unshed Tears Shining In My Eyes

*unshed tears shining in my eyes*

So beautiful and brutal at the same time😭

The Last Goodbye

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Warnings: Infidelity, major character death, emotional distress, pregnancy loss, grief, regret, angst

Word Count: 1,000+

Inspired by @writing-fanics

It began as a whisper of discomfort. A slight fatigue that settled in your bones, an ache that did not fade even after hours of rest. At first, you dismissed it. A lady of your station had little time to entertain sickness—there were balls to attend, guests to entertain, and a household to manage. Anthony, always busy with his responsibilities, hardly noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, the fevers came.

They crept in during the night, leaving you shivering beneath layers of blankets, yet drenched in sweat. The coughing followed—deep, wracking fits that left you breathless, clutching your chest as if you could hold your very life in place.

Still, you told Anthony nothing. He had already been so distant. His late nights had become more frequent, his excuses less convincing. Parliament meetings. Affairs of the estate. And yet, his cravat smelled of perfume that was not yours.

So you suffered in silence.

The physician confirmed what you already feared.

Your condition had worsened. There was no cure, only time—time that you did not have.

Benedict was the first to notice. He saw the way your hands trembled when you lifted your tea, the way your complexion had lost its color. He sat beside you more often, watching, worrying. It was Benedict who sent for Anthony the first time you collapsed, body too weak to carry you forward.

But your husband had not come home that night.

When he arrived the next morning, his eyes were tired, but not from concern. His cravat was slightly undone, the buttons of his waistcoat not fully fastened. You had seen him leave in pristine condition—he had not slept in your bed.

“Where were you?” you asked, voice hoarse from the previous night’s coughing.

Anthony hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, before forcing a smile. “Matters of business, darling.”

Lies.

But you were too tired to fight.

You were mostly confined to your bed now.

The sickness had taken too much of you—your strength, your appetite, your breath. Each step was a battle, each word an effort. The physicians tried what they could, but their expressions told you the truth.

You were dying.

And Anthony still had not noticed.

He came home later and later, his excuses becoming nothing more than background noise. He did not see the hollows beneath your eyes, the way your hands trembled when you reached for him. He did not see the way Benedict looked at him—how dare you leave her like this?—or the way your ladies’ maids turned away, unable to hide their pity.

You wanted to tell him. To scream at him. To make him see you.

But what use was a battle when the war was already lost?

So, you smiled when he kissed your forehead. You forced yourself to laugh when he told you of his day. You pretended you did not smell her perfume lingering on his coat.

And at night, when he did not come home, you wept.

Anthony had finally noticed.

It was Benedict—of course, it was Benedict—who had forced him to look at you.

“She is dying, Anthony,” Benedict spat, gripping his elder brother by the collar. “And where have you been? With her?”

Anthony had scoffed at first, had shoved Benedict away with a roll of his eyes. “You are being ridiculous. She is—”

Then he had seen you.

You had been sleeping when he entered the room, your form barely more than a shadow beneath the sheets. Your skin, once so full of warmth and color, was ghostly pale. Your lips were dry, cracked from fever. Your breaths came shallow, labored, the rise and fall of your chest so faint it terrified him.

“Y/N…”

He had whispered your name, but you had not stirred.

For the first time in months, Anthony had sat beside you. He had taken your hand—too thin, too cold—between his own and felt his heart plummet.

How had he not seen it?

How had he let this happen?

That night, Anthony left for Sienna’s townhouse, but not for the reasons he once had.

He was going to end it.

But Sienna did not make it easy.

“So now you remember you have a wife?” she had scoffed, draping herself over the chaise, eyes dark with amusement. “Is that not what I’ve always been to you, Anthony? A distraction from your duties? And now, because guilt tugs at your heart, you come to rid yourself of me?”

Anthony had clenched his jaw. “I should never have come to you in the first place.”

Sienna’s laughter had been bitter, cruel. “And yet, you did. Over and over again. While your wife lay dying in your grand estate, you were in my bed.”

He had left without another word. But the damage was done.

Anthony rushed through the doors of your chamber, breathless, desperate.

“Where is she?” His voice was frantic, cracking under the weight of fear.

Benedict was still seated beside you, his expression unreadable as he lifted his gaze.

“She is gone.”

The words knocked the air from Anthony’s lungs. His eyes darted to the bed, to your still form beneath the blankets, your face peaceful, untouched by the pain that had consumed you for months.

“No,” he whispered. “No, please—please, my love, wake up.”

He was at your side in an instant, grasping at your hands, pressing frantic kisses to your fingers, your knuckles, your wrists—anywhere he could reach. But you were so cold.

“Y/N,” he choked out, tears falling freely now, his whole body trembling. “Please, I am here now. I—I was going to fix this. I was going to—” His voice broke. “I should have been here.”

Benedict stood, his face void of sympathy. “Yes,” he said simply. “You should have.”

Anthony let out a strangled sob, his forehead pressing against your still chest. He had failed you. He had abandoned you in your final days, had left you to suffer alone while he chased after foolish, meaningless desires.

And now, it was too late.

You would never hear his apologies.

You would never know that in the end, he had chosen you.

