#Elegant notebook covers

[manonahmedcs]

Creative book cover design.Perfect for fantasy, romance or drama books, reports,booklet, flyer, portfolio, business catalog, magazine etc.

Follow me on flickr to reach me instantly.

Any Query www.manonahmed.com

[delohill]

Elegant Portrait Journals: Unveiling the Ultimate Writing Experience!

[schoenpepper]

Jade Leech and the Three Breakups

Intro: He was going to break up with you on your first anniversary. He was going to break up with you before he went to internships. He was going to break up with you after he graduated.

Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, does jade count as a warning, reader is not yuu, established long term relationship, depression jokes, not proofread

A/N: Sorry, the brainrot got to me. College apparently cannot stop me from thinking about my least favorite character ever. Also, my favorite trope is 'i think they hate me' and 'i want them so bad i'm about to kill someone'.

Masterlist

There's a thick notebook in one of the boxes. Curiosity killed the eel mer, sure, but Jade is attracted to its plain leather cover. On the corner is your name, etched in an elegant cursive he's sure isn't yours.

After four years of romantic partnership, of course he knows your handwriting.

He gingerly fishes it out of its pile—your pile of clutter to get rid of before moving into your new shared home—and decides that of course it is fully within his right to open your journal. Diary, perhaps?

He can't help the grin pulling up the corners of his lips.

Oh dear, you've gotten so lax with such things, darling. Are you banking on his love for you to stop him from borrowing your private thoughts? Such confidence. Misplaced. Such a shame.

The first page has his name.

It takes him aback, but he delightfully relishes in the thought, the possibility, that all your feelings for him over several years would be gathered and spilled into its yellowed pages. Was there a stage of hatred? Rivalry? Were you crushing on him like a little schoolgirl? Such cute (excellent) memories (blackmail) from your youth (material)~ He flips to the second page and reads with unparalleled attentiveness he usually reserves for documents on his favorite projects.

September 1st, 20x1 Sunny : | It's orientation, and I'm following my ma's words about keeping a diary of sorts to keep track of interesting things. I wore the cultist uniform of NRC (fugly ass robes) and stood in line to get sorted to my dorm by the mirror. I got into Octavinelle. I don't know if it's the dorm I would have chosen for myself to be honest, but sure. I can't argue with the magical artifact. What I would like to argue about is the vice housewarden.

His brows furrow slightly in intrigue. Did he do something wrong? He remembered being nothing but a kind, angelic upperclassman to your batch of freshmen.

He's so fucking pretty.

Jade chuckles.

He looks like he's about to eat me whole and fuck, I don't mind if he does!!! He's so tall, and so so attractive, and sevens I thought I came to NRC to study but I think I'm here to fulfill my destiny of becoming his <3

He launches into full-blown laughter. He takes his phone out from his pocket to snap multiple pictures, saving them in a locked folder labeled rather inconspicuously in his gallery.

There's a series of entries after that. Nothing too interesting (he's scanned every single page), just you detailing every second of your (at this point, nonexistent) love life. You write about how many times you'd seen him in a day, and how 'cute' he looks in his school uniform, and how 'adorable' he is when he's hanging onto his broom for dear life in PE. He ignores the fact that you shouldn't have seen him in PE classes because his schedule didn't match yours at that time. Then, there's one that you'd written right before realizing you'd fallen into his love trap~

October 3rd, 20x1 Cloudy :< I think I got tricked into being someone's s/o. I thought he's been inviting me to random outings and stuff, alone, together, as like, a threat maybe. Today I found out Floyd (and therefore Azul, and definitely also him) think of me as Jade's significant other. Which is so weird. I'm so confused???

There's a little chibi drawing on the corner of your face with a blank expression.

I thought we were friends and then his brother tells me that the guy I like doesn't think of me as a friend. Okay??????  JADE LEECH IS TREATING ME LIKE HIS PARTNER AND I DON'T KNOW WHEN IT HAPPENED. (but i like it :D)

Well, you've always been a bit slow, haven't you, darling? You never even noticed when Jade began to take an interest in you, slowly steering you towards his own hobbies, even his club activities. After all, he studied your interests, so isn't it only fair? He likes being able to converse with you. He likes the sound of your voice. He likes the movement of your lips. Is it so bad, then, that he did a few perfectly legal things to somehow shoe you in right by his side? 

In the diary, you detail every feeling in every date. You like picnics. You hated the hike up that mountain with poisonous snakes. You liked the parfait he made for you. You disliked the slightly poisonous mushroom he sauteed and put into your chicken alfredo. Shame.

July 23rd, 20x2 Rainy :(

It takes its first turn about a week before the first anniversary of the day you met him (you don't have a 'real' anniversary since you don't even know when you started dating him).

I think he's going to break up with me soon.

His breath hitches in his throat. He's not sure how to feel upon reading that sentence, but he doesn't like it. 

(Why were you so sure, darling?)

He leans back slightly on his chair. He needs to take a few deep breaths before he can even continue to read your writing.

He's going to be in third year by the time the school year comes around again. He'll be busy with the lounge and studying and vice housewarden stuff. Maybe he won't have time for me anymore.

But that's okay.

I realized something. The twins are not the type of people for long term relationships. After knowing more about Jade, I've learned he's not too different from Floyd concerning several aspects. 1.) He only likes interesting things. Jade likes weird, and fun, and spontaneous. I think he liked me then because I was new and so strange. After all, I didn't know that the guy I loved at first sight was such a feared figure, for good reason too. There was nobody in school who would stick around him so much like I do. 2.) He gets bored just as easily. Jade is the mirror image of Floyd here. Floyd is more moody, but Jade is good at pretending. He likes to play around. Until he doesn't. I know I won't see it coming, but one day, I will be predictable. And he'll get bored. I will no longer be interesting.

Has he always struck you that way?

If he doesn't want to play with me anymore, what am I supposed to do? I need to prepare myself. Someday, he'll leave me, and I need to be stronger then than I am now. Right now, I'll break if he abandons me. Surely if I desensitize myself to the scenario, I can mitigate the damage.

You talk of your own heart like a building in the middle of the Ring of Fire, and Jade's the biggest earthquake that's about to arrive since millennia.

It's not often he finds himself questioning his own morality. Gray is his preference, but then, why does he see this version of himself in your eyes in all black? Has he been anything but kind to you? He's tried, really. If it wasn't enough, he should've seen it in your eyes. He should have known.

The following pages go back to their previous light-hearted tone, slowly leaving the saccharine sweet honeymoon phase and dipping into comfortable and warm. You don't mention that entry again, or even that line of thought. He likes that. Jade would prefer you refusing to humor such blatant nonsense than actually spend time worrying your pretty little head about it. It's just a bit worrying. Like a volcano with lava filling up, is it not dangerous to block the outflow?

