#Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

[ilovefiction4lmen]

LORDDDDD

Enamored [3] - Ballroom Whispers

A.N: Thank you so much for your amazing feedback my loves!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Summary: Dance partners must be chosen carefully.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, slow burn.

Word Count: 4k

Series Masterlist

Attending balls, especially considering your father’s status in the society, was expected and normal.

Even though your father had all but abandoned you years and years ago just because of his own disillusions about your mother’s loyalty to him, you still had to follow the rules now that you were to be a part of the said society.

Either way, you had attended countless balls when you were back home, and now that you were in London, you knew that you were supposed to attend the ones in here as well. Most of your gowns were ready, your hair accessories were ready, your new jewelry was ready—

You on the other hand were not ready at all.

Keep reading

[alewritesfics]

Bridging realities

ℑ𝔛. 𝔅𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤....𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔡𝔤𝔢

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Word count:2.6k

Warnings: unedited, slow burn, eventual smut/ spicy scenes, some angst or none at all but happy ending, playful banter

A/n: jajsjksksjsjsksks, y'all probably know what happens next after this.....

⏮️                ⏸️                  ⏭️

The morning air of London was crisp, the kind of coolness that lingered after a storm, as though the world had not yet decided whether to embrace the warmth of spring or remain in the chill of winter. The streets, bathed in soft morning light, looked different today.

Perhaps it was because you felt different.

You had not meant to wander so far from the drawing room, but after arriving with Penelope, you found yourself hesitating before following her inside. She had come to visit Eloise, and while you were more than welcome in the Bridgerton home, something inside you made you stop at the threshold.

It was strange being in the Bridgerton home as you were partly– most of the reason, about why they weren’t making arrangements for a wedding right now.

You ran a hand along the carved wooden railing of the terrace, inhaling deeply, willing yourself to steel your nerves. It was foolish, really. You had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. And yet, the weight of unspoken words lingered in the air, suffocating you.

“You ran.”

You exhaled sharply, already rolling your eyes before you even turned around. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I did not—” But the words died on your lips the moment you saw him.

Anthony Bridgerton stood a few steps away, his presence just as commanding as ever. His dark eyes were unreadable, his posture stiff—guarded. He was dressed impeccably as always, but there was something weary about him, something frayed at the edges. You swallowed, heart thudding in your chest.Neither of you spoke at first.

Then, finally, he broke the silence. “You left before I could say anything,” he said carefully, as though measuring each word before it left his lips.

Your fingers curled at your sides. “There was nothing left to say, my lord.”

His jaw tensed. “Do not call me that.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Would you prefer Viscount Bridgerton, then?”

Anthony sighed, running a hand down his face. “Must we do this?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend as though none of it happened?”

You hesitated.

“That is not what I am doing,” you said, softer this time.

“Then tell me,” Anthony took a step forward, searching your face, “why are you here?”

You swallowed. “Penelope—”

“Penelope?” he echoed, incredulous.

“She came to see Eloise,” you explained, standing your ground, “and I… I had no choice but to accompany her.”

Anthony scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” you bit out. “It makes no difference to me.”

Silence stretched between you once more, heavy and suffocating. Then—

“You know I cannot pursue this,” Anthony said, his voice clipped.

Your breath caught. He did not have to clarify what this was. You looked away, schooling your features. “Of course you cannot.”

“It would cause a scandal.”

“Naturally.”

“The ton—”

“Would revel in it,” you finished, a bitter smile playing on your lips. Anthony stared at you, his expression unreadable.

“You were the reason I did not propose to Edwina,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “It was your fault.” The accusation sliced through the air like a knife.

You felt your stomach drop. A sharp laugh escaped you—short and disbelieving. “My fault?”

Anthony did not waver. “You—” he exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “You distracted me. You made me question everything I had spent my entire life working towards.” You clenched your jaw, feeling something deep inside you crack.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you snapped, voice shaking. “Do you think I asked for any of this, Anthony?”

“You—”

“I was fine before you,” you cut him off, stepping forward. “I had a life, a future – well maybe not a well planned future but still!. And then you came along, and suddenly, I was drowning in feelings I never wanted in the first place.”

His nostrils flared. "And yet, you still let it happen.”

“You cannot blame me for your choices,” you hissed. “If you did not want me, you would have proposed to her regardless. But you didn’t.”

Anthony’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You think this is easy for me?” he demanded.

“I think you have always been a coward,” you shot back.

His entire body tensed. “And you,” he said, voice dangerously quiet, “have always been reckless.”

“You do things without thinking,” Anthony continued, each word like a dagger. “You do not consider the consequences. You never have.”

Something inside you snapped. “And you,” you spat, “are incapable of feeling anything at all.” The words were out before you could stop them. For a moment, Anthony just stared at you. Then, his expression turned to one of pure anger.

He took a step forward, towering over you. “You truly believe that?”

You did not back down. “I know it.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. “Then you are a fool.”

“Then we both are.”

Silence. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

You could feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his fury. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. And then, without another word, you turned on your heel—

"You're running again!"

Anthony’s voice rang out across the terrace, sharp and desperate, freezing you in place just as you reached the steps leading back to the house.Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you willed yourself to keep walking. To not turn around.But you did.

You turned, eyes burning with fury, with frustration—with something else that you refused to name. "And what if I am?" you challenged.

Anthony strode towards you, his entire frame tense, the fire in his eyes matching the one inside you. "I’m starting to see a pattern," he said, voice tight with restraint. "Every single time things become difficult, you run."

Your eyes flashed. "And what of you, my lord? You push people away before they even have the chance to hurt you. That is not strength, Anthony. That is cowardice."