All you had known before you left this world was his absence.

And for the rest of his days, Anthony Bridgerton would carry that unbearable, unshakable grief.

The world felt like it had stopped. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender still lingered, but it was stale, lifeless—just like the room, just like you.

Anthony’s hands trembled as he held yours, the warmth he had once taken for granted completely gone. You weren’t asleep. You weren’t waiting for him.

You were gone.

A strangled sob tore from his throat. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, willing his love into your lifeless fingers, hoping—praying—that it would bring you back. But there was nothing left. Only the sound of his own broken breaths and the weight of the silence pressing down on him.

This was his fault.

He had left you to suffer alone, blind to the pain in your eyes, deaf to the way your voice had weakened. He had been with Sienna while you lay here, waiting for him, needing him. And now, when he finally realized what he had done—when he had finally chosen you—you were already gone.

He had failed you.

Benedict stood quietly by the door, watching, his gaze unreadable. He had been here, Anthony realized bitterly. He had been the one to hold you as you slipped away. He had been the one to witness your last breath.

Not Anthony.

Never Anthony.

“I told her you would regret this,” Benedict finally said, voice hoarse with grief. His fists clenched at his sides. “I told her you would come crawling back too late.”

Anthony couldn’t even argue.

He deserved every ounce of venom in his brother’s voice.

A rustle of parchment broke the silence.

Benedict reached into his coat, pulling out a folded letter, sealed with wax. He stepped forward, shoving it into Anthony’s hands, his eyes burning with something between sorrow and rage.

“She wrote this for you,” Benedict said, barely holding himself together. “She told me to give it to you only after…” His voice caught, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “After she was gone.”

Anthony could barely breathe as he looked at the letter. The edges were slightly crumpled, the ink slightly smudged—had she struggled to hold the pen? Had she been in pain while she wrote this?

With shaking fingers, he broke the seal.

My dearest Anthony,

If you are reading this, then it is already too late.

I wish I could have seen your face one last time. I wish I could have told you that I still love you, despite everything. But life is cruel, and time has run out for us.

I have known for some time now that I was not meant to stay in this world much longer. I felt it in the way my body betrayed me, in the way the pain settled into my bones, refusing to leave. I wanted to tell you, to beg you to stay, but I could not bring myself to do so. I knew your heart was elsewhere.

Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted you to choose me on your own.

I wanted you to come home because you wanted to, not because you felt you had to.

But you never did.

And so, I made my peace with the silence.

But, my love, there is something I did not tell you—something I could not tell you.

I was with child.

Your child.

I found out only weeks before the sickness took hold of me. I had dreamed of telling you, of seeing your face light up with joy, of feeling your hand against my belly as our child grew. But I was afraid.

Afraid that you would not care.

Afraid that even this would not be enough to bring you home to me.

I wanted so badly for our child to know a father’s love, but as the weeks passed and my strength faded, I realized that they never would. I realized that I would never hold them, never hear their cries, never see them take their first breath.

I lost them before they ever had a chance to live.

And it broke me, Anthony.

It broke me in a way that nothing else ever could.

I know that you will carry guilt for this. I know that you will grieve. But I do not want my last words to be ones of anger or bitterness.

Despite it all, I loved you.

I loved you with every part of me, even as my heart shattered.

And I hope—no, I pray—that one day, you will learn to love again. That you will cherish what you once took for granted. That you will never let another love slip through your fingers as you did with me.

Goodbye, my love.

Yours, always,

Y/N

Anthony couldn’t see past his tears.

The letter crumpled in his grip, his hands shaking violently. A strangled, guttural cry tore from his chest, echoing through the room.

She had been pregnant.

With his child.

And he had never known.

He had left her alone to suffer, to mourn, to grieve the loss of their baby all by herself. She had gone to bed every night with the weight of their unborn child pressing against her ribs, knowing she would never hold them.

And he had been with Sienna.

Benedict turned away, unable to watch as Anthony broke completely.

He did not comfort him.

He did not tell him it was alright.

Because it wasn’t.

Because Anthony Bridgerton had done something no man should ever do—he had abandoned the love of his life in her time of need.

And now, he would have to live with it.

Forever.

Tags

im cryin tw: death love it anthony bridgerton heavy angst Anthony Bridgerton x reader benedict bridgerton x reader

Contagiously Human.

[Brian Moser x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Killing was always the easiest part for him, but this… you… well, as fate would have it, that created a new problem for him. {GIF Creds: brothermoser}

WC: 1881

Category: Plot-Driven, Maybe Some Fluff/Angst…?

Someone asked me if I’d ever thought about writing Biney… and well, I decided to put my thought into actual words 🤷‍♀️

Just for some minor clarification, this is pretty much a “what if” fic in which Dexter does not end his life. This being said, I picture this taking place around season 5-6 ish.

『••✎••』

Hesitation.

The thing that makes or breaks a killer. The line that separates predator from prey. It's the pause between life and death, the time a man takes to make the decision, and whether he'll live to regret it or not.

He’s never had hesitation. Not once. In fact, he relishes in it; he finds peace in knowing that he can decide one way or another and be content with either outcome. It makes him a dangerous man, unpredictable, a ticking time bomb.