Why have you never discussed your thoughts with him?

August 3rd, 20x3 Sunny :<

He has to consider that it might be seasonal depression if the entries keep getting darker around the same time. Like a switch has been flipped, the words turn into blades again, cutting into his skin as though they could never draw blood.

I think he's really going to break up with me soon.

Oh sevens.

He has internships, which means he won't even be at school most of the time. It's upsetting because I think he'll find so many people out there. And they'll be much more interesting than me. And then what? I don't know where he's interning, it's probably because he doesn't want me to be a part of his life any longer.

How did he never know how prone you were to overthinking?

He hasn't gotten bored of me yet, but that's not to say it won't happen when he gets a taste of the real world and realizes how limited he is by this place. By me. Am I holding him back? I never say anything to him about these kinds of feelings because it might burden him. Which is a really funny sentence to write considering this is Jade Leech I'm talking about. It's not like he cares about other people's opinions enough for it to be a burden to him.

Why then, Jade wonders, would you ever consider yourself as 'other people'?

I hope he lets me down gently, at least.

Why would he ever let you down at all?

It's a shame to say but I think I love him.

And again, like nothing ever happened at all, the following recorded dates speak nothing of your plight. Instead, you jot down your visits to Jade in his chosen workplace, since obviously, he'd given you the details despite your previous doubts. The records of your life when not with him are few and far between, as you usually opted to write about Jade when together with him. There's an entry about the time you went to the amusement park with him, and threw up all over his jacket. There's one about the cake you failed horribly at baking during his birthday.

There's an entry about the first time you explored intimacy with him.

So it gives him severe whiplash when the entry after that is back to the same 'break up' tone as before, right around the same time as the other two.

(He should call a therapist for you.)

August 1st, 20x4 Sunny >:( He will definitely break up with me soon!

Why is this one so enthusiastic about it, though?

Maybe it's been in his plans all along. Only until graduation! This time, he'll definitely, definitely break up with me. Yes! I mean, I shouldn't be happy about it, but my two predictions beforehand were incorrect, and it makes me very nervous. So I have a plan. On his graduation, I'm going to give him a bouquet of flowers and a terrarium that I personally made.

Yes he remembers that. He still has the terrarium in his collection room.

And then, I'm going to confess my love for him.

Yes he remembers that too. You said 'I love you', and though slightly taken aback, he returned your sentiments.

And it would be the perfect gateway for him to talk about breaking up with me.

Huh. That's definitely not what he thought of it then. Is that why you were so surprised when he said 'I love you too'?

And it would probably hurt, but I think I can get away with not crying in front of him. I really love him. But I think it would be for the best that he leaves now, when I can still let him go with grace. Someday, I'll be in love with him, maybe to the point that I'd break down at his feet and beg for him to pick up the pieces. But I don't want him to see me like that.

He doesn't want to see that either.

(But rest assured, should it happen, he will pick up every piece of you and glue it back together with his love. Rather cheesy, though.)

Wish me luck!!!

Jade's lips curl up into a lazy grin, flipping to the last page on the notebook. There's not much, but he reads through it with a soft chuckle and writes in the corner with a blue pen. "Jade! The moving company will be here soon," you pop your head through the doorway, only glancing at him briefly before walking away, "I'm almost done with the kitchen."

He places your diary into his box of 'to keep', sealing the cardboard shut with some tape.

August 2, 20x4 Cloudy :o He said he loves me too. I could be wrong, but I think Jade's never going to break up with me.

June 16, 20x5 Sunny :) Let's get married soon, darling. I'm looking forward to the rest of our life together.

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy. 

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement. 

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts. 

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern.  I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss. 

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me. 

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly. 

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought. 

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with. 

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well? 

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it. 

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision. 

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair. 

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise. 

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip. 

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen. 

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and  - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in. 

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder. 

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself. 

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you. 

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave. 

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat. 

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?” 

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other. 

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!” 

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…” 

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question. 

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields. 

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?” 

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently. 

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table. 

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything. 

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.” 

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.” 

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…” 

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers. 

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope. 

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm. 

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth. 

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers. 

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.” 

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit. 

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, laying prone, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want. 

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?” 

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion. 

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.  

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…” 

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody. 

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval. 

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida. 

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no? 

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water. 

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear. 

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms. 

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you. 

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[momotonescreaming]

Magic's been restricted in Hawkins for decades. Not by any law, or enforcement of the city guard, but by the fearful nature of man. Rumours of curses and spells, fear of the unknown - it has people scared.

And scared people lash out.

So people stopped doing magic in Hawkins. People stopped doing magic visibly, in Hawkins. They keep it behind closed doors, locked up tight.

Eddie dabbles in it. Small things. Good luck charms, cleaning spells, minor wards to keep the rain from leaking through the thatched roof of his and Wayne's hut. Nothing big, just some things he got passed down from his uncle, from his family way down south. He's thought about more, seeing how far his magic can extend - but he's not the witch, the demon that people think he is.

He doubts that the townsfolk have anything to base their suspicions on. They just don't like him or the Munson name. Him and Wayne are the ones who get the blame, but he knows there's powerful players in Hawkins. Powerful magic that's been at work a long, long time.

Eddie might not be the best mage, the best witch, but he's always been good at feeling magic.

And there's a small courtyard on the outskirts of town that reeks of magic. The strong shit too, been there for a very long time, put down by very powerful people.

Other people don't notice, it's a good courting spot - or so people say. Large trees, bushes covered in flowers, a nice cobbled path, with a large fountain in the middle. It's picturesque, romantic. And atop the fountain, is a statue.

A statue of a boy, or a young man, or however you want to put it. He's handsome, devastatingly so, with a square jaw and muscled arms. A wreath of laurels resting atop his perfectly swooped hair, and an elegant toga like robe draped across his body.

He's posed delicately, but in a way that does not hide his masculinity.

The garden always perfectly kept, always tidy, never any vermin, and no one is ever seen maintaining it. The statue never cracks, never fades, never dirties. He is always perfectly encapsulated in marble. Shining white.

Eddie is a little bit obsessed. There's not a lot to do in Hawkins, and the magic in the courtyard is alluring. It's tricky, encircled and entwined into itself - into the world around it. It's a puzzle, and Eddie wants to figure it out.

So he goes to the courtyard when he knows no one else will be there, and he makes sure to bring a notebook. Write down what he sees, what he feels.

He can feel the sun on his shoulders, the breeze gently ruffling his hair, the birds singing in the trees. Bees flitting from flower to flower, there's a stream trickling somewhere near.

The statue shines in the middle, drawing the eye.

It's perfect. Almost too perfect. Designed by man, and not by nature, perfect.