Anthony flinched as though you had struck him.For a moment, you thought he would lash out, that he would throw more cruel words your way just to wound you in return.But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled harshly, running a hand down his face before taking another step closer, reducing the already small distance between you.

"You think I do not feel?" he asked, voice low but charged with emotion. "That I do not feel everything when it comes to you?"

Your breath hitched.

"Do you know what it is like?" he continued, his tone almost accusatory, as though you had done something to him. "To see you in a crowded ballroom and only see you? To dance with another woman and only wish that it was you I was dancing with instead?"

Your heart pounded against your ribs.

"Do you know what it is like to wake up every morning and wish—pray—that I had the strength to be selfish? That I could throw away everything I have worked for, everything I have ever been, just to be with you?" Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Anthony took another step forward."Do you think I do not want to touch you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "That every time I look at you, I do not ache to pull you close? That I do not dream of threading my fingers through this damn hair of yours and kissing you until you cannot breathe?"

Your breath came fast and uneven, your body burning under his words. He was too close now. Too close, too much. Anthony’s hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to grab you, to claim you.

But he didn’t.Because if he touched you, if he gave in—he knew there would be no going back.

"You were never a mistake," he said, voice shaking. "You were never something I regretted."

"But I am afraid," he admitted. "I am afraid of what I become when I am with you. Afraid that you are the one thing I cannot control, the one thing that could ruin me."

You swallowed thickly, staring at him. "And yet," he continued, his voice softer now, gentler, "I am more afraid of what I am without you."

Silence.

The world felt unbearably still.

Anthony stood before you, stripped of all pretense, all composure. There was no Viscount Bridgerton here—no noble duty, no careful restraint.

Just a man. A man who had never wanted anything as much as he wanted you.

Your chest ached.Because this—this—was the Anthony Bridgerton no one else got to see.

And God help you, but you loved him.

"Say something," he pleaded, his voice raw.Your lips parted, but the words refused to come.

How could they, when every part of you—every fiber of your being—was caught in the tempest of Anthony Bridgerton?

He was too close, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim morning light. He was a storm waiting to break, and yet, for once, he was not running from it. He stood there, open, exposed, the weight of his confession hanging between you like something sacred.

You should walk away. You should. It would be the proper thing, the safe thing. It would be the logical choice, the rational choice—

But when had anything between you and Anthony Bridgerton ever been rational?

His gaze flickered down to your lips. And that was when you knew. It was inevitable.

Anthony had been fighting it for so long, had been clawing his way through the rules and expectations and all the things that told him no, no, no—but the moment he saw your lips part, the moment he saw the way you swayed ever so slightly toward him, he snapped.

His hand shot out, grasping the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair. A low, tortured sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for months, years—his entire life.

And then he kissed you.

It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was desperate.

His lips crashed against yours, hot and insistent, stealing the very air from your lungs. He kissed you like a man starved, like someone who had been denied this moment too many times, who had spent too long pretending he did not want it.

You gasped against his mouth, but he did not relent.

His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, closer, as if he could not bear a single inch of space between you. Your fingers clutched at the lapels of his coat, anchoring yourself, your knees threatening to give out beneath you. The kiss deepened, and it was ruinous.

It was not the kiss of a man who intended to let go. It was the kiss of a man who knew he was already damned. And, you let yourself fall with him.

You melted against him, into him, as though you had been made to fit there all along. His hands roamed your back, pressing, grasping, like he needed to memorize you, like he feared you would disappear the moment he let go.

And for the first time in weeks—no, months—you let yourself forget. You forgot the whispers, the scrutiny, the unspoken thoughts that declared you unworthy of a man like him. But you were a hypocrite, saying you’re unworthy but wanted to snatch him away either way. You admit it. You’re selfish

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. His hands remained on you, unwilling to let go.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice raw.

You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest. You should. You should tell him to stop, should tell him this was a mistake, should remind him of the consequences. But you didn’t, instead, you lifted a hand to his cheek, fingers trembling as they traced the sharp edge of his jaw.

“You do not want me to say that,” you whispered.

A pained sound left him, and then he was kissing you again, softer this time, but just as hungry.

His voice was hoarse, desperate. His fingers dug into your waist, gripping you as though you were the only thing tethering him to this world. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath ragged and uneven, his entire body taut with restraint.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, though this time it was not a plea, but a warning. His lips hovered just above yours, his nose brushing against your cheek, his fingers curling ever so slightly into the fabric of your dress. “Because if you don’t… I will have you. And I won’t stop.”

You should have been afraid. Not of him, never of him—but of what this meant. Of what you were about to do. But you weren’t. Because this was inevitable.

The tension that had simmered for days, months even, was finally at its breaking point, and you wanted it to break. You wanted to shatter alongside him.

Your fingers curled around the lapels of his coat, tugging him closer, your breaths mingling in the space between you.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered.

Anthony’s restraint snapped.

He growled, low and deep in his throat, before his lips crashed against yours, harder than before, more urgent, more needy. His hands slid down your waist, gripping your hips, pulling you against him in a way that made heat coil low in your belly.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping inside, tasting you, claiming you. It was dizzying, the way he kissed you—like he had been starving for you, like he had been deprived of this for far too long.

One of his hands tangled into your hair, tilting your head just the way he wanted, deepening the kiss until you were completely at his mercy. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers twisting in his coat, your body pressing against his, desperate for more.

“You have no idea,” he murmured between kisses, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, his voice rough and unsteady. “How long I have wanted this. How long I have ached for you.”

You whimpered as his teeth grazed your pulse point, your head falling back as his mouth continued its descent, lips and tongue and teeth mapping out every inch of exposed skin.

