dangerous and impossible choices loom over Bridgerton House, Anthony must become the steady hand his terrified wife clings to, even while his own heart is breaking.
Author’s Note: Found this one in my drafts 😅 Enjoy!
By the time the first real contraction struck, Anthony Bridgerton already knew something was wrong.
Not because the physician had said so. Not because the maids had begun moving too quickly through the corridors of Bridgerton House or because Violet Bridgerton’s calm voice had sharpened ever so slightly with concern.
No.
Anthony knew because the sound that left your mouth did not resemble pain.
It resembled fear.
Pure, blinding fear.
He was beside you instantly, crossing the room in two hurried strides just as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, and the moment his hands settled around your waist you clung to him with trembling fingers, burying your face against his chest while another contraction tore through you hard enough to force a cry from your throat.
“Anthony,” you gasped, your voice cracking apart. “Anthony, I cannot do this.”
His heart nearly stopped.
Anthony wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed firmly against your spine, grounding you against him as though he could physically shoulder some of your pain himself.
“Yes, you can,” he whispered, though his own voice shook violently. “Yes, you can, my love. Look at me.”
You lifted tear-filled eyes to his, and Christ, the terror in them nearly destroyed him.
“I am frightened,” you admitted in a whisper so small it sounded childlike. “Something feels wrong.”
Anthony felt every ounce of blood drain from his body.
But he could not break.
Not now.
Not when you were already trembling apart in his arms.
So he cupped your face with both hands and forced himself to become steady, even while panic clawed viciously at his ribs.
“You listen to me carefully,” he said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “You are not alone in this. Do you understand? I am here. I shall remain here. You may scream, cry, curse my name if you must, but I will not leave you.”
Another contraction hit.
You cried out sharply and doubled forward, clutching at the front of his waistcoat while Anthony held you upright, his jaw clenching painfully at the helplessness of hearing you suffer.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered desperately. “Please, sweetheart, breathe.”
The hours that followed blurred together into something feverish and endless.
The bedroom grew unbearably warm despite the rain battering against the windows outside. Candles flickered low. Maids rushed in and out carrying fresh cloths and steaming water. Violet remained near the bed with a composure Anthony suspected was only held together by years of practice, though he noticed the way her hands shook whenever your cries grew too loud.
And through all of it, Anthony never once let go of you.
Not once.
He held your hand through every contraction until his fingers were numb. He wiped tears from your cheeks with trembling thumbs. He pressed shaking kisses against your forehead whenever the pain became too much and you began sobbing openly into his shoulder.
At some point during the night, your fear began infecting him completely.
Because the physician had stopped reassuring him.
That was what Anthony noticed first.
The older man had initially spoken calmly, confidently, but as the hours dragged on his expression grew increasingly grim. He exchanged too many looks with the midwife. Too many quiet whispers. Too much silence.
And Anthony Bridgerton had always been clever enough to recognize when people were hiding the truth.
Another scream ripped from your throat, raw enough to make Violet close her eyes briefly in visible anguish.
“I cannot,” you sobbed, clutching Anthony’s hand so tightly it hurt. “Anthony, please, I cannot do this anymore.”
“Yes, you can,” he said immediately, though tears were already burning behind his own eyes. “You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”
“I am tired,” you whispered brokenly.
Anthony nearly shattered right there beside the bed.
Because you sounded defeated.
Because your voice had gone weak.
Because beneath the sweat and pain and exhaustion, your face had begun losing colour in a way that made terror crawl steadily up his spine.
Then the physician approached him quietly.
“Lord Bridgerton,” he murmured carefully. “A word, if I may.”
Anthony’s stomach dropped instantly.
You noticed too.
Your hand tightened around his weakly. “No,” you whispered immediately, panic flooding your exhausted features. “No, do not leave me.”
Anthony bent down at once, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I am not leaving,” he promised quickly. “I shall be right outside the door. Only a moment.”
You looked unconvinced.
Terrified.
Anthony kissed your forehead shakily before forcing himself upright and following the physician toward the hallway, every instinct screaming at him not to walk away from you even for a second.
The moment the door shut behind them, Anthony turned sharply.
“What is happening?”
The physician hesitated.
That hesitation alone nearly drove Anthony mad.
“My lord,” the physician said carefully, “the labour is not progressing as it should. Her Grace has lost a concerning amount of blood already, and the child remains in distress.”
Anthony stared at him.
No.
No.