So Eddie pulls off his boots, rolls up his trousers, and wades into the fountain. Standing on the wishing coins people have tossed in. But he ignores them, of course, and heads to the statue. The more he concentrates, the closer he gets, the more he can tell that this, him, is the centre of all the magic.

The perfect statue.

Eddie can see the nailbeds in his fingers, the moles that dot his skin, the pores on his face, the lashes on his eyes. Perfect. He gets even closer, takes a deep breath, and focuses his magic. The more he looks, the more he listens, the more Eddie can feel the magic encircling the courtyard.

He swears he can hear a heart beating inside the statue's chest.

[hauntedsprings]

Dark and mysterious souls, gather 'round! If the ethereal beauty of twilight graveyards, spectral shadows, and the rich texture of gothic art inspire you, we have curated an unparalleled collection that will perfectly resonate with your gothic heart. Introducing our exclusive "Graveyard Specter" collection—a series of products that capture the haunting allure of a mist-covered graveyard at dusk.

Our Graveyard Zip Pouch is more than just a storage accessory; it's a statement piece that embodies the enigmatic allure of twilight. Perfect for holding your makeup, stationery, or those little trinkets that carry secret meanings known only to you, this pouch features a high-definition print of a haunting graveyard scene draped in golden mist. The mysterious silhouette at its center captivates the imagination, making this zip pouch not just functional but thoroughly enchanting. It’s crafted to be durable, ensuring that you carry a piece of gothic artistry with you through the day’s adventures.

Next in our gothic lineup is the Graveyard Sticker. This small, yet meticulously detailed piece transforms any mundane object into a canvas of gothic beauty. Adorn your laptop, notebook, or even your locker with this sticker, which portrays a graveyard bathed in soft, golden light and shadowy silhouettes. The sticker’s design captures the essence of gothic storytelling and allows you to carry a piece of that tale wherever you go. Every glance at it transports you back to the misty graveyard, breathing life into the mundane.

In the digital age, our Misty Graveyard Mouse Pad is a must-have for every gothic soul. With this mouse pad, every study or work session becomes an experience steeped in mystery and intrigue. The high-quality print ensures that the haunting scene of the graveyard, complete with shadowed figures and glowing mist, stays vivid through countless hours of use. The smooth surface is perfect for precision tracking, and the non-slip base keeps your workspace stable. It’s a subtle yet powerful way to infuse your digital world with gothic allure.

For those tiny spaces that beg for a touch of the ethereal, our Mystic Cemetery Magnet is the perfect choice. Adorn your locker, fridge, or any metal surface with this magnet, which packs the same haunting beauty into a compact size. The graveyard scene retains its detailed mystique, even in the smaller format, making it an excellent accent piece that screams gothic elegance and mystery.

Finally, our Twilight Tombstone Notebook is your personal canvas for capturing thoughts, stories, and sketches drawn from the depths of your imagination. The cover, featuring the evocative graveyard scene, sets a perfect mood for writing down ghostly tales, recording your dreams, or just jotting down daily notes. The high-quality paper and durable spiral binding make it a notebook that you’ll want to keep close at hand, every day.

Each product in the "Graveyard Specter" collection is designed to resonate with your gothic sensibilities, bringing a touch of the dark and mysterious into your everyday life. They make perfect gifts for friends who share your love for the gothic aesthetic, or as special treats for yourself.

So, why wait? Dive into the mystique and charm of our "Graveyard Specter" collection. Embrace these pieces and let their haunting beauty inspire your gothic journey every day. Explore the full collection now and find the perfect items to complement your unique style.

Follow us for more gothic-inspired products and join our community of dark souls who celebrate the beauty found in the shadows

[yuuchama]

♠️🖋❤️

"This is bad." Deuce struggled to raise his head, instead slumping his shoulders and staring down at the notes in front of him. The writing started out neat and tidy but gradually became illegible, eventually fumbling off the page and marking the desk with ink.

Ace tried not to draw attention to the fit of giggles he had been overcome with. He kept looking away and clearing his throat now that the lecture had ended. Looking straight at Deuce without laughing was an impossible task.

"Dude..." he snickered. "That's a wild black eye you've got there."

"Shut it, Ace. If you knew I fell asleep during class, you should've woken me up."

Deuce sighed and buried his face in his hands, which only made things funnier. His palm smeared whatever eye makeup hadn't already been smudged, making him look beat up. His hands appeared to be covered in soot and a quarter of his face was a blurry mess of makeup instead of the usual elegant spade design.

It took a minute for Deuce to realize what happened. It was hard to tell if any got on his black uniform sleeves. He gazed at his dirty hands with despair. "Dang it. I don't have anything to fix this. The housewarden's gonna have my head."

Doubled over and clenching his stomach, Ace wiped a tear from his eye. At least one half of their combo remembered to seal his makeup that morning. "Don't sweat it! I have something that can help, don't worry."

It was a suspicious offer, but a sign of hope. Deuce would do anything if it meant avoiding Riddle's wrath. "Seriously? You carry black makeup? Uh, why?"

"Just in case! You should be thanking me instead of asking all these questions. What if I decide to change my mind, hmm?" Ace reached into his pencil case and started rooting around. He put on a great show of being serious. With one hand wrapped around something inside, he motioned for Deuce to come closer.

"Lean this way and close your eyes. There's not much time before Trein's next lecture."

Deuce grunted. Ace was right, and he didn't want to tarnish his future honor student reputation any further. The chair squeaked against the floor as he pushed it and swung his legs over the side. "I'll leave this to you, then. You can use the handkerchief in my bag."

"Great."

Ace hummed as he worked. Removing the blurry mess with Deuce's handkerchief came first, holding nothing back as he scrubbed his dorm mate's skin raw. Then it was time to reapply everything.

He gripped Deuce's chin, angling it upwards towards the light. "Hold still."

"Do you even know how to draw a spade?" Deuce asked.

"Hah? Who doesn't? What do you take me for?"

"It's just... you're taking a really long time to do this. Professor Trein's gonna come back soon."

"You really want to say that to the guy helping you out right now?"

Deuce got the point and remained silent. Applying his makeup usually didn't sting this much. He hoped he wouldn't get poked in the eye or have something inappropriate drawn in the end. Ace wouldn't go that far, right?

After a few blows to dry his face with Ace's gross breath, Deuce could finally relax. Ace proclaimed, "There. All done!"

"You really drew a spade, right?"

"Quit suspecting me! 'Course I did!" Ace turned to the student behind them. "Hey, what's this thing on Deuce's face look like?"

The student, caught off guard, glanced up from their phone. "Huh? The spade?"

"Yes, exactly. Thank you."

Deuce wished he had his handkerchief back to wipe the smug grin off Ace's face. "Alright, thanks. I really appreciate it, you've saved me."