“Anthony—”

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips, his hands tightening on your waist before he lifted you, backing you up against the terrace railing. His hips slotted between your legs, the movement making you gasp, making you feel the unmistakable proof of his desire pressing against your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again, but this time, his voice was almost taunting, as if he already knew the answer.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned, his hips pressing even closer, making you keen.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered, breathless.

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. “My reckless girl,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with want. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

His hands slid lower, gathering the fabric of your dress, fingertips grazing bare skin. Every inch of you burned where he touched, where he kissed, where he pressed against you.

You were losing yourself, unraveling beneath him, and you didn’t care.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—

You weren’t running.

And neither was he.

A/n: with that being said, there'll be like one or two chapters left since I don't know what else to write anymore to make it more interesting 😭😭

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[usualsworld]

A Dance of Thorns

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader ༊*·˚

Warnings: cheating; adultery; smut fight; makeup sex; slight dark Anthony Bridgerton; implied age gap; period-typical sexism.

Word Count: 6,000+

Inspired by gothicquill 

Trapped in a marriage of duty rather than love, the Viscountess Bridgerton finds herself locked in a silent war with her husband, Anthony. Once, there had been respect — now, only cold stares and cruel words remain. But when a late-night confrontation spirals into something far more dangerous, buried truths and unspoken desires begin to unravel.

Seated in the dimly lit bedroom, you feel the crushing weight of your title – Viscountess Bridgerton. Once, it had been an honor, a purpose. Now, it feels like a prison. The distance between you and Anthony has grown into an abyss, neither of you daring to bridge it. Nights stretch long and lonely, your marriage reduced to obligation and cold pleasantries.

The door swings open with force, the hinges protesting under Anthony’s impatience. He steps inside, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows across his face – tired, frustrated, yet unreadable in that way he has perfected.

"You’re still up?" His voice is clipped, edged with something dangerously close to disdain. He pulls off his gloves with slow, deliberate motions, his eyes never leaving yours. "One would think a Viscountess would have better sense than to waste her time waiting for a husband who clearly has enough burdens without adding to them. Or do you have something pressing to say? More grievances, perhaps?"

You lift your head from where it had been resting against your knees, your body still trembling from earlier sobs. But the sorrow fades as his words settle in. Too cold. Too cruel. Too much.

Anger replaces grief, sharp.

You push yourself to your feet, wiping at your face as if scrubbing away the last traces of vulnerability.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord," you bite out, the title twisted into something venomous. "Forgive me for wanting to lay eyes on my husband, if only for the briefest of moments before he disappears again into whatever… obligations keep him so very occupied."

Anthony stills, his expression impassive – but you know better. You see the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the minute clench of his jaw. He knows exactly what you mean.

Your marriage had never been one of love. That was no secret. It had been arranged, convenient, expected. But at the very least, there had been respect.

Once.

Now, there is nothing but silence, suspicion, and resentment.

Anthony exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Spare me the dramatics." He steps closer, slow and measured, like a predator sizing up prey. His gaze is unreadable – cold and calculating, yet laced with something far more dangerous.

"You knew what this was from the beginning," he says, his voice low but weighted. "Affection was never a requirement. Duty, however, is. Or have you suddenly forgotten the role you so readily accepted?"

The words cut deep, but you refuse to let him see it.

A bitter laugh escapes you, though there is no amusement in it. "Readily accepted?" you echo, incredulous. "I was a child, Anthony. A child promised to a man with power enough to shape my entire future before I could even dream of choosing it for myself."

His expression flickers, something shifting in his eyes. But it’s gone before you can name it, replaced by that same indifferent mask.

Your hands tremble, but you refuse to back down.

"You had a choice," you push, your voice rising. "You, with all your influence, all your control. If this arrangement was such an unbearable weight, you could have ended it. But you didn’t."

His jaw tightens, and you know you’ve struck a nerve.

"So don’t you dare stand there," you seethe, stepping closer now, "and act as if you are merely a victim of circumstance. You made your choices, Anthony."

Anthony’s jaw clenches tighter, his chest heaving with restrained emotion. The anger he felt moments ago shifts into something more complex, something he can’t quite identify. Your words sting, cutting through the layers of indifference he has built around himself.

He looks at you – really looks at you – and sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the frustration in your clenched fists. He sees the person he married, the one who stood by his side through the years, even when things were far from easy.

You lower your head as soon as the words leave your lips, your breath unsteady. But before you can retreat into yourself, his hand tilts your chin up once more.

Your gaze meets his, locking onto the dark depths of his eyes. Your own irises glisten, tears pooling but refusing to fall. They are born from too much – sadness, anger, exhaustion, frustration.

He watches you, his expression unreadable. There is no sharp retort, no immediate rebuttal. Just a steady, almost contemplative calm in his eyes, as if weighing something unspoken between you both.

You bite your lower lip, the silence stretching too long, too heavy. Waiting.

Waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anthony’s fingers caress your chin, the touch surprisingly gentle, in contrast to the fire in your earlier exchange. He watches you intently, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, just a moment, the intensity in his eyes falters.

Then, his thumb brushes the corner of your lip, smoothing over the indentation left by your teeth. The gesture is an unconscious one, born from something he doesn’t quite understand himself.

He opens his mouth, his throat feeling tight with emotion, and murmurs, "Why must you always challenge me?"

"You are the Viscount," you say plainly, your voice steady, unwavering. "If I don’t challenge you, no one else will have the courage to."

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

"I am simply fulfilling my role as a wife, husband," you say, your voice steady, almost matter-of-fact.

"So, that’s the only reason, then?" he asks, his thumb still tracing your lower lip with surprising tenderness. He seems almost in a trance, his gaze fixed intently on your mouth.

He leans imperceptibly closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Is it fun? Driving me up the wall? Testing my limits?"