“She is frightened,” Anthony said immediately, as though saying it aloud could somehow fix the situation. “That is all. She has been in pain for many hours.”
The physician’s silence was unbearable.
Then came the words that would haunt Anthony for the rest of his life.
“If matters worsen…” the physician began quietly, “I may need to know who you wish me to save.”
Anthony stopped breathing.
The hallway tilted violently around him.
“What?”
The physician lowered his gaze. “I pray it shall not come to that. But if I am forced to choose between mother and child, I must have your instruction beforehand.”
Anthony physically recoiled.
“No.”
“My lord-”
“No.”
His voice cracked so violently that Violet appeared at the far end of the corridor, alarm flashing across her face immediately.
Anthony dragged a shaking hand through his hair, breathing hard now, panic threatening to suffocate him whole.
“You save my wife.”
The physician nodded once.
Anthony grabbed his arm before he could leave.
“But you save them both,” he said, his voice suddenly vicious with desperation. “Do you understand me? You do not let her die.”
Violet reached him just as the physician disappeared back into the room.
Anthony looked utterly destroyed.
His mother had not seen him like this since Edmund died.
“Anthony,” she whispered softly.
He turned toward her with red-rimmed eyes.
“I cannot lose her.”
And suddenly he was no longer Viscount Bridgerton.
No longer the composed head of the family.
He was simply a terrified husband.
A frightened little boy who had already buried one parent and could not survive burying the love of his life too.
Violet cupped his face gently.
“You must be strong for her now.”
Anthony let out a broken laugh.
“I am trying.”
Then another scream tore through the door.
Anthony was moving before thought could catch up to him.
He rushed back into the room and immediately crossed to your bedside, taking your face into both hands as tears spilled freely down your cheeks.
“There you are,” you sobbed weakly. “You left.”
“I came back,” he whispered instantly. “My love, look at me. I came back.”
Your fingers clutched desperately at his sleeves.
“I do not want to die.”
The words hit him like a blade directly through the chest.
Anthony’s composure broke entirely.
“You are not going to die,” he said fiercely, though tears were streaming down his own face now. “Do you hear me? You are not leaving me. I forbid it.”
A weak sound escaped you that might once have been a laugh.
“You cannot command death, Anthony.”
His mouth trembled violently.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I shall fight it for you if I must.”
The physician instructed you to push again.
Anthony held you through it all.
Through the screams.
Through the tears.
Through the moments you nearly gave up entirely.
He whispered constantly, desperate encouragement spilling from him between shaking breaths.
“That’s it.”
“You’re doing beautifully.”
“I have you.”
“Just a little longer.”
“I love you.”
And when your body finally began failing beneath the strain, when your head lolled weakly against the pillows and the physician’s expression turned urgent, Anthony felt true terror consume him for the first time in years.
“Stay with me,” he begged, gripping your hand tightly enough to hurt. “Do not you dare close your eyes.”
“I am so tired,” you whispered faintly.
“No.” Anthony bent over you immediately, his forehead pressing desperately against yours. “No, no, no, sweetheart, stay awake for me. Look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes fluttered weakly.
Anthony was crying openly now.
Violently.
Helplessly.
“You promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly. “You cannot leave me here alone.”
Then suddenly, chaos erupted.
The physician barked orders.
The midwife moved quickly.
And a sharp cry split the room.
The baby.
Your baby.
Anthony barely heard it, because his eyes were fixed entirely on you, on your frightening stillness. “Why is she not moving?” he demanded, panic rising instantly. The physician was saying something. Violet was praying quietly somewhere behind him.
Anthony could not hear any of it over the roaring terror flooding his ears.
Then finally.
Finally.
Your eyes opened.
A weak breath left your lips.
And Anthony collapsed. Actually collapsed beside the bed with a broken sob tearing from his chest as he seized your hand and pressed it desperately against his mouth. “There she is,” he choked out through tears. “There you are. God, do not ever frighten me like that again.” You smiled weakly despite your exhaustion. Then the physician carefully placed your daughter into your arms.
The room fell silent.
Anthony stared at the tiny infant in complete disbelief, his entire face crumpling with emotion as your daughter let out another soft cry.
“She is beautiful,” you whispered tearfully.
Anthony looked between the two of you, utterly devastated by love.
His wife. His daughter.
Alive.
Both alive.
He reached out with visibly shaking hands and touched the baby’s tiny fingers.
And then he cried harder than he ever had in his life.