"No problem, anytime. I'll even do your makeup tomorrow if you want." Ace began tidying up his desk space, straightening his notebook and putting his tools back, while Deuce returned his chair to its original position.

Deuce froze mid-chair scoot and narrowed his eyes. "What is that."

Ace pretended not to hear him. Deuce rose a shaky finger to his eye, gently tapping the sore skin.

He lowered his voice to a threat. "Dude. I swear to the Seven, if you just drew on my face with permanent marker..."

There was no time for Ace to enjoy the mischief, he had to stifle his laughter into his shirt as Trein finally returned and the students went quiet. He walked to the front podium and put his books down. A "pfft" snuck out the instant Deuce whacked Ace's chair with his foot.

A peeved off Deuce clenched his pen and mouthed, "this isn't over."

[glassbottlepress]

Newsprint DM Notebook

To the DM who loves splendor, spectacle, and spells--this one is for you. You enchant your players and create a night of magic; this bold newsprint headline cover showcases that. The navy spine, single gold ribbon, and elegant grey end pages keep it simple, so they don't detract from the main event: your showstopping performance.

Buy on Ko-fi

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

I don’t know what type of magic you posses but Blanche has been like digital therapy I’m losing the stress I didn’t realize I had.

Like??? Why does reading about him make me feel so calm??? What’s happening????

It would be so cute if you knitting sessions with him and at the end exchanged the things you made

Also I think Yves could work as a middle child🤔 I’m an older sister and while Yves could work as the oldest, Blanche kinda out older brothers him imo

Tw: implied drugging

He would be hopping in joy when you agree to sacrifice your weekend to spend time with him. Blanche would excitedly clap his hands as he cheers, successfully winning you over instead of that indecent hussy who usually invites you to those raunchy home parties. It was also a smart move to choose him over some boozy party, as he was on his last straw. He would have sabotaged it out of spite, causing a casualty or two to scare you off.

"Oh, you are such a sweet little angel! Thank you, thank you!" Opened his arms, you would jump in and then he would gently twirl you around. Giggles resonated throughout his living room as he continued playing with you with such glee.

He carried you on his hip as he made his way to the sofa. Blanche set you down and stroked your hair, kissing the crown of your head before leaving for the stairs. You turned your head to see him taking his first step, using his trusty wooden cane.

You told him that you could help him take whatever he's trying to retrieve. He doesn't need agonizingly go up a flight of stairs for that.

He smiled. "Well. If my helpful darling insists, could you be a dear and bring us the 'box of Jolly and Joy'?"

You nodded and hopped off the couch, Blanche chuckled deeply as you bolted past him, rushing up the stairs.

"Oh, my sweet. There is no rush, there is no need to run. You could trip and fall, that wouldn't be ideal. Would it, dear?" You're already out of earshot before you can even hear him finish his sentence as you heard it more than thrice.

__

The box of Jolly and Joy is a large but lightweight wooden chest. It contains a random assortment of items, which includes at least two sets of knitting needles and a wide array of yarn. It definitely contained your favourite colour and in your favourite shades. It had other items in there, like his past wood carvings and relevant equipment, art supplies, bobbins to make lace, ribbons, music boxes, musical instruments, pottery tools, scrapbooks, stickers, VHS tapes of old, popular movies, embroidery and its relevant objects... He basically has every homely and vintage hobby contained in this chest.

"What can the box of Jolly and Joy offer you today, my flower?" Asked Blanche, as he sits with his legs together. He rests his hands atop his lap.

You rummaged through it, taking your time deciding what to do. Too occupied with it to realize that he is jotting down something in his notebook while his pocket watch is out.

You pulled out the knitting needles and yarn. Handing him a set while you held onto yours.

"Ah, wonderful choice. Thank you, my love. Thank you, box of Jolly and Joy!" He began casting a few loops onto his needle using the colored yarn you picked out for him. "What would you like me to make, my dear?"

You told him whatever he wanted. You said that you're going to make something for him.

That earned you a kiss on the temple. He said nothing else as he bent down to pick up a few more colors of yarn. You noticed that he also picked up a tattered, square sheet. Which you then recognized as the cover of a Vinyl Record disc.

You already started knitting as he stood back up, walking to the gramophone nearby and setting it up so that it could play the music he wanted.

Half a minute after he set the needle on the rotating disc, soft, crackly music started playing. A slow, calm, and elegant Valse Serenade sets the tone of the room to be lazy, carefree, and lax. There was a strange sense of longing, melancholy, and nostalgia that you didn't truly understand while listening to it, but it was so mild, that it became negligible. You let your muscles relax as you felt the burdens of the world evaporate from your shoulders, all you had to do was knit and enjoy.

"I shall prepare us some delicious snacks and cups of hot, herbal tea to enjoy." Said Blanche as he held onto his cane for support. You shot up from your seat and dropped your work onto the seat, you said that you could do it for him.

You told Blanche that you wanted him to stay here and rest his joints.

"Oh, my dove. You pamper me too much." He smiled, caressing your cheek. "What about preparing them together? You can choose your favorite types of treats."

And so, you agreed. Walking to the kitchen with him and chatting about the cookies and pastries he baked while you're away. You had a lengthy list to choose from: classic, chocolate chip cookies, raisin scones, lemon squares, palmiers, gingerbread shapes and men, pecan rum bars, oat cookies, mini rhubarb pies, slices of fruitcakes, strawberry and creme whoopie pies, shortbread and blueberry muffins, fudge brownies and finally, meringues.

They're all apparently baked fresh, this morning and yesterday. It's unbelievable, with his snail-like speed and capabilities, but you're not one to question a good thing. Whatever he makes, it's bound to be heavenly.

While he's brewing the tea and filling the kitchen with pleasant floral and earthy scents from his special blend of herbs, you were building the treat platter; choosing the ones that you like and the treats that you think Blanche would want.

He sets up the coffee table in the living room with saucers and small dessert forks. Blanche would return to the kitchen when he heard the kettle whistling loudly, he took it off the heat and poured it into two quaint teacups.

He giggled at how you decided to pile the plate with his baked goods, it was heaping over like a mountain. Blanche is always happy to know you enjoy his cooking.

The vibe was undeniably cozy. The warm, orange lights from his incandescent lightbulbs illuminated his cottage. The doors were shut to not let a draft in from the heavy rain outside in, but it was still a bit chilly. So Blanche took out a massive, weighted blanket from his 'Chest of Comfy' next to his gramophone. The two of you had it draped over each other's laps.

You hadn't restarted your knitting project yet, as you were too busy stuffing your face with Blanche's godly desserts. A knowing smile rested on Blanche's charmingly handsome features as he took a sip from his tea, his pinkie lifted up gracefully. In a few seconds, you will be asking if you could drink from his cup.