"I manage the household. I tend to our guests. I handle the simpler matters. I build connections. And I…"– you tilt your head slightly, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world – "I challenge you."

Your words hang between you, deliberate, undeniable.

He freezes, his jaw tensing, his nostrils flaring. There it is, out in the open, his most shameful secret. His chest heaves, his body rigid, caught off guard by your unexpected mention of his indiscretions.

"If I didn’t, you would live comfortably on your pedestal of certainties. You would continue treating me like nothing. And you would keep spending your nights with whores."

You spit the last word like venom, sharp and cutting, daring him to deny it.

His hand falls from your chin, clenching into a tight fist by his side. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, the silence in the room palpable, charged with something he can’t quite name.

When he speaks, his voice is low, rough with barely controlled emotion. "What, did you think I was going to deny it?"

"Of course not. Why would you deny it?" you say, almost amused. "It’s the truth, and everyone knows it."

You shrug, feigning indifference – though you both know better.

"When I attend afternoon tea with the other ladies, Anthony, they all talk about it."

You tilt your head, watching him, watching for the flicker of something – guilt, irritation, anything. But he gives you nothing.

"Everyone knows the great Viscount Bridgerton works tirelessly, and when he isn’t working, he’s fucking whores."

The words are laced with mockery, punctuated by a humorless laugh.

"You think I don’t smell it? That I don’t see the marks on your neck?"

Before he can step away, you reach up, your fingers gripping his collar. In one swift motion, you yank it aside, forcing him to stumble – just slightly.

Even you are surprised by your own strength.

As his shirt is suddenly jerked to the side, Anthony stumbles forward, his body colliding against yours. He catches himself in the nick of time, his hands braced against the wall, trapping you between him and the stone. His chest rises and falls under your touch, his breathing labored and ragged.

"You seem awfully preoccupied with my…escapades," he bites out, his tone sharp, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed anger. "Are you jealous?"

"Me? Jealous?" You tilt your head slightly, your eyes darkening as a slow, knowing smile curls on your lips. "Don’t worry, husband… a mutual betrayal doesn’t hurt."

You bite your lower lip, watching him, daring him to react.

It’s a bluff, of course. But Anthony is barely home for more than five hours a day – how could he possibly know the truth?

Two can play this game.

His eyes flash darkly, your words hitting him square in the chest. "Mutual."

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, his own lip curling into a sardonic smile. He leans in closer, his body pressing against yours, pinning you between the wall and his unyielding frame.

"You expect me to believe that you’ve been unfaithful all these years?" he asks, his tone dripping with doubt.

His hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, possessive and demanding. "Or are you just bluffing, wife?"

"However, husband…"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," you say sweetly, tilting your head ever so slightly, your eyes wide, innocent – dove eyes. "You’re free to believe whatever you like."

Your voice is light, almost playful. But then –

Your expression shifts, the softness melting away like a mask slipping from your face. Your eyes narrow, sharp as a blade, the look of a woman who knows exactly where to strike.

"Before I was a Viscountess, I was a Marquess," you remind him, your tone softer now, but no less dangerous. "My family is wealthier than yours. And if there’s one thing I never run out of, it’s connections… and money."

The words spill from your lips like a secret shared between friends, a quiet whisper laced with something dark, something dangerous.

Then, you feel it – his grip tightening at your waist.

There it is. The seed of doubt, the tiniest crack in his unshakable confidence.

Your words echo in the silence, and he stiffens. No. He couldn’t possibly believe that you had taken a lover, could he? And yet, the image of you with another man – any other man – makes him see red.

He grips you tighter, his fingers bruising your skin, but he doesn’t care. That possessive part of him, the one he tries to keep contained, is rearing its ugly head. He hates the idea of another man with you, just as you hate the idea of him with any other woman.

The tension between you is like a taut wire, stretched thin, ready to snap. His chest heaves, his heart pounding with a mix of possessive anger and denial.

"Are you telling me you’ve been using your connections and money to… what exactly?" he growls, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Is this your way of getting back at me? By paying someone to warm your bed while I’m away? By betraying me just as I have betrayed you?"

You merely shrug in response, offering nothing but a sharp, ironic smile. Then, without warning, you press your hands against his shoulders and shove.

He isn’t expecting it.

Anthony stumbles backward, the force sending him down onto the bed behind him. A rare moment of vulnerability – one you savor.

Now, you stand before him, tall, unyielding. But you don’t stay there for long.

Slowly, you lean down, lowering yourself to his level, your face inches from his.

"Let this be a reminder, husband," you murmur, your voice silk wrapped around steel. "If you are venom, I can be the very viper itself."

Your lips curve into something between a smirk and a warning.

"Don't test me."

The sudden shift in power dynamics leaves him reeling. He finds himself on the bed, pinned beneath your gaze, his breath catching in his throat as you hover over him, your face mere inches away.

He opens his mouth to retort, his usual sharp tongue ready with a scathing response, but your words silence him.

"Vixen," he mutters, his tone a mix of begrudging reverence and irritation.

He knows it. This woman, the woman he married, the woman he calls his wife, is a viper in disguise. Sharp. Dangerous.

"I’ll be sleeping in the other room," you say casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t just been a battlefield.

Rising to your full height, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door. When you swing it open, you’re met with the wide-eyed stares of several servants – clearly caught in the act of eavesdropping.

Their eyes go wide in panic, and they immediately scatter, hurrying away as if they hadn’t been standing there, hanging on to every word. You watch them for a beat before letting out a short, amused laugh.

Still, a thought lingers at the back of your mind – Had you gone too far?

You had just all but confessed to adultery, a bold-faced lie, but one that Anthony doesn’t know is a lie. And knowing him, he will not let it rest. He will dig, search, turn the entire ton upside down in pursuit of this phantom lover.