His baby brother, his blood, had the disease. The disease of being too much of a good person, feeling guilt, having morals, a sense of what's right and wrong. He was weak, he hesitated, and he wasn’t even aware of how much the disease was eating him alive until that Trinity Killer came around.

He was supposed to protect his brother, save him from himself, and show him the proper way of things. The way of survival. Of the hunt. But no, Brian wasn’t there to catch him. To stop him.

So, as all good brothers do, he’s here to fix him. To set him straight and rid him of the disease. Forever.

It's an easy task, really. His little brother is so trusting and caring that he'd do anything for the ones he loved. Why not start by showing him why he shouldn't?

Because clearly, the loss of his apparent wife wasn’t enough. He needed to understand, truly and absolutely, that the world would only disappoint him. It's a harsh lesson but a necessary one.

So, that led him to you. His brother’s friend from school. The woman, aside from Dexter’s poor excuse for a sister, that his brother actually cared about.

Just like him, you were naive. Trusting, too. Friendly to everyone, completely unaware of the monsters that hid in the shadows. His brother included.

You might’ve never killed someone, but with everything else, it was clear why his brother was so interested in you. He always loved the innocent ones.

So, the question was, how would he go about it? He could take you somewhere, but the element of surprise was an important factor. You had to believe you were safe and comfortable before he could make his move.

A Debra repeat? Or a more... Unique approach. He'd think about it, plan it out, and strike at the perfect moment.

He wouldn’t hesitate, after all.

When the day presented itself, the stars had aligned, and everything was just right; he made his move. It was noon, a warm Sunday.

You were in your little bookshop, reading one of the books in your free time. Business had been slow today, as most people were enjoying the weather.

You never saw him coming. He was the type to blend into the crowd, the type that you'd see once and forget about. The type you'd pass on the street without a second thought.

He had his ways, of course, and his way was simple. A simple, kind greeting. One that had your eyes lighting up as if you'd never seen another person before.

He was charming, handsome, the perfect man to lure you in. You didn’t stand a chance.

That's what led him here, picking up your fallen book and handing it to you, watching the smile that graced your lips.

A romance novel, of course. How ironic.

"Oh, uh, thank you. That’s very kind."

You smiled, a hint of blush dusting your cheeks. Far more tame than that Debra woman, thankfully. He didn’t have to fight back the urge to roll his eyes.

"Tea and romance? Can’t say I blame you." He pulled a gentle grin, one that had you blushing further, more so of embarrassment this time.

"It's the first of a series. A favorite, actually, I’ve been rereading it." You explained, holding the book to your chest. He didn’t miss the way your thumb rubbed over the spine, fond and gentle.

Just from that, he knew. He was going to have fun with you. “Believe it or not, I read the first one too. A few months ago, actually. It was quite the page-turner. The ending had me on the edge of my seat, I swear."

You laughed, soft and airy, and for a moment, he found himself smiling genuinely. His lie was working, and he couldn’t believe it was that easy.

"I've only heard mixed reviews on it.” You spoke, moving to place the book back on the shelf. "I'm glad to hear you liked it. Marienne’s death was hard, wasn't it?"

"Very." He agreed though it was a lie. He had to pretend he cared. "It was a shame; I really enjoyed the character."

"You did?" You raised a brow, surprised. “Most people didn’t. Given that she doesn’t even exist.”

Shit.

He cleared his throat, a slight pause. He was so blinded by the idea of finally getting to his brother that he'd forgotten.

You were a reader, an author; of course, you would know the ins and outs of the story. The characters, the plot, and every little detail. Why would you not?

First rule of hunting. Don’t get cocky.

"Alright, I admit. I've been caught." He gave a small shrug, his voice holding a hint of sheepishness. Maybe you’d fall for it. “I couldn’t help myself; I figured you wouldn’t appreciate my love for fantasy books."

"Fantasy?" You tilted your head, and he knew. You bought it. You were a sucker for fantasy; you didn't like it when others looked down on them.

"I'm a bit of a nerd. Guilty pleasure."

"I didn’t peg you for the fantasy type…” You raised your eyebrow, though a smile still rested on your lips—a look of amusement.

"Really? Most people can't seem to look past the collared shirt.

"No, it's not that. It's your aura." You shook your head, and now, it was his turn to raise his brow. What the hell did that mean?

"My aura?"

"Those books in your hands..” You nodded towards his bag, a small smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. "You're definitely not a casual reader. My guess is everything in there is a throwaway.”

"And that means...?"

"You're bullshit through and through. You don't like romance or fantasy. In fact, I think you absolutely hate it."

Oh. Oh, you clever thing. Now, he truly understood why his brother connected with you so much. You'd figured him out, and yet, you had no clue. You were clever, smarter than you let on.

"Alright,” He held his hands up in mock surrender. He was enjoying this; for once, someone could see through his façade. See his true self. It was a rush.

“If you’re so smart, what do I like then?"

"Hmm, let's see...” And just like that, you were off with him in tow. You were taking him along on a trip through the shelves, looking through the genres, searching and searching.