And he was right. Of course, he agreed. Anything for his beloved dove.

The rainy afternoon passes by with him knitting, while you're mostly eating and drinking. Making multiple trips to his kitchen to refill your cup and his, and the snack platter too. The record Vinyl played numerous other songs, all of which were vintage, gentle, kind, romantic, and easy in nature. Sometimes it would make you somewhat sad, but you think that's just how it sounds like back in the olden days.

Blanche would have been done in fifteen minutes, but he wanted to prolong the time spent with you as long as possible. So he pretended that he needed quite a bit of time to finish. Whereas you barely even started, not even 10% completed. But that's alright, he knows that you felt great and entertained, as his tea should make everything extra amusing to you no matter how mundane or boring. You're in your own bliss and he is in his own as you decided to knit while being perched on his lap. Blanket wrapped over the two of you.

However, when a certain song began to play, he would set his work down and have a joyful, toothy grin. "Oh, how fun! It's our favorite song to waltz to, can we please do that?" He watched you with such large and pleading eyes as he clasped his hands together in anticipation.

You mirrored his smile, hopping off his lap to humor his request. He would rise up, abandoning his cane and leading you to the clearing in the living room, made especially for waltzing between you and him.

He pressed a hand against your back while he had to slouch since he was too tall for you to comfortably reach his shoulder. You and he intertwined hands and soon, the steps were synced and fluid. Following the beat of the music and leisurely slow dancing around the room.

It's incredibly easy as you had practiced this numerous times with Blanche before, you could even do it with your eyes closed. You felt floaty and loose, eternally grateful to experience this magical moment with someone who you love, someone who actually filled the ominous void in your life.

You rested your head on his chest. This is your paradise and Blanche's heaven.

He let his curls sway to the rhythm of the music, occasionally it would brush your leg due to the close proximity. Neither of you spoke, only letting the rich vocals and melodic piano notes course through each other's blood.

Your project and his were left on the sofa, incomplete. But that only means you and Blanche would be spending much more time together to complete them.

Blanche lets out a soft sigh of delight.

All he ever wanted was dancing with him, in his arms.

[everythingblackblack]

Kaitou 1412/Kuroba Touichi x Phantom Lady/Kuroba Chikage headcanons? The couple that does crime together stays together. She is the prized jewel in his jewellery box. I like the idea that she's using her old criminal ties to avenge her husband too, like Kaito is but more internationally.

Thanks for asking, I love you. I had that headcanon about Chikage investigating Toichi's enemies abroad too! I so agree with that. 1. Chikage has the motto "If you don't want to get shot, dodge!" and Toichi is like "Kaito don't listen to your mother, she's just joking!". 2. Every time Toichi went out (work, shopping, etc.) he would come back to find his wife lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The first few times, he was so worried and got really offended when Chikage started laughing because he was starting to cry. Chikage didn't find it funny when Kaito imitated her years later, Toichi made fun of her as revenge. 3. Toichi is much more dramatic than Chikage, when they fought, Chikage was the one offering flowers for Toichi to forgive her, when Toichi was the one asking for her forgiveness, he invited her on dates. 4. Chikage learned some basic magic tricks and some impressive ones from her husband, when Toichi died (YES, HE'S DEAD) she performed some tricks here and there to cheer Kaito up. 5. I like to think that despite how much Toichi had to practice to be a thief, Chikage corrected him and supported him in his criminal career. When necessary, she disguised herself as KID to cover him up. 6. As a thief, Toichi was more elegant and silent, while Chikage was stealthy and brutal. I can see her creating the most disturbing crime scene and at the end leaving a note saying "It's a joke!", the police couldn't stop thinking if it was a good thing that everything was fake or if it was so bad to know that she could really do something that horrible if she wanted to. She was a bad influence on Toichi in that regard! KID started to play some mischievous pranks in his later years. 7. Chikage was Toichi's makeup artist for his shows, and she usually did a great job, but one time, while she was doing her job, little 4-year-old Kaito came over to ask if he could help.

Toichi trusted Chikage to fix any damage, which ended with him on stage with his face painted like a clown.

Toichi learned that a thief like Phantom Lady would never lose her poker face. 8. The life quote Toichi shared with Kaito was "go big or do nothing," Chikage told him to preferably not apply it in a confession.

Kaito: But it worked for you, didn't it? Chikage: Yes, but I would have liked a longer romance! Toichi: Not for me, I saw you and knew I wanted to spend my whole life with you. Chikage: Aww, you're so sweet. Kaito: **Writing in a notebook** Chikage: What are you writing? Kaito: I'm taking references. Toichi: References? Kaito: When I like someone, I'll get a bunch of enemies and jump off the Eiffel Tower with them. That way they can't say no to me! Maybe I can even hire someone to pretend to be enemies! Toichi: Uuhh... Chikage: Remember to have an extra parachute. Kaito: That's a great idea, mom! Toichi: I don't think it's a good idea… Kaito: But it worked for you, in less than 5 minutes they said yes! Toichi: But it's not the same! Chikage: Leave it, I think it was very romantic! Toichi; No! I mean, yes! But-! Jii: I always knew that his mistakes would haunt him sooner or later, I told him, I invited her to dinner like a normal person, but noooo, "I want to be extravagant, one of a kind, I want to be the peacock that she chooses, the most exquisite jewel", bah.

[theink-stainedfolk]

Silent Strokes

Snippet

---

Today’s outfit.

Wystan Argent’s inner voice chimed as he finished fastening the last button of his oversized forest-green cardigan. He tugged at the hem, ensuring it fell just right over his patterned cream shirt, which boasted a series of tiny golden moths embroidered along the collar. The shirt was tucked neatly into his favorite pair of wide-legged, chocolate-brown corduroy trousers. They swished faintly as he moved, a delightful sound he loved even if no one else could hear it.

A mustard-yellow scarf was draped loosely around his neck, the threads slightly frayed at the edges—a detail that added to its charm, in Wystan’s opinion. His socks, of course, didn’t match. One was a rich burgundy with tiny foxes, the other a pale lavender with tiny stars. He slid into his scuffed loafers, their battered appearance only adding to their character.

He gave himself a once-over in the mirror. “A solid seven on the whimsical scale,” he thought, twirling briefly to test the movement of the cardigan. Satisfied, he grabbed his leather satchel—another thrifted treasure covered in small doodles he’d painted on the worn material—and headed to the museum.

The moment he stepped through the heavy glass doors, he felt the familiar warmth of his second home. The smell of old books, faint floor polish, and something vaguely metallic filled the air. Wystan clutched his satchel to his chest, grinning to himself as he made his way toward the reception desk to collect this month’s museum card.