Oh well. A problem for another day.

You lift a hand and beckon one of the maids forward with a single finger. The poor girl hesitates before approaching, eyes downcast, as if terrified of being caught in the crossfire.

"Prepare the guest room at the end of the hall for me," you order smoothly.

Meanwhile, Anthony feels a strange mixture of disbelief, irritation, and… something else. Something more primal, more possessive.

"Like hell you are." He gets to his feet, his gaze following you as you walk toward the door, his eyes dark and intent. He barely registers the scattered servants, too focused on you.

When you turn and order the servants to prepare the guest room, Anthony bristles. No. You aren’t doing this, not tonight. Not tonight after that conversation.

He stalks after you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway. "You’re not leaving this room." His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist. He whirls you around, your back colliding against the bedroom door. The force of it sends a sharp jolt up your arm, but it is nothing compared to the way your heart is racing now.

His grip is firm – borderline painful – and his expression is dark, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching there. His body is close, too close, trapping you against the door, trapping you in him.

"Yes, I am leaving, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, your voice steady despite the shock flickering in your eyes.

Your heart stumbles over a beat – you hadn’t expected him to grab you. Let alone throw you back against the wall.

For a brief moment, you simply stare at him, processing the sudden shift.

"I’ve already asked Clara" – the maid you had summoned – "to prepare the room for me."

Your tone is cool, as if stating the obvious. As if his grip on your arm, the way his body towers over yours, is of no consequence. "There is nothing more for us to discuss tonight."

Anthony’s grip tightens, his free hand slamming down on the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in. His brown eyes are stormy, filled with a mix of anger, frustration, and something else, something dangerous. He leans in, his lips hovering dangerously close to your ear.

"Oh, there’s more to discuss," he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "And we’re not finished until I say we are."

While Anthony continues his performance, Clara – poor Clara – remains frozen, eyes wide in fear. You neither move nor breathe, trapped between the two most relentless forces in this house.

The Viscount and the Viscountess.

Two worlds colliding.

You exhale sharply, throwing your head back in frustration before shooting a sharp look at the petrified maid.

"You may go. You’re dismissed for the night," you order, your voice rigid but controlled. No need to turn this into an even bigger spectacle.

Because by morning, the city will be buzzing – whispers of the scandalous Viscountess Bridgerton and her alleged affair, rumors of how her husband laid hands on her in a fit of rage.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

The moment Clara disappears, your attention shifts back to Anthony. Your gaze is pure fire – dark, untamed – like a predator watching its prey.

His body becomes a barrier against yours, blocking any chance of escape.

"So tell me, husband," you taunt, your voice as cold as a sharpened blade. "What else is there to discuss?"

Anthony’s eyes burn, ignited by your provocation. Without hesitation, he steps forward, eliminating the last shred of space between you, pressing his body against yours. He can feel the frantic beat of your heart, can taste your resistance.

"You really want to know, wife?" His voice drops to a deep timbre, a low growl vibrating through you.

The hand that once braced against the wall slides up to your cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch, completely at odds with the fury in his eyes.

"Then let me make it very clear for you…"

His fingers trace a slow path down your neck, a touch so light, so careful it almost contradicts the fierce hunger in his gaze.

You bite your lip, swallowing the gasp that threatens to escape. No, you will not give him that satisfaction.

"You," he pauses, savoring the moment, watching the way your breath stutters, how your chest rises and falls unevenly, "are not sleeping in the guest room tonight."

His hand drifts to your waist, possessive, determined. His thumb grazes the sliver of exposed skin in your nightgown.

"You’ll be sleeping in my bed."

Your eyes narrow, laced with judgment as they meet his.

"Now, you want me." Your smirk lands like a sharp slap.

"Funny," you murmur, your voice laced with mockery. "Not too long ago, you wouldn’t even think of touching me. But now that you think another man has…"

You lean in, defiant, even with his grip restricting your movements.

"You’re pathetic, Viscount."

His fingers tighten on your hip – a silent warning to watch your words. He’s teetering on the edge, patience wearing thin, worn down by every sharp-edged provocation. He’s not used to this – not to being challenged, to being resisted. And, damn it, as much as it infuriates him… it also excites him.

A low, dangerous chuckle slips from his lips.

"Oh, pathetic, am I?" He leans in, his mouth hovering over yours. "Let’s see who’ll be pathetic tonight, wife."

His fingers slide to your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face dips, nose brushing along the side of your neck as he breathes you in, inhaling your scent like a drug.

"You think you can just accuse me, challenge me, and I’ll let you go?" His whisper brushes against your ear, hot, laced with a quiet threat.

"Oh no, darling." His voice drips with arrogance. "You won’t get rid of me that easily."

His fingers glide from your face to your hair, tangling in the soft strands before giving a sharp tug, forcing you to expose your throat.

Before you can react, his lips claim your skin – teeth grazing, bites marking, just enough to steal your breath.

He doesn’t stop.

His mouth carves a burning path, invisible marks seared into your skin, as if branding you with a single truth: Mine.

You bite your lower lip, fighting to keep any sound at bay. But it’s useless.

Because he knows.

He always knows.

He feels the way your body trembles, the way your breath shudders. A satisfied smile ghosts over his lips as he presses a kiss to the pulse point in your throat.

"You can pretend all you want, wife," he murmurs, voice thick with possession.

His lips trail along your skin, his hand slowly traveling up your body, a touch balancing between tenderness and dominance. "But I know the truth."

A gasp escapes you, involuntary, tangled with a whisper.

"I hate you…"

You breathe it out between ragged sighs, your eyes fluttering shut against the pleasure. Your hand moves to his right shoulder, fingers finding rigid, tense muscles beneath them.

And he laughs.

And then, without hesitation, you dig your nails in.

