#and realized i'd want this book's world to have some of that tone

[glowettee]

✧・becoming the girl they can't touch but can't forget・゜✧

post 1 post 2

hey lovelies! welcome to the third part of the siren syllabus series!!

i've been really into presence lately. not just being physically present somewhere, but that quiet magnetic energy some people carry that makes them impossible to ignore. you know those girls who walk into a room and somehow shift the air without even trying? the ones who leave conversations and somehow linger in people's minds for days after?

i used to think those girls were just born with something special. some magical fairy dust that made them unforgettable while the rest of us blended into backgrounds. but lately i'm realizing it's not magic at all, it's actually a subtle alchemy of self-possession that any of us can create.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the moment i knew i needed to change ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

last week i was at this coffee shop working on an essay when this girl walked in. nothing flashy about her, simple white tee, jeans, messy bun. but she moved with this quiet certainty that made me stop typing mid-sentence. she wasn't performing for anyone. she wasn't checking to see who was looking. she just existed fully in her skin, ordered her drink without that apologetic tone so many of us use, then sat down and pulled out a book.

i couldn't stop watching her (not in a creepy way i promise). she wasn't conventionally perfect or trying to be the main character, she just fully inhabited herself. and it was magnetic. the way she tucked her hair behind her ear without checking her reflection, how she laughed at something in her book without glancing around to see if anyone noticed. there was something almost otherworldly about someone so completely at ease with themselves.

i want that. not to be watched or admired necessarily, but to exist with that level of self-containment. to be so at home in myself that i don't leak energy seeking validation or apologizing for my existence. to become the kind of presence that lingers in a room long after i've left it.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the quiet practices of magnetic girls ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

i've spent months studying these effortlessly magnetic people and experimenting with little shifts that are slowly changing how i move through the world. here's what i've discovered works:

stop explaining your choices

when i say no to plans, i don't follow with a paragraph justifying why. when someone questions a decision, i don't scramble to make them comfortable with it. my choices don't need defense attorneys. this was honestly terrifying at first (recovering people pleaser here) but the discomfort passes quickly, and what remains is this unexpected feeling of sovereignty.

try this: next time someone asks why you made a choice, simply respond with "it felt right to me" and then let the silence be. notice how uncomfortable it might feel at first, but how powerful it becomes with practice.

take yourself on intentional solo dates

not the performative instagram kind where you stage photos of books and coffee to prove you enjoy your own company. actual dates where i treat myself with the attention and curiosity i'd give someone i was falling for. museums where i linger at whatever painting pulls me in without worrying if i'm boring anyone. restaurants where i order exactly what i want without considering if someone wants to share. movies in empty afternoon theaters where i can fully disappear into stories.

the girl who enjoys her own company without needing to broadcast it has a certain gravity to her. she's not alone because she's unwanted, she's alone because she's complete.

speak with quiet conviction

i used to have this habit of downplaying my thoughts, peppering everything with "maybe" and "i think" and "i could be wrong but." now i say what i mean directly. not unkindly, but clearly. it's amazing how people respond to this, how they actually listen more when you speak with quiet conviction.

practice removing qualifiers from your speech for one day. instead of "i think maybe we should try this approach?" try "this approach would work well here." feel the difference in your body as you speak.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･selective mystery ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

there's something soooooo irresistible about a girl who doesn't reveal everything at once. not in a calculated, playing-games way, but in the natural unfolding of someone who understands that intimacy is earned, not given freely to everyone who asks.

create intentional boundaries around your energy

i've started being much more selective about where my emotional energy goes. not everyone deserves access to your deepest thoughts, your vulnerabilities, your dreams. share these precious parts of yourself only with those who have shown they can hold them with care.

this isn't about being cold or distant, it's understanding your own worth. the girl they can't forget knows that her inner world is a garden with a gate, not a public park.

presence over performance

in a world obsessed with performing for invisible audiences online, there's something revolutionary about being fully present in your actual life. i've been practicing putting my phone away when i'm with friends, making eye contact during conversations, really listening instead of waiting for my turn to speak.

presence is magnetic in a way that performance can never be. the unforgettable girl isn't the one with the most followers. she's the one who made you feel truly seen in a conversation months ago that you still think about.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the contrast ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

the most magnetic people i know contain beautiful contradictions. they're warm but selective with their energy. kind but firm with their boundaries. soft in their approach but uncompromising in their values. there's an intriguing tension in someone who can't be easily categorized.