—————
like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.
Author’s Note: Because how could I say no to writing another one shot with this man!
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader
Summary: After a heated argument, you attend a ball while trying to make Anthony jealous, but the game quickly escalates as his desire and possessiveness boil over, leading him to confront you and assert his claim in a secluded garden. Sparks, tension, and raw emotion collide as both of you fight pride and fear, only to find yourselves drawn irreversibly together.
Triggers: jealousy, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, implied physical intimidation, sexual tension, fear of loss, argument/fight
MASTERLIST
The moment Anthony Bridgerton walked toward you on the dance floor, all restless tension and burning jealousy wrapped in perfect gentlemanly attire, you felt something sharp twist inside your chest, not the sweet flutter of longing that had once warmed you whenever he approached, but something hotter and far more complicated. You had spent the last week in silence, licking wounds from the argument that had left both of you bruised in pride and spirit, and you had sworn to yourself that you would not make the first move. You had sworn that if Anthony wanted you, truly wanted you, he would have to prove it without being nudged, teased, or coaxed. Yet here he was, approaching you only after seeing another man’s hand at your waist, only after you dared to enjoy yourself for the first time in days, only after someone else had dared to look at you with interest. It was insulting, infuriating, intoxicating, and entirely too familiar.
The gentleman you were dancing with attempted to smile politely as Anthony stepped into his space, claiming your attention with a confidence that bordered dangerously on arrogance. He bowed stiffly, mumbling something about allowing Lord Bridgerton the next dance, but you lifted your chin before Anthony could open his mouth and placed a hand lightly on your partner’s arm. “No,” you said softly, but loudly enough for Anthony to hear. “I believe I am still engaged in this set.”
Anthony froze, shock flickering across his face so quickly it almost vanished beneath the carefully controlled mask he tried to force back into place. No woman had ever refused him in public. No woman had ever dared to challenge him in front of the entire ballroom. It should have terrified you, yet the indignation simmering just beneath your skin only sharpened your resolve. He took another step toward you, eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your breath hitch in spite of yourself. “I will speak with you,” Anthony said quietly, a low command he expected you to obey.
You leveled him with a glare that could have sliced through steel. “You had an entire week to speak with me, my lord.”
The words hit him like a blow.
Women around you gasped, fans fluttering, whispers rising as Anthony’s stare darkened, but still you continued, refusing to let him dominate this moment. “And now you wish to speak only because another man asked me to dance. How very childish of you.”
Anthony inhaled sharply, and for a moment, you saw something raw and wounded beneath the jealous fury in his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but you had already stepped away from both men, lifting your gown with trembling fingers and leaving the dance floor with your spine straight and your pride unshaken. The room parted around you in stunned silence, all eyes following as you walked out of the ballroom without a single glance back.
Anthony did glance back.
He stared after you like a man possessed.
And then he followed.
You felt him before you heard him, his footsteps heavy and determined as he trailed you through the dimly lit corridors toward the gardens, the cold night air brushing your cheeks as you pushed through the doors and stepped into the quiet darkness. The moment you were alone among the sculpted hedges and flickering lanterns, you drew in a steadying breath. “You should go back inside,” you said without turning. “It is improper for us to be alone.”
Anthony’s voice came from behind you, low and dark, vibrating with something that made your pulse stumble. “I do not give a damn about propriety when it comes to you.”
You turned then, eyes narrowing. “You should. You always have. Yet tonight it seems you remember your feelings only when someone else dares offer me attention.”
He moved forward, slow and deliberate, the measured stride of a man who had finally lost patience with pretense. “Do not twist this into something trivial,” he said quietly, the intensity in his eyes almost unbearable. “Do not pretend I look at you as though you are an object. Do not pretend I fight for you because of pride. I am jealous because I am in love with you.”
Your heart lurched, but you refused to let desire soften your stance. “Then you should have said so a week ago,” you whispered, breath shaking. “Not now, not because someone else dared speak to me.”
Anthony stepped closer still, the shadows flickering across his face, carving his features into something fierce and beautiful and utterly undone. “I have never wanted anything or anyone the way I want you,” he said, voice roughening as he approached. “And I cannot stand the thought of another man touching you when I have spent every day wanting to touch you myself.”