He was intrigued, his eyes locked on you, his ears drinking in the sound of your hums and contemplation. Your mind was running, spinning, thinking. You were truly in your element.

"Well, let's start with what I know. You like horror." You said, turning towards the horror section and picking up a book. "You seem like the type who enjoys the dark side of humanity and likes to see the bad guy win."

Damn.

He was almost impressed. Almost.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Eyes. They tell the most about a person. You’ve seen a lot, and it shows. I could tell just by looking at you. Your eyes are... Cold. Empty." You said, and it was then that he realized you were more observant than you appeared. Naivety might’ve not been a part of your personality, but trust was. You trusted a lot. Too much. “Are you a cop, by chance? You've got the whole detective thing going on."

"Prosthetist, actually." He answered, his hand reaching out and picking up a book at random. He wasn't a fan of fiction, not really. He preferred nonfiction; it was more realistic—less pointless details.

"Oh, wow, I was completely off. I didn’t expect that." You mused, looking up at him with those eyes. You had such an expressive face; it was amazing how easy you were to read. He could practically see the gears turning. How could he use this?

"Expected an axe murderer, did you?" He joked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Maybe. Wouldn’t that be a twist?" You grinned a glint of amusement in your eye. “Speaking of, that’s probably what you like. Thrillers. Those kinds of stories are full of twists and turns. No one is who they appear to be. Kinda like you, hm?"

"Ouch."

"Sorry, am I being too honest?"

"No, I like it. Keep going." He was having fun. With Debra, it was exhausting. She was so stubborn, so headstrong, she never listened. It took him about three coffees just to have enough patience to deal with her sob story.

But with you, you were a breath of fresh air. He didn’t have to force himself awake or hide his boredom. He could just enjoy it, relish in the moment, and the fact that you were so easy to play with.

You pulled out three books: two thrillers and one horror. A classic and a new one. "These are what I recommend. Start with Primal Fear; that’s the one I believe you'll like the most. The first one might take you a while, but if you stick with it, the sequel will be worth it.

He reached forward, his hand brushing over yours, his touch lingering as he took the book. He purposely brushed his thumb against the back of your hand, just enough for a spark to go through your veins.

He saw the way your breath hitched, and he smirked. This was too easy.

"Thank you, you've been a great help."

"One more thing before you go." You spoke, stopping him. His eyes moved up from the book to your own, and there he saw something that made him falter.

Something that made him freeze longer than he should have.

You had a fire behind those eyes. A flame that burned with a passion, a curiosity that threatened to eat him alive. A want, a need, to get into his head. To peel him open and look inside.

Your eyes weren't cold or empty like his. They were alive. Full of life.

"Books don’t impress women,” Your voice was low, a secret, something meant only for him to hear. “It’s the passion that opens their hearts. You have nothing if you can't show it."

"I think I've misjudged you." He spoke, his hand resting on the shelf above your head. He had no choice but to lean closer, and he felt the way your breath fanned across his skin.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You're a lot more than you appear, aren’t you?"

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

The question was left unanswered. He didn't give a response because, in truth, he didn't know.

He left that day not with his brother’s cure or even the thought of him. He left with three books.

Three books and the disease he believed to be immune to…

Hesitation.

[@numetalnerd2007] Since you asked, I figured this would automatically mean you were interested. At least I hope you were 💀

That being said, please be nice to me for this one since it’s my first time writing for Biney here (and I haven’t rewatched season 1 in forever), so his character probably isn’t 100% solid. It’s a work in progress 🙏✨

Also, for all my Joe Goldberg fans out there, did you catch the reference I made? I see a slight resemblance between Brian and Joe, so I wanted to sneak it in a little something. I think it’s the hair, honestly.

Tags

fluff masterpiece brian moser ice truck killer brian moser x female!reader brian moser x reader rudy cooper x reader

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olaflookalike

1 month ago

i love the discourse about whether or not dean and sam are antiheroes. babygirl two of their close friends and surrogate family members are the Demon King of Hell who canonically alluded to murdering infants once, and his abusive witch mother who still violently murders her own enemies after several mini-redemption arcs. half of the series’ conflicts are their fault because they were either too stupid to realize what they were doing, too selfish to stop doing it because it had some personal benefit that outweighed the damage it would cause, or they just didn’t think another option was out there.

and yea, even though most of their Big Bad arcs were a product of the… [title card]…supernatural; possession, curses, soullessness, eldritch influences, whatever else…it’s not like they were completely good people without those factors. dean was a deeply sadistic torturer in hell for no other reason than being in pain and wanting to inflict that pain onto others. Cas created first-generational trauma with the family of his vessel, was briefly both a cannibal and a megalomaniacal zealot who tried to take over heaven and earth. sam believes all incarcerated people are evil and deserve to be in the system (lol) murdered his grandfather and allowed a child to be tortured (by Cas).

not even going into the numerous apocalypses they were all responsible in, or the amount of innocent people they all collectively murdered in cold blood because they stopped giving a shit about saving vessels after like season 2. if even that. even jack has a fair amount of murder and torture and wrongfully harming innocents under his belt and he hasn’t hit chronological double digits yet. bonus mention for the fact that across multiple perspectives, these guys are either regarded as psychopathic serial killers, psychopathic hunters, or Those Guys Who Constantly Fuck Up Peoples Lives And Endanger Everyone Around Them.

like, an antihero by the dictionary definition is “a main character in a narrative (in literature, film, TV, etc.) who may lack some conventional heroic qualities and attributes, such as idealism, and morality,” — and, (cont’d) — “Although antiheroes may sometimes perform actions that most of the audience considers morally correct, their reasons for doing so may not align with the audience's morality.”

that’s literally a grocery list for them to scratch off girl. come on now.