The staff were busy today, more than usual. Wystan noticed the hum of activity immediately—guides escorting groups of schoolchildren, museum-goers bustling about, and papers being shuffled at the front desk. He tapped the counter lightly to catch someone’s attention but realized quickly that no one he recognized was available.

Then, he saw him.

Dark Academia, his mind supplied immediately.

The man was tall, with broad shoulders draped in a perfectly tailored black coat that looked both practical and elegant. Beneath it, a dark turtleneck and gray trousers completed the aesthetic. His hair was dark and unruly in a way that seemed intentional, framing his sharp, angular features. He had piercing hazel eyes, focused but distant, as though he was perpetually lost in thought. He carried a clipboard close to his chest, the sleeves of his coat rolled slightly to reveal a simple silver watch.

Wystan caught himself staring and quickly looked away, clutching his satchel tighter. Very Dark Academia. A bit too serious-looking, though. A scholar who broods about forbidden knowledge, he mused, his lips twitching into a small smile.

The man, as if sensing Wystan’s gaze, turned and looked directly at him. For a moment, Wystan froze. He wasn’t prepared for the quiet intensity of those eyes.

The man stepped toward him, his movements fluid but deliberate, stopping just a few feet away. “I’m Sylvan Emberley,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’m new here. Can I help you with something?”

Wystan blinked rapidly, his cheeks heating. He quickly dug into his satchel for his notebook and scribbled a note:

Need a guide. Hard of hearing. Written explanations work.

He turned the notebook toward Sylvan, who read it with a slight furrow of his brow before nodding. He grabbed a pen from his clipboard and wrote neatly on the back of a flyer: I’ll guide you. Where would you like to start?

Wystan gave a grateful nod, gesturing toward the art exhibit.

As they walked together, Wystan couldn’t help sneaking glances at Sylvan. Everything about him was composed, efficient, and self-contained. He didn’t speak much, only writing explanations as needed, but Wystan found himself intrigued by the precision of his words and the subtle way his gaze softened when Wystan lingered on certain pieces.

When they reached the painting of the ancient deity, Wystan’s steps faltered. The towering figure in the painting was breathtaking—powerful, otherworldly, and captivating in a way that made his heart race.

Wystan immediately wrote in his notebook: This painting. It’s my favorite. I think I’m in love with it.

He handed the notebook to Sylvan, who read it silently. Wystan noticed a faint blush creeping up Sylvan’s neck, though the man quickly looked away, clearing his throat. He wrote something on the back of the flyer but hesitated before showing it to Wystan.

When he finally did, the words were simple: It’s... a good choice.

Wystan tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. For a fleeting moment, he thought Sylvan seemed oddly familiar, though he couldn’t place why. He decided not to dwell on it, instead letting his gaze drift back to the deity in the painting.

As they moved to the next exhibit, Wystan couldn’t help thinking: Dark Academia fits him perfectly... but there’s something else. Something more.

---

My ♡'s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue

[naruto-fantasy-zine]

✨Show me the MERCH - part 1!!!✨

The Naruto Fantasy AU Zine features a spectacular hardback book, bonus content book, calendar, AND SO MUCH amazing merch!!!

Let’s take a closer look. 👀

First up we have:

A mind-blowing Rigid Magnetic Box!  – store your Naruto goodies in style with this stunning display box by @twitchi2! At 6"x9" (15*22.9cm) trade paperback size, our box is designed to slip in perfectly on a bookshelf or to be shown off in all its glory!

A gorgeous Leatherette Notebook! – this generously-sized A5 notebook features lined paper and a luxurious leatherette cover designed by the incredible @swiftfrost!

Two delightful acrylic charms! – these wonderful charms are 2.5” (6.4cm), double-sided with epoxy treatment and some super cute accessories, including a wrist lanyard! The amazing Obito & Kakashi charm is designed by @marosar97 and the adorable Itachi & Kisame charm + Naruto constellation lanyard is brought to you by @shiaroo!

An incredible Hard Enamel Pin! – This phenomenal 3” (7.6cm) hard enamel pin features translucent scales and high end enamel treatments that are sure to blow your mind! Fantastical design by @atlassarts!

And wrapping up part 1 of our merch extravaganza: Our whimsical Feather Pen! - At approximately 12" (30.5cm), this elegant rose-gold ballpoint pen makes an impressive statement, pairing beautifully with our leatherette notebook so you can write your own flights of fantasy!

Order all of this and more now at: ⭐ https://P4Pzines.com⭐

[mandumandy]

Call Me Cutie - G.Uchinga

%Synopsis: After freshman, Aeri was sure that Sophomore year would be rough. But after her interaction with a cute girl, maybe not.

%Pairing !: nonidol!Giselle x nonidol!Reader

%Tags: fem!reader fluff, Giselle finds reader insanely hot, Giselle is the biggest loser known to mankind.

%Word count: 1.5K

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

Aeri’s entrance into the classroom was anything but graceful. The door swung open with a creak, and as she stumbled inside, her oversized bag threatening to pull her off balance. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the rows of desks and the students settling in. Sophomore year has just began, and she already knew her first lecture would be hell. She sighed, and struggled to turn around to face Mr.Kim's desk. The professor, a bespectacled man with unruly hair, greeted her with a nod.

“Ah, Giselle,” he said, rifling through a thick binder. “Your seat is…” His finger traced the pages, and he squinted in concentration. Finally, he snapped his fingers in triumph. “Over there, next to y/n.” He pointed to a desk in the middle-left, where a girl sat wearing a faded green beanie. Aeri nodded in acknowledgment, her annoyance not yet forgotten as she made her way to the designated spot.

As Aeri continued to drag her clunky bag up the stairs, she huffed and plopped down on the plastic seat in exhaustion. When she turned around, she grew a bit flustered and paused. There was an intriguing blend of softness and strength in y/n’s features. Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and the way she carried herself exuded confidence. Aeri noticed the subtle lines of muscle beneath y/n’s shirt, the way her jawline was sharp yet elegant. Y/n’s attire was equally intriguing. The green beanie sat low on her forehead, but didn't shadow the warm brown eyes that now were squinted in concentration. Her shirt, a simple black tee, clung to her frame, emphasizing the curve of her biceps. And yet, there was an androgynous quality to her—the way she wore her identity with ease, which only increased the blush on her face. And then, just as Aeri was lost in her thoughts, y/n turned toward her. Their eyes met, and y/n’s lips curved into a half-smile. “Um, hi,” she said, her voice a blend of uncertainty and warmth. Aeri’s heartbeat quickened. "hi," she responded breathlessly.

she's REALLY pretty.