You stepped back instinctively, your spine brushing the cold stone wall of the garden terrace as Anthony continued forward, stopping only when he stood so close that his breath mingled with yours, his hand lifting just enough to touch your cheek but hesitating in the air between you as though he feared you might reject him again. “You are not my property,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You never will be. But you are the woman I desire more than I desire breath, and you know that. You must know that.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Anthony,” you whispered, “we should not be alone out here.”
Anthony finally touched you.
His hand rested against your jaw, warm and shaking slightly, his thumb brushing the place where your pulse thundered beneath your skin. “Then tell me to go,” he murmured, his lips inches from yours. “Tell me to leave, and I will walk back inside right now.”
Silence swelled between you.
You could not speak.
Your breath caught.
Anthony exhaled a trembling sound, something deep and nearly broken, and before you could gather a single protest, he moved.
He caged you against the wall, not with force, but with the slow, hungry determination of a man who had been holding himself back for far too long. His hands framed your face, his body close enough that you felt the heat of him through every inch of space between you, and then his lips descended to yours in a kiss that stole your breath, your thoughts, your anger, everything.
The kiss was not polite, nor gentle, nor controlled.
It was the kiss of a man who had finally reached his limit.
A man who had wanted, and lost, and wanted again until the wanting had become unbearable.
You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, your resolve melting beneath the force of his desire and your own equally fierce longing that surged to the surface the moment he touched you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, and when you parted your mouth for him, you felt his entire body shudder in relief.
He pulled away only when breathing became necessary, his forehead pressing to yours, his voice rough and shaking as he whispered, “I will fight for you. I will always fight for you. But do not ever mistake my desire for possession. I want you because you are you. Because you challenge me. Because you pull me apart. Because you make me better.”
Your breath trembled against his.
“And because I love you,” he finished softly. “If that frightens you, tell me to walk away.”
You did not tell him to walk away.
You kissed him instead.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the possessive intensity of moments earlier, and for a long, breathless stretch of time, the only thing that existed was the warmth of his mouth and the trembling rise and fall of your chest pressed to his.
When he pulled back, he released a shaky breath against your lips, his eyes half-lidded and dark with something you had never seen so openly reflected in him before. He did not speak immediately. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours as though grounding himself, as though he needed the proximity to steady whatever storm still swirled beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. Then, without warning, his fingers slipped around your wrist, not in a controlling grip but in a silent request, a plea for you to follow.
You let him.
He guided you deeper into the gardens, past the hedges sculpted into perfect curves, past the lanterns casting soft golden pools of light across the gravel paths, past the stone benches where chaperones normally lingered. Tonight, however, the weather had turned cold enough that most guests remained indoors, and Anthony led you beyond where propriety dared follow. You walked until the sounds of the ballroom faded into a distant hum, until only the rustling of leaves and the faint chirp of night birds remained, until a tall arch of roses opened into a small, hidden alcove you had never seen before, shielded by overgrown vines and the heavy canopy of a willow tree.
Anthony stopped there.
He turned to you slowly, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, and the raw emotion etched into every inch of his expression. He reached out once more, brushing his fingers against your cheek with a gentleness that nearly brought tears to your eyes, and you realized then that beneath his jealousy and frustration and fierce determination, there had always been something softer waiting to be acknowledged.
He stepped closer, but this time you did not retreat. The alcove was quiet enough that you could hear both of your breaths, quick and uneven, intertwining in the stillness.
“I did not bring you here to argue,” Anthony said at last, his voice low and steady, vibrating with sincerity. “Nor to claim you as something you are not. I brought you here because I needed a moment where no one else existed. I needed to breathe without someone watching. I needed to see you without pretense or audience or pride standing between us.”
You swallowed hard, your voice nearly breaking when you tried to speak. “Anthony, we should not be alone in a place like this.”
He nodded once, but the faint smile that lifted at the corner of his mouth told you he had no intention of stepping back. “I know,” he murmured. “I know exactly how improper this is. I know exactly how it would look if anyone were to find us. And still, I cannot bring myself to walk away. Not when I have spent days unable to sleep, unable to think of anything but the words you threw at me, the truth buried in them, the way I have failed to say what I should have said long before now.”
He moved closer, slowly, giving you every chance to retreat. You did not.
“I am jealous,” he admitted, his voice tightening on the word. “And I hate it. I hate the way it twists inside me when another man looks at you, not because I believe you belong to me, but because I have never cared for anyone the way I care for you, and losing you terrifies me more than I know how to express.”
You felt your breath catch.
