Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
image credits: bertie carvel at ‘the crown’ season 6 premiere
Summary: Since your second year of university, you've been Bertie Carvel's secret everything — education funded, rent paid, body worshipped in lavish villas and suites across the world. The diamond ring from Monaco never leaves your finger. Now, as he vows to divorce his wife and marry you, your nights explode with raw, intimate passion, a love so consuming it could rewrite both your lives.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; +18; MDNI
A/N: Yes, we are going down this road. You voted. I answered. Enjoy!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Monaco suite is quiet except for the distant murmur of the sea and the soft hum of the air conditioning. Moonlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the white marble floor silver and painting long shadows across the tangled sheets. You’re both still breathing hard — skin slick with sweat, the air heavy with sex and salt and the faint citrus of his cologne. His cum is drying in sticky streaks on your belly, your breasts, your thighs — he came so hard earlier he painted you like a canvas, growling your name like a prayer and a curse.
You slip out of bed before he can pull you back.
The silk robe — the one he bought you last year in Paris, black and whisper-thin — is barely tied at your waist. It slips off one shoulder as you wander toward the balcony doors, bare feet silent on the cool floor. The robe is so short it barely covers your ass; every step parts the silk just enough to flash the marks he left on your inner thighs.
“Come back here,” he says, voice wrecked, still thick with post-orgasm haze.
You don’t.
You pause by the window, arms crossed loosely under your breasts, staring out at the dark water. The diamond ring on your left hand catches the moonlight, the one he gave you here in Monaco two summers ago, so large and brilliant it could easily pass for an engagement ring. You twist it slowly with your thumb.
He sits up in bed, sheets pooling around his hips. Naked, hair mussed, chest still rising fast, cock soft but still flushed from how many times he came inside you tonight.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says quietly.
You turn halfway, robe slipping further down your shoulder.
“Am I?”
He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. Crosses the room in three long strides and stops just behind you, close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his body.
His arms slide around your waist from behind, gentle now, reverent. He presses his lips to the side of your neck, breathing you in. “Talk to me,” he murmurs against your skin.
You lean back into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder.
“Tell me about her,” you say softly.
He goes still. You feel his chest expand on a slow breath.
“You know I don’t want to.”
“I know. But I still want to hear it.”
His hands tighten on your waist — not possessive, just holding on.
“She’s… fine,” he says after a long pause. “She’s good to the children. She runs the house. She’s never asked for more than I’ve given her. But she’s not you.”
You close your eyes.
“Does she know?”
A bitter little laugh against your neck.
“She suspects. She’s not stupid. But she doesn’t ask. And I don’t tell.”
You turn in his arms — robe falling open completely now, baring your breasts, your marked skin, the sticky trails he left on you earlier. He looks down at you, eyes dark, pupils blown, like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.
“Do you love her?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“No,” he says. “Not anymore. Not like this.” His hand cups your cheek. “I love you. Obsessively. Completely. I think about you every second I’m not with you. I dream about you. I wake up hard because of you. I pay for your flat, your tuition, your books, your dresses because I want you free to be brilliant, to be mine, to never worry. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to fuck you every night. I want to put a real ring on your finger — not this secret one — and I want the world to know you’re mine.”
Tears burn your eyes.
“Then why haven’t you—”
“Because I’m terrified,” he admits, voice cracking for the first time. “Terrified of hurting the children. Terrified of the press. Terrified of what it would do to you. But I’m more terrified of losing you. Every time I go home to her I feel sick. Every time I kiss her goodbye I think of you. I’m dying inside, love. I’m dying without you.”
He kisses you then — desperate, hungry, hands sliding under the robe to grip your bare ass, pulling you flush against him.
You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, legs parting instinctively as he lifts you just enough to grind his hardening cock against your slick folds.
“Marry me,” he breathes against your lips. “Please. I'll divorce her. Marry me. Let me give you everything. Let me give you my name, my bed, my life.”
You’re shaking — tears slipping down your cheeks, arousal pooling between your legs.
“Bertie—”
“Say yes,” he begs, voice raw, broken. “Say you’ll be my wife. Say you’ll let me love you out in the open. Say you’ll let me fuck you every morning and every night and every afternoon. Say you’ll have my children. Say you’ll wear my ring — the real one — and let everyone know you’re mine.”
You kiss him — hard, claiming — and he groans like he’s dying.
He carries you back to the bed, lays you down, and slides inside you in one long, slow thrust. You both moan — loud, shameless — as he fills you completely. He doesn’t move at first, just stays buried, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Please. Say yes.”
You cup his face, thumbs brushing the tears on his cheeks.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes. I’ll marry you. I’ll be your wife. I love you. I’m yours.”
He kisses you — deep, reverent — and starts to move. Slow at first, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside you. Then faster, harder, hips snapping, cock slamming deep. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, legs wrapped around his waist, moaning into his mouth.
“I love you,” he growls against your throat. “I love you so much it hurts. I’m leaving her. I’m divorcing her. I’m marrying you. I’m never letting you go.”