Low, rough.

Like a man who has already won.

A sharp, stifled hiss escapes Anthony's lips, the pain blending seamlessly with pleasure. Your nails, digging into his skin, only fuel his desire. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

"Hate me? No, darling," he murmurs, his voice thick with need as his lips resume their slow, tormenting assault on your neck. "You can try, but you will fail. We both know you can't resist me any more than I can resist you."

The sharp pull on your scalp intensifies, the sting spreading like fire. The pain – blistering, exquisite – sends a jolt straight through you. A moan tumbles past your lips, raw and unbidden, your body betraying you.

He knows you. He knows you've always liked a little pain.

Your hips move instinctively, rolling forward, meeting his. The friction, the heat – it’s intoxicating. His body, firm and unyielding, presses against yours, and through the thin fabric of your nightgown, you feel everything.

Anthony exhales sharply, his grip on your waist turning possessive, his fingers sinking into your skin. His free hand slides up, resting just below your ribs, anchoring you to him. His forehead nearly brushes yours as his dark eyes, wild and smoldering, lock onto your own.

"You want me, don't you?" His voice is a low rasp, teasing, taunting. "You can deny it all you want, love, but your body betrays you."

"Oh, really?" His voice is still low, dark. "You actually think you just want me for pleasure?" His lips hover over yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think I don’t see through you? Through this cold, detached façade you cling to so desperately?"

Your jaw clenches at the pet name, anger flashing in your eyes. "I want you the same way I want others." Your voice is sharp, cutting, meant to wound. "Only for my pleasure."

The words hit him like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hip, his grip tightening just enough to remind you of his strength.

The loose neckline of your nightgown shifts dangerously, fabric slipping, baring more than intended. You bite your lip, gaze locked onto his, refusing to let him see just how much this – he – is affecting you.

He moves swiftly. Before you can react, his hands capture your wrists, pushing them above your head, pinning them against the wall.

Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker downward, darkening as they take in your disheveled hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly. He drinks in the sight of you – vulnerable, defiant, completely at his mercy.

"What are you going to do now, Mr. Bridgerton?" You ask, your voice laced with defiance, deliberately refusing to call him husband, refusing to call him Anthony.

The way you say his name – or rather, the way you refuse to – sparks something dangerous inside him.

His jaw tics.

"Now?" he growls, his voice rough, thick with frustration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Now, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

Before you can respond, his hands leave your wrists only to seize your waist in an iron grip. In one swift movement, he lifts you, carrying you across the room with long, determined strides.

The door slams shut behind him with a forceful kick of his boot.

You barely have time to process before you feel your back collide with the mattress, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The irony isn’t lost on you – look how the tables have turned.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, your breath uneven, your pulse wild. Your gaze meets his, and in that moment, nothing else exists.

His gaze is dark and unrelenting as he takes a lingering moment to drink her in – disheveled, flushed, sprawled out across their bed. The sight of her like this, breathless and defiant, only feeds something primal inside him, a hunger sharpened by the way she looks at him with both defiance and undeniable want.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his body taut with tension, every movement exuding dominance. "You think you’re in control, sweetheart?" His voice is a low growl, smooth and dangerous. "You’re not. Not here. Not in my bed."

His hands move with practiced ease, undoing his belt without ever breaking eye contact. The sharp sound of leather sliding free from the loops cuts through the air, a silent warning. He lets it drop to the floor carelessly before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his forearms, his movements precise and methodical. His fingers work deftly at the buttons of his shirt, revealing golden skin and hard muscle beneath.

You shift, rubbing one thigh against the other, the sight of him – unraveling, controlled yet lethal – sending a rush of heat through you. He is effortlessly beautiful, intoxicating in the way only a man who knows his own power can be.

He steps to the edge of the bed, towering over his wife, looking every bit the predator you refuse to admit that you want. His voice is deep, unwavering.

You part your lips, dragging your teeth over your lower one as you exhale through your nose, your expression shifting into something smug, defiant. You want to obey, to let yourself sink into the moment, but the idea of handing him that victory so easily is unbearable.

"Lose the nightgown." It is not a request. It is a command.

"If you really think I –" A gasp rips from her throat, sharp and unbidden.

Anthony’s patience has never been his strong suit. He moves without warning, his fingers catching on the delicate fabric of your nightgown and tearing it apart as if it were paper, the sound of shredding fabric filling the air.

His eyes are feral, burning with possession as he discards the ruined silk, his body moving over you, his presence all-consuming. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"You were saying, love?" His voice is silk and steel, rough with amusement and something deeper.

You barely have time to react before he presses against you, forcing you down against the mattress, his warmth searing against your bare skin. The solid weight of him steals your breath, leaving you utterly trapped beneath him.

"You’re unbelievable," you breathe, your pulse hammering, your body betraying the irritation you try to hold onto. Even now, you can’t believe he had the audacity to rip your nightgown.

Anthony smirks, leaning in ever so slightly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Oh, darling." His voice is velvet-wrapped sin, deep and knowing. "You haven’t seen anything yet."

"You love it," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You love it when I’m like this – out of control, consumed with desire."

With deliberate slowness, he parts your legs, positioning himself between them, his movements filled with intent. You feel his hardness through the thin fabric between you, and despite yourself, a breathless sound escapes your lips.

He presses his body even more against yours, leaving no space between them. The feel of her skin against his is a delicious torture, only fueling the fire between them. His hand moves up your arm, his touch both possessive and tender.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, gripping onto him like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Fu– fuck..." you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

A low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. "No need to hold back, sweetheart," he breathes against your ear. "I want to hear every little sound you make for me."

"You think you can fight this? Fight me?" His voice is dark, laced with amusement. His lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "But we both know the truth, don’t we?"