Tags

supernatural real and true team free will 2.0 ALL of this antiheroes

47 notes View Post

olaflookalike

1 month ago

The fact that someone like JK Rowling created a character like Harry Potter completely baffles me

Harry Potter who was outraged when the magical community wouldn't accept a werewolf at Hogwarts

Harry Potter who regularly had tea with the half giant groundskeeper

Harry Potter who at 12 years old freed a house elf from his abusive master and then five years later insisted on giving that same house elf a proper burial

Harry has his flaws, but what always stood out to me about him was how tolerant and accepting he was. There were plenty of people he didn't like, but that was always because of who they were as a person. It's even made a point in the series that he maintained relationships with groups who were not usually friendly with wizards (probably because of past mistreatment) like ghosts and centaurs. So, how such a bigoted and close-minded person created him is beyond me.

Tags

books

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olaflookalike

4 weeks ago

you know a fic is good when it has this

Tags

writeblr fanfiction ao3 love it tropes

49K notes View Post

olaflookalike

4 weeks ago

When i stated using ao3 5 years ago i had no idea what the pvt bookmark option was but it seemed necessary, cause it said 'Private' and i didn't want anyone to know (even tho it is a completely anonymous acc on the internet that no i know can find unless i tell them my id or they go thru my things)!!!! And it became a habit !!!

Tags

fanfiction ao3 fanfic ao3 archive of our own 246 private bookmarks pretty sure i look like a psycho when i comment on fics minutes after they update but i have 0 bookmarks

2 notes View Post

olaflookalike

3 months ago

y'all, I'm sorry, he's so bad but he's so fine. like I can't even defend him

Tags

rudy cooper brian moser ive gone mad

129 notes View Post

olaflookalike

1 month ago

Speak Now

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Childhood BFF!Reader

Warnings: Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Angst, Smutty Undertones, Grand Romantic Gesture, Anthony being completely unhinged in love. 18+

Word Count: 4,500k

Requested?: Yes, “can i pretty please request anthony bridgerton x childhood bff! reader, where the reader was on the altar and about to marry somebody else. but then anthony objected. very much inspired by taylor swift's "speak now" <33”- Anon

You and Anthony Bridgerton had been inseparable since childhood—two halves of a whole, bound by years of laughter, whispered secrets, and an unspoken understanding that neither of you had ever dared to define.

You were the one who kept him grounded when the weight of his family’s expectations pressed too heavily upon his shoulders, and he was the one who made you feel truly seen in a world where noblewomen were expected to be nothing more than dutiful daughters and future wives.

Anthony became Viscount. You became a woman of marriageable age.

Yet, as the years passed and the demands of society became inescapable, that easy friendship shifted. Anthony, ever the dutiful Viscount, had vowed to marry for duty, not love. And you—his dearest friend—had resigned yourself to the same fate.

Still, there were moments. Moments where his touch lingered a second too long, where his gaze softened as he watched you from across the ballroom, where his voice dropped to a whisper when he said your name. Moments where you thought—hoped—that maybe he felt it too.

But then came her.

Kate Sharma was everything a Viscountess ought to be: sharp, intelligent, and someone who challenged Anthony in all the ways a Bridgerton wife should.

You had seen the way he looked at her, the way his stiff resolve wavered in her presence. And because you were his best friend—because you loved him in ways you never admitted aloud—you helped him pursue her.

“I believe she is the perfect match for you,” you had told him one evening, forcing a smile even as your heart cracked in two.

And then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, your parents arranged a match for you as well.

Lord Andrew Montrose was kind, intelligent, and someone who had been part of your shared circle since childhood. Marrying him made sense. If you could not have love, you could at least have companionship.

So, you did what was expected.

You accepted Lord Andrew Montrose.

And Anthony? He had congratulated you with a strained smile, his hand gripping yours just a little too tightly.

Neither of you spoke about what it meant. Neither of you dared to.

And Anthony—fool that he was—let you go.

The first time Anthony felt it—the deep, burning rage that told him he was making the biggest mistake of his life—was at a Bridgerton ball.

You were in Montrose’s arms.

You were smiling.

And he was touching you.

Anthony saw red.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care.

He strode across the ballroom, cutting in without a word. “May I steal her for a dance?”

It was not a request.

Montrose hesitated. But you? You knew.

Your throat bobbed, your pulse visible at the delicate line of your neck.

Then—you nodded.

Anthony’s hand wrapped around yours. His fingers were hot, searing, as he pulled you into the waltz, holding you far too close.

His breath ghosted your ear. “Are you happy?”