"So." y/n cocked her head. "Mr. Kims class, huh?" Aeri nodded furiously, eager to continue speaking with her. "Yep! I'm majoring in Architecture, so I decided that this lecture would be….more suitable for me" Aeri grinned, anticipating the girl's response. Her breath hitched as y/n’s lips curved into a grin, slightly stuttering at the slight blush that covered the girls face.  It was a simple, genuine expression—one that held a touch of warmth. In that moment, y/n became more approachable, more real. The corners of her eyes crinkled, and Aeri noticed the faintest dimple on her cheek. "That's cool." y/n whispered, her hushed voice weakening Aeri's knees with it's sincerity. "I'm also doing an Architectural major."  

Before she could respond, Mr.Kim began talking.

"Time to take notes!" After what felt like three hours, the summary was beginning. (which meant Aeri could soon go home) Aeri’s fingers delved into the depths of her bag, revealing an assortment of items—a crumpled notebook, a half-empty granola bar wrapper, and a tangled earphone cord. But where was her pen? Pressing her tongue against her teeth, she furrowed her brows in confusion. Where was it? Looking up, she found y/n staring. "hello?" Aeri blinked. "Oh! Sorry." y/n scratched the back of her head, laughing sheepishly. "Do you…need a pen?" "Oh," Aeri giggled slightly, avoiding y/n's gaze as she slightly nodded. y/n chuckled, her raspy but husk-like voice melting Aeri. She handed Aeri a bright blue pen with star prints.

"Here you go," Y/N said, winking at the nervous girl. "Keep it. I've got plenty."

Aeri accepted the pen, their fingers brushing briefly. The touch sent a jolt through her, and she bit her lip to suppress a smile.

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the professor's lecture.

Y/N’s smile widened, a silent acknowledgment of the moment they had shared

"Alright! Class dismissed." Leaving the class was the last thing Aeri wanted to do, now that she had to leave the gorgeous girl she just met. She sneaked a look at y/n, who began to neatly situate her notebook into her black bag, an opposite of Aeri's crumpled pages and messy tote bag. However, soon before she left, a thought jolted her awake and she turned around to meet the y/n's eyes. "do you want your pen back?" Aeri tapped the pen, reaching out to hand it back to her.

"Nah, keep it." Y/n shrugged, smiling in a lazy manner. "I do have something that comes with that pen." Y/n smiles as she slipped a folded piece of paper into Aeri's stretched out hand.

"Oh?" Aeri unfolded the paper, slightly jumping in surprise.

"###-###-### Call me cutie ★"

The last thing Aeri saw of yn was her cheesy wink and wave before her face grew red.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

y/n audibly gasped when a girl stumbled into the classroom. A slam and creak of the oak door drew her attention upwards, and there she was—a whirlwind of disheveled hair and oversized bag, like a character from a dorky film. y/n peeked at the girls eyes, which framed by a disleveled pair of glasses. While obviously annoyed, the small pout in her cheeks made y/n's chest tighten. Suddenly, when Mr. Kim, the professor, greeted her, Y/N snapped her attention back to her notes, determined to focus on her studies instead of getting distracted by a cute girl.

Suddenly, the so-called cute girl was directly beside y/n, and her breath hitched as she plunked her heavy bag beside her. And then start staring. Confused at the gaze that practically bore into her, y/n looked up for the second time to observe.

The girl's blush was adorable, and Y/N couldn’t help but notice the way her fists softly clenched at the green sweater she wore, which somehow made the girl more adorable than ever. Y/N’s pulse quickened. “Um, hi,” she managed, her voice betraying both curiosity and warmth. Aeri’s breathless response only intensified Y/N’s interest.

Before the two would fall into an awkward silence, y/n decided to speak up. "I'm…y/n." She rasped, waving slightly at the struck girl. She blinked, and slightly giggled, before whispering, "I'm Giselle, but you could call me Aeri."

Aeri.

Huh.

“So,” Y/N said, cocking her head. “Mr. Kim’s class, huh?” Aeri’s eager nod made Y/N’s heart melt. Could this girl be more cute? “Yep! I’m majoring in Architecture, so I thought this lecture would be…beneficial.” Aeri replied, her grin infectious. Y/N’s fingers itched to reach out and tuck a loose strand of Aeri’s hair behind her ear. “That’s cool,” Y/N murmured, her voice unintentionally soft. “I’m also doing an Architectural major.”

As Mr. Kim droned on, Y/N stole glances at Aeri. The way she fumbled for her pen was endearing—like a lost puppy searching for its favorite toy. Y/N’s own pen was within reach, but she couldn’t resist. But the only pen she had left was her favourite one, a sky blue mechanic pen with yellow stars, her favourite thing. "Hello?" Aeri blinked, and Y/N’s heart did a little flip. “Oh! Sorry,” Y/N chuckled, scratching her head. “Do you…need a pen?”

Aeri’s giggle was music to Y/N’s ears. She nodded, and Y/N’s fingers brushed against hers as she handed over the pen, despite its importance to her. “Here you go,” Y/N said, winking. “Keep it. I’ve got plenty.”

She did not :(

Their touch sent a delightful shiver through Y/N. Aeri’s whispered “Thanks” was barely audible over the lecture, but it echoed in Y/N’s mind. She couldn’t help but smile, silently acknowledging her gratitude.

"Class dismissed." Mr.Kim waved his hand. Y/N’s heart raced as Aeri turned around, her eyes locking onto Y/N’s.

Cute.

Aeri’s question caught Y/N off guard, and she blinked, momentarily flustered.

“Do you want your pen back?” Aeri’s voice was soft, her fingers tapping the bright blue pen. Y/N hesitated. Even though it was her favourite pen, she shook her head, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “Nah, keep it,” Y/N replied, her gaze lingering on Aeri’s face.

But then, Y/N remembered the folded paper tucked into her pocket—the one she’d hastily scribbled during the lecture, after she watched Aeri swear under her breath when she hit her funny bone on the plastic chair. She slipped the paper into Aeri’s outstretched hand, their fingers brushing briefly.

Aeri’s surprised gasp was adorable. Y/N watched as she unfolded the note, her eyes widening at the digits scrawled across the paper. “###-###-### Call me cutie ★”

Waving goodbye with a wink, Y/N couldn't help but grin when she saw Aeri's face turn tomato-red in the reflection of the glass door.

Maybe sophomore won't be so bad.

CHECK OUT @jihyoruri ! they're the main inspo for everything i do online, and they're really good at writing :)

[garagepaperback]

mistake

Malfoy’s a giddy drunk, giggly, a lot of energy. A lot. He can’t get hard the fourth time and insists they try some healing instead. He actually calls it that.

Cross-legged in bed, the lists are drawn up (he’s not embarrassed at all about it. He kisses Harry sloppily anyway, bleary, sighing oh well into his mouth. He slides two fingers in there too despite there being very little vacancy left - Harry's mouth is already quite full with Malfoy’s tongue and all the incessant talking. It’s unreasonably hot and if Harry wasn't equally rat-arsed, he probably would’ve been desperately hard about it.) after Malfoy comes back from finding a biro and a half-wet quill somewhere, even though this is Harry’s flat. 