His lips return to your neck, teasing, biting – just enough to leave a mark. One hand holds yours above your head, effortlessly pinning you in place, while the other explores your body, tracing slow, burning lines down your sides.

You inhale sharply, refusing to give in, refusing to let him see just how much he's unraveling you. But Anthony is nothing if not relentless. He knows every tell, every weakness, every unspoken desire.

"Say it," he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less commanding. "Say what we both already know."

You still shake your head, refusing to answer. His hand then goes to your panties, wrapping his hand around them and giving a strong pull, ripping the fabric in one go.

Anthony’s eyes lock onto yours, his gaze dark and smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He can see the desire burning within you, evident in the way your breath hitches and your chest rises and falls with each shallow inhale. But he doesn’t just want to see it – he wants to hear it. He needs you to admit it, to confess that you are his, completely and irrevocably.

He leans in closer, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a wave of heat through your body. His lips hover mere millimeters away, teasing, as his voice drops to a low, commanding growl. "Say it," he demands, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "Say you're mine."

Without warning, he guides himself inside you in one swift, confident motion, filling you completely. Your head falls back instinctively, a sharp cry of pleasure escaping your lips as he grips your hips, pulling you against him with a possessive urgency. Holy shit, you think, your mind spinning as the sensation overwhelms you.

Your eyes roll back, your body trembling under his touch. It had been too long since you’d last been together like this, too long since you’d felt this kind of raw, unbridled connection. The ache of his absence had been unbearable, and now, with him so close, so deep inside you, it’s as if every nerve in your body is alight with electricity.

Anthony is lost in you, his movements deliberate and rhythmic, a dance that is both familiar and exhilaratingly new. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this way, since he’s been able to lose himself in the warmth of your body, in the way you respond to him so perfectly. In this moment, there is no doubt – you are his, and he is yours, bound together in a way that transcends time.

His lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands roam your body with a possessive hunger, mapping every curve, every inch of you, as if committing you to memory all over again.

"You're mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that reverberates through you. "Only mine. Always."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." You repeat the words under your breath, your mind spinning, completely lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the way Anthony makes you feel – consumed, possessed, utterly his.

"I'm- I'm yours, Anthony," you manage to say, your voice trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. Even in this state of blissful delirium, you muster the strength to shoot him a defiant, accusatory look, as if daring him to deny it.

"And you are mine..." you whisper, your eyes locking with his, the intensity of your gaze mirroring the fire in his.

"Absolutely, love," he growls, his voice low and rough, his dark eyes burning with a desire that threatens to consume you both. His hands tighten on your hips, his touch possessive, his body responding to every movement, every breath you take.

"You're mine," he repeats, his voice deeper, more commanding than before. "And I'm yours. Completely and utterly."

He rolls you over effortlessly, pulling you on top of him. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding your movements as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your legs feel weak, shaky from the pleasure coursing through you, but Anthony holds you steady, his strong hands keeping you in place. You know you’ll feel the marks of his touch tomorrow, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Your body moves with his, your breasts rising and falling with each breath, each motion. Sweat glides down your neck, tracing a path along your collarbone and down your chest, leaving your skin glistening like a rare jewel under the dim light.

The two of you are close, so close to the edge, and Anthony’s hand slides down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you even closer to him. He sets a relentless pace, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, guiding you in a rhythm you couldn’t possibly follow on your own.

Your body responds to his every touch, your skin flushed and hot, your moans escaping your lips unbidden. You’re at his mercy, completely under his control, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lifts you higher, bringing you closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, but you can’t look away. He bites your lip, a sharp, possessive gesture that sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Say it again," he growls, his voice strained, his body taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. "Say I'm yours."

"You're mine, Anthony. Mine. And I'm yours..." you whisper, your voice weak, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

The moment the words leave your lips, he lets out a deep, guttural groan, and you cry out in ecstasy, your voices mingling as you both reach your peak together. Your head falls back, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and spent.

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed to his skin, listening to the rapid thud of his heartbeat. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as you both try to catch your breath. He’s still inside you, his body slowly relaxing, but the connection between you remains, unbroken and undeniable.

You can’t form words, can’t think of anything but the way his heart beats against your ear, steady and strong. In this moment, there’s nothing else – just you and Anthony, bound together in every way that matters.

He feels your body go limp on top of him, your head resting gently on his chest as both of your bodies slowly relax, the tension melting away. His arms encircle you, pulling you tightly against him, his heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. The warmth of your skin against his is intoxicating, and he can’t help but savor the way you fit perfectly in his embrace.

He looks down at you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled hair, the soft flush that colors your cheeks, and the delicate sheen of sweat that glistens on your skin. You are a vision to him – utterly breathtaking, a beautiful mess that he can’t tear his eyes away from. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch tender and reverent.

Gently, he lifts your chin, urging you to meet his eyes. His voice is soft but firm, filled with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're mine," he repeats, his gaze never wavering from yours, as if he’s trying to imprint the words into your very soul.

You don’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you for a few more moments. Then, unexpectedly, you begin to laugh – a soft, almost incredulous sound that grows louder, more unrestrained. It’s as if you can’t contain it, the laughter bubbling up from deep within you.

"I lied..." you confess, your laughter softening into a sly smile. Your voice is low, almost teasing, as you continue, "I don’t have a lover. I just wanted to make you mad." You bite your lip, a mix of shame and pride flickering across your face, as if you’re both embarrassed by your admission and delighted by the effect it had on him.

But then your expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more serious. You raise your head higher, your eyes locking with his, and there’s a challenge in your gaze. "But if you keep looking for other women," you say, your voice steady and firm, "I won’t hesitate to do the same."