Your lashes fluttered. “I—”

His fingers tightened on your waist, possessive. “Tell me. Do you love him?”

You hesitated.

And that was his answer.

The music stopped. The moment was over.

But before he stepped away, his fingers dragged down your arm, tracing over your wrist before slipping away.

And just before he turned, he whispered, so low only you could hear:

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Anthony tried to let it go.

Then he saw you in Hyde Park.

Montrose’s hand was on your elbow.

He leaned in too close.

He kissed your gloved knuckles.

Anthony nearly lost his goddamn mind.

His fingers fisted at his sides. His breath turned shallow, ragged.

He had seen you dance with men. Smile at suitors. But this? This was different.

Because Montrose wasn’t just any man.

He was your future.

And Anthony Bridgerton realized he could not allow that.

The church was grand.

The whispers of the ton filled the air.

You stood at the altar, hands clasped with Montrose.

And your heart pounded.

Then—

“I OBJECT!”

The doors slammed open.

Gasps erupted.

And there—standing at the entrance, breathless, wild-eyed, utterly unhinged— was Anthony Bridgerton.

Andrew sighed beside you. “Bridgerton, this is highly inappropriate—”

“I do not care,” Anthony bit out.

He strode forward, eyes locked onto yours.

And then—he grabbed your wrist.

“Anthony—”

“I cannot let you do this,” he said, voice shaking.

Your breath caught.

Anthony’s grip was firm, his hands hot, his entire body vibrating with barely restrained emotion.

“I should have said it years ago,” he rasped. “I was a fool. I tried to ignore it. I tried to let you go.”

His voice dropped.

“But I cannot.”

Then, before you could breathe—

Anthony picked you up.

A gasp tore from your throat as his arms lifted you, cradling you against his chest.

The church erupted into chaos.

But Anthony did not care.

He stormed out, carrying you down the aisle like a man possessed.

“Anthony!” you shrieked, half-laughing, half-sobbing as he carried you into the streets.

“Yell at me later,” he panted, holding you tighter.

His grip never faltered. His breath was hot against your temple.

Then, his lips brushed your ear.

“Tell me you do not want this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

You couldn’t.

Because you wanted this.

You wanted him.

“…I love you.”

Anthony groaned.

Then—his lips crashed into yours.

Desperate. Fevered. Claiming.

And as the church bells rang—signaling the wedding that would never happen—Anthony Bridgerton kissed you like a man who had just stolen his future.

Because, in truth, he had.

Tags

fluff mutual pining feral as fuck Anthony Bridgerton x reader thief literally stole the girl HE OBJECTS

473 notes View Post

olaflookalike

1 month ago

Dean's baby (Dean x reader)

Summary: After a long day of research, you go bother Dean in the garage.

words: 2.7k

Warnings: none

The bunker’s garage. Dean is under the hood of the Impala, a socket wrench in one hand, grease smudged on his forearm. His muscles flex subtly beneath his t-shirt with every movement, the faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light filtering through the room. The scent of motor oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and old leather. The rhythmic clinking of metal echoes softly, grounding the space in familiar sounds of work and grit.

You wander in, your footsteps light but still noticeable against the concrete, the echo bouncing lazily through the garage. Boredom clings to you after hours spent in the bunker.

The day had started off normal: wake up, polish some ancient weapons down in the bunker, make breakfast, and check the news for any strange sightings. One report caught your attention, a possible wendigo sighting. You never liked those. They always made your skin crawl.

That’s where you’ve been for most of the afternoon: doing research with Sam. Well, mostly he’s been doing the actual research while your mind drifts elsewhere.

Honestly, you’re a little annoyed with him. The younger Winchester and his big, stupid puppy-dog eyes. And that hair, god, that hair. Always falling into his face until he sweeps it back with that effortless little motion, usually when he’s frustrated or deep in thought.

You’d caught yourself staring, a lot.

Anyway.

You spot Dean, engrossed in his work in the garage, and smirk to yourself.

"Hey, grease monkey," you call, leaning against the workbench with a lazy grin.

Dean doesn’t flinch. His arm tenses as he tightens something under the Impala’s hood, the movement drawing attention to the way his shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. There’s a faint sheen of sweat along his forearms, catching the light just enough to highlight the grease smudges marking his skin. The garage hums with the familiar scent of motor oil, metal, and leather, a warm, grounding smell that feels like him.

"If you’re here to help, there’s a rag over there. If you’re here to annoy me, the exit’s where you left it," Dean mutters, not bothering to look up.

You smirk but don’t move. "Why not both?"

Finally, Dean ducks out from under the hood, giving you that half-annoyed, half-amused look he’s perfected over the years. His eyes meet yours, sharp and clear, but your mind has already started drifting, back to where you spent most of the afternoon.

Research with Sam.

You were more focused on how easily he navigated the endless pages of lore and obscure texts, piecing things together faster than you could even process. It’s annoying, how effortlessly smart he is, how his mind seems to work ten steps ahead while you’re still trying to catch up.

You pretend it doesn’t bother you, but sometimes it does. Not because he makes you feel small, Sam would never do that, but because you wish you could keep pace. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how often you find yourself nodding along, hoping he doesn’t notice when you’re completely lost.