Anthony leaned in, his nose brushing yours, the proximity making your pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with fear. “I am not proud of how I behaved,” he continued softly. “I am not proud of the childishness you called out, nor the silence I allowed to stretch between us. But I am done pretending I am unaffected by you. I am done pretending I do not want you. And I will not stand by while someone else thinks he can have even a piece of what I have given my entire heart to.”
His thumb brushed your bottom lip, his eyes dropping to it with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine.
“If you still want me gone,” he whispered, “say it now. I will leave. I will walk back into that ballroom and pretend none of this happened. I will let you dance with whomever you wish. But if you do not want me gone, if you want me even half as much as I want you, then tell me to stay.”
Your voice trembled. “Anthony…”
He stepped closer still, his body nearly touching yours, the scent of him warm and familiar and devastating. “Tell me,” he pleaded quietly. “Tell me to stay.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Stay.”
Anthony inhaled sharply, a sound that was almost a groan, and then his hands slid to your waist, drawing you against him with a confidence that bordered on reverence. His lips found yours again, deeper, more urgent, more consuming, and he kissed you with the kind of need that had been simmering beneath every glance and every tension-filled silence you had shared these past weeks.
His mouth trailed along your jaw, down the line of your throat, each kiss slow and deliberate, as though he were memorizing the feel of your skin against his lips. You gasped softly when he pressed you gently back against the stone wall behind you, his hands framing your hips with a touch that sent heat through every part of you, his voice a low whisper against your neck. “You have ruined me,” he murmured. “You have utterly, completely ruined me.”
You lifted his chin, guiding his mouth back to yours. “Then be ruined,” you whispered. “With me.”
Anthony’s breath shook as he kissed you again.
And in that secluded corner of the garden, hidden from the world, you allowed yourselves to stop pretending.
——————
like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.
hi!! im back in my bridgerton era now that the new season is coming out! i love how you write anthony, theres not enough writers for him! i would love it if youre able to do a fic/blurb where anthony and reader used to have feelings for one another but she moved away, and now is back in the ton, something a little angsty to spicy! thank you sm
an unexpected return: a.b.
here is a little oneshot for you! i hope it is alright. full disclaimer it is 3am when i am writing this. i am TIRED. not proofread we die like edmund. i would be happy to do a part two or even a prologue if anyone likes this <3
"She is returning for the season!" Daphne exclaims at breakfast, holding a letter in her hands. "Her ship arrives in two weeks!"
In the midst of the other siblings' celebration of their friend's return, Anthony stared into space. Return? How could she return? She refused his proposal because she had to return home. Refused him adamantly when he had told her to forget those who did not appreciate her, to stay with him. She had refused. And he had resigned himself to being in love with her for eternity while she left him in the midst of the ton.
The looks of pity on both Benedict and his mother's face made Anthony’s stomach drop. He put his fork down and excused himself, leaving for his study, where he locked himself inside for days.
Daphne eventually picked the lock with the help of Colin and entered his study when there was one week left.
"Are you quite serious?" Anthony said angrily as Daphne threw the door open and stalked inside, standing in front of his desk.
“I am very serious!" she retorted, "You are being ridiculous, and I do not wish for you to behave in this manner whilst she is here! she is a friend. She is a friend to all of us. You will treat her as such."
"I will behave appropriately. She will be a guest. There is nothing left to say," Anthony grumbled, "now leave me be."
"You are not at all interested in knowing why she heeded my request to return for the season?" Daphne replied.
This piqued his interest and he tried to school his expression. "Indulge me if you must," he answered, his brow furrowed. He hoped that his face was not betraying his true feelings.
"This season she intends to marry," Daphne said smugly, "Or at least, she is... more willing than last season... Perhaps if you were to ask again..."
"She told you?" Anthony peered up at her angrily now.
Daphne frowned, holding her hands up placatingly. "Of course she did. After a lot of.... persuasion from myself. It was rather obvious something was between you. I simply forced her to tell me the details."
"Forced her-?" Anthony was blushing now, more than he would have liked. he put his head in his hands, rubbing his brow. "No, Daphne. I will not insult both her and myself by renewing my offer. she made it quite clear she was uninterested."
"That is because your proposal was terrible!" Daphne huffed. This surprised Anthony, and he was sure it showed on his face despite his efforts.
"She told you that?" he questioned, attempting to sound casual.
"Not in those words exactly," Daphne replied, "she said it was insulting. and from the details that she relayed to me; I am inclined to agree."