You come, hard, screaming his name, walls clamping down, milking him.
He follows, burying himself deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan of your name, hips jerking, flooding you until it leaks out around him. He stays inside — still hard — and rolls you so you’re on top, straddling him.
He kisses you again — slow, deep — hands roaming your back, your ass, your thighs.
“Mine,” he whispers. “Finally mine.”
You lean down, kiss him softly, and whisper against his lips: “Always.”
The ring on your finger glints in the moonlight. And for the first time in years, it feels like the truth.
But then — the phone on the nightstand vibrates. His phone. The screen lights up. Her name. His wife.
You both freeze. He stares at it — jaw clenched, eyes suddenly dark with something like dread.
The vibration stops. Silence. You both exhale — shaky, relieved.
But then it starts again. Louder this time. Longer. Insistent. The screen glows brighter, her name flashing over and over. Bertie's hand tightens on your hip almost painfully.
You feel his cock twitch inside you — still hard, still buried deep — but now there’s tension in his body, a sudden rigidity.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t answer.”
He looks at you, eyes tormented. “She’ll keep calling,” he says hoarsely. “She always does when I’m away too long. She’ll worry. The children—”
The phone keeps ringing. Each vibration feels like a knife. You lean down, kiss him softly, trying to pull him back to you. But he reaches over — slowly, reluctantly — and silences it again.
The screen goes dark. Relief floods you.
He exhales, shaky, and pulls you down, kisses you deeply, desperately, hips starting to roll again. “I’m leaving her,” he repeats against your mouth. “I swear. Soon.”
You nod, kissing him back, but the phone buzzes once more. A text this time. He glances at it — just a glimpse. You see his face change, a flash of guilt, of fear. He silences it again. But the moment is fractured. The spell is broken.
He pulls out slowly, reluctantly, and sits up, running a hand through his hair. “I have to call her back,” he says quietly. “Just… just to tell her I’m okay. That I’ll be home soon.”
You sit up too, your robe still open, cum still drying on your skin. “Tell her the truth,” you whisper.
He looks at you, eyes pained. “I will,” he says. “Soon.”
He reaches for the phone. You watch him, heart twisting, as he dials. The call connects.
“Hi,” he says, voice suddenly calm, professional. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… delayed. Work. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
You hear her voice on the other end — faint, worried.
He closes his eyes. “I love you too,” he says, the words flat, automatic.
He ends the call. Silence. He drops the phone like it burns. Then he looks at you — eyes raw, desperate.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You crawl to him, your robe falling off completely, and straddle his lap. “Don’t be,” you murmur. “Just… come back to me.”
He kisses you — slow, deep — and pulls you down onto his cock again. This time it’s slower. Softer. But no less intense.
He fucks you like he’s memorizing every second, like he’s afraid it’s the last time. You come together — quiet, trembling — clinging to each other in the moonlight.
The ring glints on your finger. And somewhere, across the sea, a wife waits for a husband who’s already gone.
Summary: Late rehearsals. An empty theatre. Bertie Carvel is still carrying the role long after everyone else has gone home. You’re the only one left in the room with him — and the line between the work and something else is getting harder to see.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The others left just after ten.
You heard their voices fading down the corridor, the usual mix of tired laughter and talk about the pub. The heavy door at the end of the hall thudded shut. After that there was only the low hum of the building and the sound of Bertie’s footsteps as he moved across the marked-out stage.
He was still working.
You should have left with the rest of them. Instead you stayed in the front row, notebook open on your knee, watching him run the same short section of the scene again. He didn’t use the full voice he would use in performance. It was quieter, more private, as if he were testing the shape of the words against the air.
When he finished he stood still for a moment in the centre of the tape marks, head slightly bowed. Then he looked up and found you.
“You’re still here.”
“I said I’d stay for the last pass.”
He nodded once, accepting it. Bertie never wasted time on the obvious. He came down from the stage and sat on the edge of it, legs hanging, hands braced on either side of his thighs. The working lights left most of his face in shadow, but you could still see the concentration that hadn’t fully left him.
“What did you think?” he asked.
You looked down at your notes even though you already knew what you wanted to say. “The silence after the second line is better when you let it land longer. It makes the next movement feel inevitable instead of chosen.”
He considered that, eyes narrowed slightly. “Show me.”
You stood and stepped over the low barrier onto the stage. The floor always felt different once you were on it — more exposed. Bertie shifted to the side to give you space. You took the position he had been using and spoke the line, then held the pause the way you had described. He watched you the entire time, not the way a director watches an actor, but the way a man watches someone who has just put a finger on something he had been reaching for.
“Again,” he said quietly.
You did it again. This time he stood and moved into the answering position, close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. His voice, when he replied with the next line, was low and precise. The air between you felt thinner than it had any right to.
When the short exchange ended neither of you moved back at once.
Bertie’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then returned to your eyes. Something in his expression had shifted — the professional focus still there, but threaded through with something more personal and less easily named.
“You’ve been watching me too carefully,” he said.