Dean's voice pulls you out of it. "Aren’t you supposed to be helping Sammy with the case? Or did you solve it already while staring at his hair?"

Your cheeks heat, but you roll your eyes, playing it off "Sam’s doing his super-sleuth thing," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "I was starting to lose brain cells watching him cross-reference, so I figured I’d come see some manual labour”

Dean smirks, turning back to the engine. "Well, you came to the right place. Watch and learn, kid. This baby’s a masterpiece."

"Masterpiece? It’s stuck together with duct tape and prayer."

Dean freezes, socket wrench in hand, and slowly turns his head to glare at you. There’s that dangerous glint in his eyethe one that usually means you’re about to get roped into cleaning weapons or organizing the storage room. But beneath the mock offense, there’s humor simmering just under the surface.

"Careful," he says, voice low with faux seriousness. "You’re walking a fine line."

You hold his gaze, arms crossed, trying not to let the corner of your mouth twitch. Dean’s like that, a mix of sharp edges and warmth that sneaks up on you. He acts tough, all bravado and snark, but you’ve seen him stay up all night patching Sam up after a hunt, or quietly fixing the broken lock on your door without ever mentioning it.

"Relax," you tease, nudging the Impala’s fender with the toe of your boot. "I know she’s your baby. I wouldn’t actually insult her… to your face."

Dean’s glare narrows further, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. "Good. Because this ‘baby’ has more heart than most people I know. You’d be lucky to be half as reliable."

You snort, shaking your head. "She’s lucky to still be running at all."

Without missing a beat, Dean grabs the dirty rag from the workbench and flicks it at you, the grease-streaked fabric catching you square in the shoulder.

"Hey!" you yelp, recoiling with a laugh as you swat it away. "Gross!"

Dean grins, clearly pleased with himself. "That’s what you get for disrespecting the queen." He tosses the rag back onto the bench like nothing happened, already turning his attention back to the Impala.

"You’re impossible," you mutter, brushing off the faint smear left behind.

"And you’re still standing in my garage," Dean counters, leaning back under the hood. "Which means you’re fair game."

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the grin tugging at your lips.

Moments like this, easy, light, and a little messy, are the rare ones you tuck away for later, because you know they don’t come around often.

It’s strange, really. How easily this life found you. Or maybe how easily they found you.

Meeting the Winchesters hadn’t exactly been planned. You stumbled into their world under circumstances that could generously be called chaotic, one wrong place, wrong time situation after another until suddenly, there you were. Tied up in the mess of hunts, ancient books, and things that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares.

But somehow, instead of leaving you to deal with it on your own, they’d taken you in.

Dean likes to act like you’re a pain in his ass, but he’s the one who never lets you drive anywhere alone. The one who shoves a gun into your hand and taught you how to shoot, even if he complained about it the entire time. And sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, his eyes soften, if only a little.

And Sam, Sam’s different. Gentler in his approach, but no less protective. He’s the one who stays up late researching the things you don’t understand, explaining it all in that calm, patient way that somehow makes you feel a little less out of your depth, even when you know you’ll never catch up to him.

They don’t call it family. Not out loud. But it’s in the way Dean knocks your boot off the workbench with a muttered "Get your feet off Baby," or the way Sam always checks to make sure you ate something after long nights.

It’s quiet, unspoken, but you feel it all the same.

You let out a breath, still leaning against the workbench, watching Dean work. "So, what’s wrong with her this time?"

Dean shrugs, wiping his hands on another rag, his muscles moving slightly with the movement. "Nothing serious. Just a tune-up. Gotta keep her running smooth." He glances over at you with that smug, gruff look, eyes gleaming. "Something you wouldn’t understand, what with you not knowing the difference between a carburetor and a spark plug."

You gasp, hand to your chest in exaggerated offense. "I know what a spark plug is! It’s the… sparky thing."

Dean freezes for half a second, staring at you like you’ve personally insulted his entire existence. And then he barks out a laugh, loud and unapologetic, shaking his head. "Sparky thing. Yeah, okay. You’re a regular gearhead."

You roll your eyes, stepping around to the other side of the Impala and leaning against the fender with a lazy stretch. "I’m just saying, for someone who spends hours messing with this thing, you could at least upgrade to something newer. You know, with Bluetooth. Or seat warmers."

Dean’s hand stops mid-wipe, and he lowers the rag slowly, fixing you with the kind of glare that suggests you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. "Seat warmers? Really?" His voice drips with disbelief, as if you’ve just suggested painting flames down the sides of the car.

"First of all, seat warmers are for wimps. Second, this car’s got more soul in her headlights than any of those plastic toys rolling off assembly lines. She’s not just a car. She’s family."

"Right…." you say, holding back a laugh. "The Impala is the real Winchester sibling."

"Damn straight," Dean replies, his tone serious.

He goes back to tightening a bolt, his forearms shifting with the motion, tense and controlled. There’s a natural ease to the way he moves, like he’s done this a thousand times, every motion instinctive. His t-shirt pulls just slightly across his back as he leans over the engine, the faint sheen of sweat from hours in the garage catching the low light.