The room seems to grow quieter, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Anthony’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching as he processes what you’ve just said. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or maybe even a hint of admiration for your boldness. But above all, there’s a fierce determination, as if your words have only solidified his resolve.

"You won’t have to," he murmurs, his voice low and intense. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that’s both possessive and tender. "Because now there’s no one else for me but you."

[jurina5ever]

b

Routine

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x reader x Kate Sharma

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: Kate does love her routine…

Smut!

keematee-percious

Keep reading

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Ok so I had this story I wrote years ago about a king that gets a maid to pretend to be his fiance during this huge ball to avoid having people from neighbouring kingdoms throwing women at him to marry. And in exchange, the maid would receive a shit ton of money and permission to marry the knight that she’s in love with. Anyway, shit happens and obvi the king falls for the maid (and the knight is a shitty person). i had written the king to be a grumpy womaniser who really just wanted to be respected rather than feared

so if i were to rewrite said story (it would be a fucking big one), who should be our king? also there’s a probability for a part 2 that i hadn’t finished writing with the maid’s childhood friend appearing at the castle as a foreign deligate (mmf anyone?)

[stupidnpoetic]

[colmiillo]

When y/n does something so cringe that i have to look at the invisible camera for a sec.

[skyrigel]

me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*

[natti-ice]

18+ mdni

that reality check hitting after reading smut

[itshelia]

My mom to her friends, my aunts, and literally everyone she knows: Yeah, my kid is so smart. She is on her phone a lot of the time, but it's not like you guys think, She is not like how kids nowadays are, She reads a lot of books on her phone!!

Me, a fanfic reader who can survive off nothing but just words and day dreams herself to sleep:

[ilovefiction4lmen]

he ain’t slick

Enamored [4] - Museum Admiration

A.N: Thank you so much for your amazing feedback my loves!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Summary: Not every emotion can be deciphered, at least at first. 

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, slow burn, innuendos.

Word Count: 3,400

Series Masterlist

Flirting with people within the boundaries of formality as much as the society deemed fit was normal during balls, it was expected even.

And considering your education and everything your mother had taught you as well as making sure you were a prominent member of the ton just like she was, you were used to making small talk and flirting and even sometimes being courted.

But not like that.

You had managed to get your mind off the matter, and especially now that you were outside, you were able to focus on the warm sunlight on your skin. Your brother had suggested that you’d go on a picnic and go riding, and you had figured some fresh air would help you to not think about—

Well.

To not think about what you weren’t supposed to.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened?” your brother’s voice shot through your thoughts and your head snapped up from the embroidery you were busy with.

“I’m sorry?”

Keep reading

[love-at-first-sight-23]

Welcome to the world of “Being in love with a person who doesn’t exist in real life but you pretend they do anyway because you’re obsessed” ✧˖*°࿐

[cinnamoodles]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[realangelahernandez]

I’m so sad… time for an x reader fan fiction

[leviathanspain]

selfish

anthony bridgerton x reader

synopsis: it’s your first morning at home in bridgerton house as the viscountess- only thing is, your husband’s selfish

you trembled under his grip, his mouth was still working hard, your orgasm coming over you in waves as you tried to escape his grip. you shivered with pleasure, thighs squeezing his head between them. “oh my-��� you cried, struggling to keep quiet.

the honeymoon was over, no longer could you scream your viscount’s name all over the room, until your throat grew raw of it. you had a bustling family under the same roof, even so, his mother.

you shuddered slowly and anthony let go of your legs. he smiled proudly as he leaned to kiss you. you melted into his kiss, grasping at his hair.

anthony bit your lip as he tossed himself next to you. you were sitting up, and still reeling from the pleasure, “i have been trying to get up and ready for the day for what feels like forever now, and you do not let me.” you looked at your husband, his smile not going away, only as he shrugged, “i want you all to myself. my siblings will just talk your ear off and i will be drowning in paperwork.” which you knew was true. anthony was the most reluctant to get back to his viscount duties.

you on the other hand, still marveled at the idea of having to run the household, but felt immense pressure to live up to the dowager bridgerton. violet was everything you admired in a mother, present and kind, wanting her children’s happiness before all else.

anthony had told you that there was no legacy to live up to, but he did not see things the way you did.

he pulled you in close, “my mother is still here. let her run the household, even if it is for a little bit longer.” he kissed your cheek, still trying to keep you in bed. you sighed, “all you want to do is stay in bed, lord bridgerton. you need to get out of this bed, and be productive with me.” the paperwork stack was to the ceiling at this point, and he could not avoid it much longer.

anthony looked at you, “we can do many things within this room that are productive.” you shrugged at him, “the thought is lost on me, what do you suggest?”

anthony grabbed your hand gently, holding it in his, “such as making an heir, as married people do.” the thought had not even occurred to you, especially so early in the morning. you looked at your husband, smiling at that thought. you blushed as anthony chuckled, “do not tell me that did not cross your mind?” he cocked his head and you shyed away, “i have been stressed all night about the viscountess duties, forgive me if it slipped my mind.” you rolled over, legs now entangled in his and you on his chest.

you kissed him, and anthony smirked, “it is a viscountess duty.”

giving up, you decided to extend the honeymoon with anthony, not yet ready to take up the full responsibility, anthony could be selfish.

[cruel-seduction]

Every girl, when she stumbles upon that story that wrecks her soul, a perfect blend of heart-shattering angst and mind-fucking twists that she didn't even know she needed in her life. The kind of plot that makes her heart ache, her eyes burn from crying so hard, and every word cuts deeper than the last. The kind of writing that has her clutching her chest, gasping for air, her mind spiraling into a dark abyss where she can't even sleep at night because all she can think about is the characters' pain, the suffocating intensity, and the gut-wrenching love they’ll never get to have.