“That’s the job.”
“Is it?”
The question hung there. You could have stepped away. You could have made a light remark and broken the moment. Instead you stayed exactly where you were.
Bertie lifted one hand and adjusted the collar of your shirt where it had twisted slightly. His fingers were careful. The touch lasted only a second longer than it needed to.
“I lose track of the edges when the room gets this quiet,” he said. His voice was almost conversational, but not quite. “The character doesn’t leave as cleanly as he should. And you… you stay late and give me notes that cut straight to the centre of it. It becomes difficult to tell which part of the attention belongs to the work.”
You felt the truth of that settle between you.
“I don’t know how to give less careful notes,” you answered.
A faint smile touched his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
He stepped back first, breaking the proximity with deliberate care. The working lights hummed above you both. Somewhere in the building a pipe clicked as it cooled.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said.
“Same time.”
You gathered your notebook and bag while he returned to the centre of the stage, already turning the scene over in his mind again. At the door you paused and looked back. He was still standing in the taped square, alone under the lights, head slightly tilted as if listening for something only he could hear.
You left him there.
The corridor outside was darker and colder. Your footsteps sounded too loud. By the time you reached the street the tension in your shoulders had not eased. You could still feel the exact distance that had been between your body and his on the stage, and the way his voice had dropped when he admitted that the edges were becoming difficult to keep.
image credit: bertie carvel at the italian global series festival opening gala
Summary: Bertie Carvel’s Oscar win should have been a triumph. Instead it detonates a very public rumour of an affair. At home, you, his secret wife — the woman no one knows exists — are no longer sure what to believe.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; allegations of adultery
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Best Actor Oscar was still sitting on the kitchen counter in its open box, the gold catching the low light every time you walked past it.
Bertie had brought it home like it might break. He had been quiet in the car, quiet in the lift, quiet when he set it down. The win had been overwhelming enough. Then the phone started lighting up.
By morning the story was everywhere.
Photos. Timelines. “Insiders.” A well-known actress from his last project. The articles were careful enough to avoid the word affair in the headlines, but the implication was deliberate and heavy. Within hours the tone shifted from gossip to industry conversation. Producers were said to be “concerned.” A prestige streamer had “paused discussions.” His publicist’s statements were being described as inadequate. The narrative had moved past rumour into something that could actually cost him work.
You read all of it in the same apartment where no one in the industry even knew you lived.
Bertie came out of the bedroom showered and dressed, eyes tired. He stopped when he saw your face.
“I’ve already spoken to Rachel,” he began. “We’re handling it. There’s nothing—”
“Don’t.” Your voice came out flat and sharp. “Don’t stand there and tell me there’s nothing.”
He went still. “You know there’s nothing. You know me.”
“Do I?” The laugh that left you was ugly. “Because from where I’m standing, the entire industry is discussing who you’re fucking, and the only person who doesn’t get to exist in that conversation is your wife.”
His jaw tightened. “That is exactly why we’ve done it this way. To keep you out of this circus.”
“And how’s that working?” You gestured at the phone on the counter, still buzzing. “I’m out of it so thoroughly that I have to sit here and watch strangers decide whether my husband is a cheat. I have no name. No statement. No right to be angry in public. I get to be the secret who just… absorbs it.”
“I did not cheat on you.” His voice rose for the first time. “I have never touched her. I have never crossed a single line. You know that.”
“I know what you’ve told me.” Your throat felt tight and hot. “I know that you win an Oscar and within twelve hours there’s a full-scale scandal that everyone seems ready to believe. I know that you’ve spent years making sure no one knows I exist, and now that decision means I don’t even get the dignity of being the wronged wife. I’m just the woman at home hoping her husband is telling the truth.”
Bertie’s face had gone pale with anger and something like panic.
“That is not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” You were shouting now. “You get the career and the protection and the carefully managed silence. I get to be invisible until it costs me. And the second there’s a serious accusation, I’m supposed to smile and trust and stay quiet because that’s the deal we made. Well maybe the deal is broken.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” Tears of pure fury were burning your eyes. “You wanted to protect me. Congratulations. I’m so protected that when the world decides you’re having an affair, I have no proof that I’m even married to you. No one would believe me. No one even knows to ask.”
He took a step toward you and stopped himself. His hands were shaking.
“I love you,” he said, low and rough. “I have never once given you a reason to doubt that.”
“You just did.” The words came out cracked and vicious. “Every single article, every producer who’s suddenly ‘concerned,’ every person who’s happy to believe it — you handed them the space to do it by making sure I don’t exist. And now I’m the one who has to sit with the possibility that I’ve been a fool.”
Silence slammed into the kitchen.
Bertie’s breathing was audible. He looked like he had been struck.
“I would never,” he said, barely controlled. “Never.”
You stared at him, chest heaving, the Oscar still gleaming stupidly on the counter between you.
“I don’t know how to believe you right now,” you said. “And that is the worst thing you have ever done to me.”
The phone buzzed again. Another article. Another statement. Another reminder that the scandal was still growing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