You try not to notice, but it’s hard to ignore the quiet strength in the way he works, strong hands, calloused and capable, making even the smallest task look deliberate.

For a moment, the only sounds are the soft scrape of metal and the rhythmic click of his wrench, and you find yourself lingering longer than you meant to.

You tilt your head "You really love this car, huh?"

Dean glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Yeah, I do. She’s been through a lot with us. Hell, she’s saved our asses more times than I can count."

He pauses, rolling the wrench absently in his hand, eyes flicking over the engine but not really seeing it. His voice drops, quieter now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. "When everything else goes to crap, at least I know she’s still here. Still running."

For a moment, the weight of his words lingers, heavier than the air thick with motor oil. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the kind that doesn’t need explanation. It’s not just the car. It’s everything she’s carried him through.

The unexpected honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t have a snarky comeback. You watch the way he absently runs a hand along the edge of the hood, fingers tracing the curve like it’s second nature. You can’t help but wonder how many nights he’s sat in the driver’s seat alone, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

"That’s... kinda nice," you say quietly, the words feeling too small for the moment but all you can come up with.

Dean straightens, shrugging it off almost immediately, like he didn’t just crack the door open to something more vulnerable. His eyes flick back to you, the faintest smirk returning to his face. "Yeah, well, don’t get too sentimental on me. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to drive her."

Your eyes light up, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Oh, can I?"

The shift is subtle, classic Dean, slipping behind the wall the second things start feeling too real. But there’s still something lingering in the way he watches you

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Dean!" you whine, stepping closer. "Just once! I won’t even go out of first gear."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the P with exaggerated finality. "This car’s got standards."

You pout, leaning against the Impala dramatically. "You’re no fun."

Dean raises an eyebrow, and walk’s round the car towards you: leaning in a little closer, his teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m plenty of fun. You just don’t meet the qualifications for the VIP package."

His voice drops slightly at the end, smooth and full of that effortless confidence he carries around like armor. It’s the kind of line he throws out without a second thought, but it lingers longer than you expect, heating the space between you just enough to make your pulse pick up. You tell yourself it’s just the closeness, the warmth of the garage air, and not the way his eyes flick over you like he’s enjoying your reaction.

"Wow," you say, tilting your head with a mock-offended scoff. "Now you’re just being mean."

Dean chuckles under his breath, shifting back a fraction but still well within arm’s reach. There’s something easy about the way he leans, like he knows exactly how to walk the line between playful and challenging.

"Mean?" he echoes, standing upright and planting his hands on his hips, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable beneath the grease-smudged fabric of his shirt. His gaze locks onto yours with that familiar intensity, the one that’s half teasing and half something else you can never quite place. "You just called my car a sparky, duct-taped death trap. You’re lucky I let you breathe near her."

You know he’s joking, mostly. But there’s something about the way he says it, the protective edge creeping into his voice like he’s daring you to insult the Impala again. You’ve seen him put himself between her and danger more times than you can count.

You laugh, holding your hands up. "Okay, fine. I’ll leave your precious car alone." You step back, your grin still in place. "But if you get stuck in a ditch again, don’t call me to push."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Like you could push anything heavier than a shopping cart."

His voice carries that familiar roughness, laced with amusement, the kind that makes it impossible to take him seriously, even when he’s laying the sarcasm on thick. You roll your eyes, pushing off the Impala with an exaggerated sigh.

"I’ll remember that next time you need me to help save your sorry butt," you shoot back, already heading toward the door.

It’s the kind of banter that feels second nature by now, the words rolling off your tongue as easily as breathing. But just as your hand brushes against the doorframe, something tugs at you to glance back.

Dean’s still there, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed, watching you leave with a half-smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes follow you, not in a way that demands attention, but in that quiet, lingering way of someone who’s gotten used to having you around. Like maybe he notices more than he lets on.

Your grin softens almost involuntarily, the sharp edges of the teasing fading into something quieter. "Besides, you’d miss me too much”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but there’s no denying the way his eyes warm just a little. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, gruff nod like that’s answer enough.

And it is.

"Thanks, Dean”

Dean rolls his eyes, picking up his wrench again. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here”

You giggle lightly as you disappear down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the cold bunker floor, Dean’s eyes trail after you. He shakes his head with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Seat warmers," he mutters under his breath, glancing at the Impala like she might somehow agree with him.

The sound of Sam’s voice drifts faintly from the library, calling your name, probably to drag you back into research or help with whatever case he’s buried in.

Dean’s smile fades just slightly, not gone, but dimmed, like someone turned the dial down a notch.

His hand lingers on the Impala for another beat longer than necessary before he shifts his weight, rolling his shoulders as if to shake something off.

He ducks back under the hood, wrench in hand, and mutters under his breath, "All right, Winchester. Get a grip."

But even as he works, his thoughts are still trailing after you, following the soft echo of your laugh down the hall.

✦────────────────────✦────────────────────✦

Please be nice it was my first one, any feedback would be appreciated ;)

Tags

fluff supernatural dean winchester x reader

692 notes View Post

olaflookalike

4 weeks ago

the truest thing ive ever reblogged