selective vulnerability

being vulnerable doesn't mean emotionally exposing yourself to everyone. it means having the courage to be seen fully by those who have earned that privilege. i'm learning to share my deeper truths with a chosen few rather than seeking validation through constant emotional disclosure.

maintain your own sacred rituals

develop practices that are just for you, not for content, not for sharing, not for anyone else's consumption. maybe it's a morning writing ritual, a special place you visit alone, a playlist you only listen to when you need to reconnect with yourself. these private anchors give you a sense of self that exists completely independent of external validation.

the strangest part of all this? the less i grasp for attention or validation, the more i seem to linger in people's minds. the girl they can't touch but can't forget isn't trying to be unforgettable, she's just fully embodied in her own life.

it's not being untouchable in a cold way. what i'm saying is having boundaries that come from self-respect rather than fear. it's about being warm and open while remaining firmly rooted in who you are.

who are you when you're not trying to be liked? what would it feel like to move through your days without seeking external validation? that's where the magic lives, in that quiet certainty that you are enough exactly as you are, not performing for anyone, just existing fully in your own skin.

and isn't that the most magnetic thing of all?

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[fictionadventurer]

Lily Between Worlds is a bit of an odd duck when it comes to classification. I'd have a YA (or just above) protagonist, but this is not a YA story. That implies something between child and adult, but actually, I'd want to blend those two categories. I'd want it to have the level-headed maturity of a story for adults, but the wonder and whimsy of a middle-grade story. I think of it like a Pixar story--something that's equally suitable for every age level, like The Electrical Menagerie. I don't know, it's just something to keep in mind if I want to develop this further.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Eddie cursed, rubbing his eyes. He had to figure out a way to help his uncle with the hospital bills. Wayne was out of work for now, and the money from Eddie's little business wouldn't cover it all. He had to do something, and the gremlins said that they take shit from Steve's house all the time. . .he doesn't mind. Oh, fuck, he couldn't believe that he was doing this. It was easy to tell himself that he was just a pharmaceutical salesman when he was selling drugs but breaking into someone's house? It was hard to explain that one away. Eddie swallowed his guilt and squared his shoulders. He slid open the back door of Steve’s house and entered the room that looked out at the pool in the backyard. Okay, now, he just had to get past the living room and up the stairs. The living room was dark as Eddie crept by. . .except, there was a flickering glow coming from the TV. Someone was still home. Shit! He was supposed to be on a date!

"Fuck," Eddie cursed softly.

Eddie's eyes adjusted, and then he realized what he was looking at. Steve was leaning back on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, and he was watching. . .the animated Hobbit movie? Eddie nearly choked on his own saliva. Steve was enjoying it too, bobbing his head to the music, a smile on his face. Eddie stared at him for a moment, getting lost in the way he smiled and laughed. . .the way he looked ethereal in the light of the television screen. Eventually, though, Eddie's eyes drifted from Steve to the screen, and he got lost in the story. Before he knew it, Eddie was sitting on the other side of the couch. At some point, Steve offered him popcorn, and he accepted, thanking him as he stuffed the kernels into his mouth. When the movie ended, Steve got up and turned on the lights before sitting back down again. Eddie grinned, he fucking loved that movie.

"Okay, that was pretty good," Steve said.

"You've never seen it before?" Eddie asked.

"Nope! Dustin suggested it. . .he didn't think I'd read the book," Steve rolled his eyes. "He's got to get that ego of his in check."

"It's his tone, right?" Eddie asked.

"Exactly!" Steve exclaimed.

"You've read the book?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, yeah, I figured. . .Dustin agreed to do something for me, so I figured, why not throw him a bone," Steve said. "I loved the book, and I'm trying to get through the Fellowship, but it's just - I guess I'm just slower than most people," Steve said.

"Hey, man, Tolkien isn't for everyone and hell, I love his works but the man can go on about a fucking tree," Eddie said. "You should get points for trying."

They talked about Tolkien for a few minutes and how Steve really liked it, but it was difficult for him. They also talked about Dustin, and they laughed when they realized they were both jealous of each other when the kid looked up to both of them. It was a nice moment, and he couldn't believe he had so much in common with him. . .turns out there's not enough money in the world that could make your parents love you. Finally, Steve cleared his throat and crossed his arms.

"So, are we going to talk about you breaking into my house?" Steve asked.

"Shit," Eddie said, his eyes wide. "Uh - "

He was very flustered, and he didn't know what to say. How could he explain to him that he wanted to steal from him? He could just say it. Steve smirked and moved closer to him. . .so close their thighs were touching. Steve threw an arm over the back of his couch, right behind Eddie, and leaned in even closer. Suddenly, Eddie was very aware of just how close they were. He could feel Steve’s breath on his skin. His heart was being rapidly in his chest. This was just because of his guilt and not because he enjoyed Steve Harrington being pressed up against him. . .right?