Malfoy makes himself laugh twice and finishes first which surprises Harry none at all. He's barely made it to third year when Malfoy shoves his scrap of notebook paper down, covering Harry's. The quill punched through the page in some areas; using the mattress as a desk probably hadn’t been the best idea, but then again, the same could be said for every inch of the whole thing. 

Harry looks down.

The bathroom

Stealing my wand

quidditch

dying

6th year (bathroom)

It looks like he’s spent the majority of his time drawing little diamonds for the bullet points. They are, by far, the most elaborate thing on the page. Harry says, holding it up to his face. “You wrote bathroom twice."

“You fucked up twice,” Malfoy replies haughtily, a little bit laughing. His face is so pink. Like frosting begging to be licked off. “You didn’t do something and then you did do something. That’s two,” he holds a fist up to his mouth, blinking. It takes him a moment, maybe, to remember, “wrongs.”

The word 'quidditch' is closer to a hippopotamus-shaped smudge than to language itself. Harry puts the paper to the side and goes to grab for his own but Malfoys beat him to it. 

He does a shit impression of reading - he actually moves his head back and forth as he goes (Harry’s written: ‘bullying Ron’, ‘making fun of me’, ‘being racist toward Hermione’, ‘being a classist fuck’, ‘being a blood supremacist fuck’, ‘bootlicking’ ‘actively upholding a power structure you know hurts people just because it was beneficial for you’. Or, with the last one, he’s made the attempt. After power it sort of just dissolves into a wiggly, vaguely disappointed line.).

There’s barely enough time for him to get through half of it and Malfoy says “Pfft,” before he tosses the page off to the side. It floats gently down and stays quite near them both.

“You can’t just pfft this stuff.” Harry says, alarmed that he is sort of finding it funny. "It happened."

“I know that.” Malfoy says, and pats Harry's unfinished list condescendingly. “We can just keep it over here. We both know already - we don’t have to.” He makes a circular gesture, loopy, elegant hand, like, around and around. He gestures at the crumpled page again. "Those are just things that happened a long time ago." He looks far too pointedly at Harry, staring, and lifts a finger in the air. It lands on Harry's nose. "This is an alive thing. Happening."

A little baffled, lost and still ambiently turned on, Harry insists, “What about healing or whatever."

But Malfoy's already crawling over and on top of him, the pages a crux crunching under his knees. He does a clumsy and frustratingly hot job of kissing him. An alive thing, all over.

for day 23 of @microficmay

[plor-bindery]

Bound: dot journal for me!

I was a bit hasty and sloppy with this one but it’s done and I like it mostly! It’s just meant to be a functional object for work notes.

Materials and process notes under the cut.

Materials:

My first half-letter bind using actual short grain letter (ledger cut in half) and it is obviously better. Opens better, folds better, etc. The paper is Xerox Bold Digital. It’s pure white but a nice texture and 24 lb. It’ll do. And literally the only thing I can buy domestically as a consumer in Canada that’s not 20lb photocopy paper or cardstock in this size.

Bookcloth is homemade with a cheap cotton fat quarter I had, heat n bond, and mulberry tissue. The cotton is too thin but otherwise worked okay. It shows pencil marks on the board underneath on the spine.

Cover paper is handmade from Paper Source. It’s so pretty but also tricky to work with.

Headbands are cotton embroidery floss wrapped around cooking twine that I dredged in PVA for stiffness. Fancy.

End papers are just scrapbook cardstock from Dollarama.

Typeset (AKA 5 mm dots) is by me. I imposed it using bookbinder.js which killed my margins but I was too cheap/lazy to reprint. Will troubleshoot next time I use this layout.

Process:

Not much new here other than the bookcloth (which I’ve made before but haven’t posted about) and the sewn end bands. Verdict on the end bands is that it’s fiddly but pretty. Not sure if worth it but maybe a good option for a special volume. I have done needlework in my past crafting so I found the actual process quite easy…but miles of practice would be needed for a very neat product.

All told, a very functional and not elegant end result, but I needed a work notebook and this was good practice. Back to fanbinding for a bit now…just need to keep working on my typesets!

[thehollowwriter]

"Clearcove."

The elegant, poised, effortless first-year is once again standing before Finn, an all too familiar sight. What isn't familiar is the faint hint of abashment on Chrysos' face, stiff and awkward from critical overthinking. Goodness, you'd think he'd be used to gift-giving by now, wouldn't you?

"Happy birthday. I, ah... You'll have to forgive my being out of sorts-- here you go."

A fresh new watercolor notebook is presented to Finn, the 'cover' defaultly lined with butterflies.

"I happened to see this in my last trip to town-- Since painting is your hobby, I thought I might give this to you. Though it might vary a bit from your usual style... Of course, don't feel obliged to take it if it's a gift not to your tastes."

Ah, there goes that smooth delivery. If it weren't for his unusual wordiness, you wouldn't believe Chrysos was nervous at all. Still, in front of an upperclassman he looks up to...

-- @cpendentif

(ooc: HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY FINNNNN !!!! i would have sent this in earlier if i had ideas then and i wasn't busy but 😭WE'RE HERE NOW!!!! - kai)

Finn's amethyst eyes lit up at the sight of his favourite first year, and he smiled a little as he took the notebook in his hands and looked it over.

"Hm, this is wonderful, Chrysos, thank you." He said softly, tracing the butterflies on the cover. "They're Menelaus Blue Morphos... how wonderful."

Finn turned his gaze back to Chrysos and thought for a moment. Then, he reached up, straining so he was on the tips of his toes, and patted Chrysos' head.

"Thank you, Chrysos. I'll be keeping my butterfly notes in here. I love it."

Tagging: @br3adtoasty @rainesol @theleechyskrunkly @jovieinramshackle

@galaxies-and-gore @cyanide-latte @cynthinesia @officialdaydreamer00 @krenenbaker

@offorestsongs @kitwasnothere @elenauaurs @boopshoops @inotonline

@1dont-really-know @kazumify @minteasketches @elysia-nsimp @skrimpyskimpy

@casp1an-sea @offorestsongs @tixdixl @poisoned-pearls @the-trinket-witch

@ramshacklerumble @ghostiidasponk @thegoldencontracts @sillyslipperybananapeel @cloudcountry

@skriblee-ksk @twstinginthewind @lumdays @theolivetree123 @natsukishinomiyaswife

@authoruio @jewelulu @raguiras @honeynclove @moonyasnow

@skibidibabygirl @paperclvps @quartztwst @yuizenihaswriten @devosin