Anthony thought back on his proposal. Racking his brain for what had offended her. Admittedly, it was not passionate. He had taken great care in making sure it was not passionate in order to ensure she was not overwhelmed. He knew that his feelings overwhelmed him, so it was only natural they would overwhelm a lady.
He sent Daphne away and instead called for Benedict. He was much more in-tune with these things.
"Sit," he ordered his brother, who raised a brow as he sat on top of his desk. “I meant in the chair." Benedict only shrugged.
"Go on then, spill," Benedict nodded. Benedict knew that he was the only person Anthony spoke to like this, and certainly the only one that Anthony would allow himself to be vulnerable with.
"She wrote to Daphne. she said that my proposal was insulting," Anthony said. “I did not think it was insulting."
Benedict narrowed his eyes. "What exactly did you say to her?" he asked.
Anthony sighed, opening the drawer to his right and filing through the papers there until he found one near the bottom. He cleared his throat. "Miss-"
"You wrote it down on paper?" Benedict groaned.
Anthony looked up indignantly, "I was afraid I would forget. or say something foolish."
"Heavens above-"
"-I have called upon you today to ask for the honor of your hand. I know this must be a shock for you-"
"Anthony!"
"What?"
"I-," Benedict shook his head. "No, keep going."
Anthony looked back at the parchment. "And I understand that you may have some reservations about accepting me. However I ask you to remember that your family allowed you to travel to London on your own, and they will not miss your absence if we were to wed. I deeply adore you, and I do not wish to be parted from you."
Benedict was silent, waiting for more. He looked up. "That is it?" he asked.
Anthony nodded. Benedict was so taken aback he had to push off of the desk and pace the floorboards.
"It is not so terrible!" Anthony exclaimed, feeling like he had to defend himself from his brother's silence.
"Oh, it is terrible," Benedict replied. "Good God, Anthony. That would drive any woman away, let alone her. You did not think to mention your love for her in your proposal? After insulting her and her family?"
"I-" Anthony thought back to the look on her face after he had finished his speech. What he once thought of as anger on her face he now began to recognize as hurt. "Well no, and her family should be insulted. Allowing her to travel alone! I was not going to lie to her."
"You did not lie to her, but you also did not tell the truth. You did not admit your feelings. In fact you purposely avoided all passion when speaking to her. When asking her to give up her life overseas and spend it with you. Anthony, how could you ever expect her to agree? That was not a confession. I- I saw her with you. I knew that she loved you, that is why I was so shocked when you told me she refused you. I thought that it was simply because of her family..." Benedict rambled.
Anthony felt a deep sense of guilt tugging at his chest. It seemed that in his endeavor to conceal how deeply he had fallen for her he may have made her feel that he did not love her at all.
"I will fix it," Anthony settled. "I will make sure she knows, when she returns."
He was on edge every moment before her arrival, but the day of her return he was so tense that he felt ill.
He was shaking walking down to the foyer, his hands trembling violently. Benedict put a comforting hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off.
The door opened, and the sound of his mother and sisters doting and greeting her was drowned out by the mere sight of her. It had been five months since he saw her last, and she was still as beautiful as she was when he met her. Her eyes were bright, her smile wide and pleasing. She looked up at him, and her eyes flickered with something he could not make out.
He stood back while the servants arranged her things, and she got settled into her room. He knew that it was wrong, to search for her in her favorite haunt. And yet he could not stop himself from walking to the garden after dinner.
"You need not avoid me," he announced, making her jump where she was by the roses.
"I am not avoiding you, my lord," she replied. "If I was avoiding you, I would be quite terrible at it, considering my coming into your home."
"Do not call me that," he pleaded softly. "Please."
She turned away, staring down at her hands.
"If I insulted you last season," he continued, "You could have told me. You did not have to flee."
"Told you?" she scoffed. "What exactly was I expected to say? 'Oh, Anthony, you hurt my feelings when you told me that my family did not care for me and that I should be shocked by your offering your hand?' That is ridiculous!"
"I did not mean-"
"Might I ask how you wished for me to respond? To bow before you? To grovel at your feet with my thanks for asking me to marry a man of such superior rank?"
"I never wished for you to feel-"
"I thought- I just thought that we were friends," her eyes filled with tears, and Anthony felt as if he may die at the sight of it. "I never wished for you to propose out of some misplaced guilt or obligation-"
"No. No! Listen!" He had to stop her. "We were friends. You were..." he swallowed, "You were my closest friend. You are. Even if we were not together as often as I would have liked. The moments that we were, I was the happiest I have ever been. You have changed me. Permanently. You have shifted my world completely. I...I love you. I love you so much. I have always loved you. I have loved you every second of every day since we met. I only... did not wish to scare you off. I wanted you to stay. I thought that if I could persuade you to marry me, that I could eventually make you love me just as much as I loved you. I should not have been so selfish. I should have been completely honest with you. I should not have insulted your family. I should have done so many things differently, but I did not. I wish I could change it, but I cannot. I can only vow to you that I will be better. I will be better for you. I will be better for you if you refuse me and I will be better for you if you accept me. I will spend the rest of my life proving to you just how much I love you."
Her eyes were wide and glassy, and Anthony searched in them for an answer. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"If your feelings are still the same as they were," he continued, "I do understand. And I will not be upset with you."
"Anthony," she whimpered softly. "I love you too. I loved you last season. I thought that you perhaps... thought you overstepped and proposed out of obligation. And I was so angry with you for what you said to me. I was so hurt. And... I did not know what else to do but to flee."
Anthony could not help but beam at her. "We will work through it. We will make a life together."
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. Propriety was irrelevant to him when he pressed his lips against hers.
i had to write this because i do adore him and i sometimes feel that i am the only creature alive that understands his character, and i needed to write it all out. do let me know if you wish to see more <3 cw: talks of death, alcoholism if you squint, themes of neurodivergence, not proofread we die like edmund
anthony bridgerton is just like all of his younger siblings. on the outside, at least. tall, kindhearted, nearly identical to his father just like the rest of his brothers (except dearest greggory, who resembles his mother). however, if you got to know mr. anthony bridgerton, you would realize that he does not think like his siblings, or even like his parents. art does not make any sort of sense to him. benedict often goes on tangents about his different creative endeavors, and anthony simply has no earthly idea what he is babbling about.
no, anthony's mind works much more like a machine. when he was little, it was a fascination with trains. they worked so well, trains. always on a set path, never diverting or doing anything silly. he had trouble playing with benedict as a child, often being lectured by his father for being bossy. but how was he supposed to sit by while benedict got dirt and finger paints all over himself and his clothes? and worse, anthony's toys. it was unaccountable.
as he got older, it manifested in different ways. maths, he always enjoyed, but nearly every other subject was close to impossible for him. socially, he struggled with maintaining relationships with his peers. he could make friends, but they would often distance themselves from him after a while after one too many jokes that anthony didn't pick up fast enough, if at all.
over the years, socialization became much easier, though it was still more difficult than his other siblings found it to be. he picked up social signals, memorizing them and mimicking them as best he could. that was at least until his father died and he went to university. his days at oxford are a blur, but according to his friends at the time, he did little else but sleep with women and drink enough to poison his liver for the rest of his life. and in these bars, he was not at all charming. rather, he was a ghost of a person. a handsome, wealthy ghost, that was able to pull lots of women because of those aforementioned traits.
of course, after university, he cleaned himself up, and threw himself wholly into his work and his family. he followed a rather strict schedule he set for himself. never getting up before ten in the morning, always sit at the head of the table for meals, spend the hours between breakfast and lunch doing paperwork, read the newspaper (yes, newspaper) in the drawing room between lunch and dinner.
finding a wife was the logical step. and so of course, he made his list of requirements, and set off to find one that fulfilled them, becoming increasingly frustrated when he could not find this paragon of virtue. it was only then that he met his future wife, who promptly decided to turn his entire life and worldview on it's head.
modern!anthony pining for her. ever since they met he’s a mess. of course he had been an arrogant ass, so she would barely even look at him whenever she came over to see his siblings. it was hell. every moment of his day is consumed by her. every thought he had, every move he made. he would listen to all of her conversations, writing a list of all the things he knew she liked. and when she finally stops hating him as much, he’s elated, can hardly stop smiling. and stops feeling as much guilt every time he touches himself thinking about her, which was embarrassingly often. benedict thinks he might be sick with how happy he is just from an ounce of her attention. anthony would have all her favorite meals prepared, and would start doting on her more blatantly. instead of secretly enlisting daphne to make sure she has been drinking more water after she had a particularly bad headache, he starts just bringing her water and watching her drink it. they still bicker non stop, but anthony is basically giggling with unabashed heart eyes the whole time they yap at each other.
a silent lurker @talkativecarnation - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