"Did you break into my house to watch a movie with me?" Steve asked, his voice low and husky. It did something to Eddie's lower part of his body. "I have to say. . .very flattered."

"I'm not - ," Eddie said, trying to get out that he didn't like men or try to break into their houses to flirt with them. "I'm an asshole!"

"Excuse me?" Steve asked.

"You were supposed to be on a date," Eddie said, his face very red.

"Yeah, well, I think I found something better. . .more like something better found me," Steve smiled, a crooked smile that did something funny and weird to Eddie's heart. Was he dying?

"Look, the kids said that you don't really care about what they take from your house, so I thought I'd partake. . .," Eddie said, trailing off, feeling ashamed

"You came here to steal from me?" Steve asked, incredulous.

Eddie was disappointed when he moved away from him. He missed the contact, and he hated the way Steve was looking at him. He was so. . .disappointed, and Eddie wondered why he even cared because he didn't even know him all that well. Maybe that was the point. For one brief moment, he wanted to know more about Steve Harrington, and all it took was seeing him watch one of his favorite movies. It didn't take much for him to believe in all the things that the kids had told him before. . .in his minds eyes, Steve Harrington had been this almost mythic being. . .too good to be true, but now, here was a real person. He always watched him from afar, Steve had everything: a nice house, money, popularity, and unlike his stupid jock friends, he was decent to the smallfolk of Hawkins High. As much as he tried to deny it, Steve Harrington was a good dude, and Eddie had been the dick who hurt him. He knew that if he had just asked, from what Dustin had said about him, that Steve probably would have given him the shirt off his back but not without complaining loudly about it first.

"I'm sorry. . .I just needed the money. My uncle got into an accident that put him out of work, and my drug business isn't paying the bills. . .I've tried getting hired elsewhere, but have you seen me?! I just thought that since you didn't care - " Eddie rambled.

Just like that, Steve was smiling at him again. . .softly this time and with a lot of affection. He stood up and held out his hand.

"Come along, thief," Steve smirked.

Eddie, immediately and without question, slid his hand into Steve’s. It fit so perfectly. Steve pulled him up off the couch and started leading him up the stairs. He pulled him into a bedroom. . .oh.

"Uh. . .," Eddie started to say.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything to you in here," Steve rolled his eyes. "This is my parents' bedroom."

"Why are we in here?" Eddie asked.

Steve opened a closet door and pulled him inside. Jesus, it was huge. It was a woman's closet filled with clothes, shoes, and jewelry.

"This is my mom's second closet but not her real one. She keeps all of her stuff in her apartment in New York. They own this house, and my parents each have their own apartment. They only keep the house for real estate or some shit, I wasn't really paying attention. One of the reasons why they keep me around is because they'll know I'll take care of it," Steve said.

"Like you're their live in butler?" Eddie asked.

"If you have to put it that way, yes," Steve rolled his eyes.

"Sorry," Eddie winced.

"No, it's true," Steve said. "In this closet, you can sell anything you want to. This is all the stuff my dad's bought my mom over the years every time he's cheated. She hates it. She sends it all back here."

"All of this?!" Eddie asked in surprise. "Has his dick fallen off yet?"

"I think my mom hopes for that," Steve scoffed.

"You seriously don't mind if I sell this stuff?" Eddie asked.

"Not at all, especially if it's for your uncle," Steve said. "Something good should come from this goddamn nightmare of a marriage."

"You came out of this marriage, Steve," Eddie said softly. "Your mom doesn't - ?"

"I'm sure she loved me at some point, but it's hard for her. . .I look too much like my dad," Steve said.

"You know, that's fucked up, right?" Eddie asked and he nodded.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the tears. One slipped out anyway. Eddie cupped his face and wiped the tears way with his thumb. Steve sighed and leaned into his touch for a moment before pulling away.

"I think it's sweet, you know. You must really love your uncle to go to all through this trouble," Steve said, smiling. "I might not have my parents, but I have Robin, Dustin, his mom, Lucas, and his parents. The rest of the party, too. . .I think I'd do anything for them."

"Steal for them?" He asked.

"Definitely," Steve said and paused, his hand on his hip as his eyes began twinkling with mirth. "I think that it's only fair that I steal something from you."

It was fair, Eddie thought. Steve placed his hands on Eddie's vest, running his fingers down the length of the vest. He gripped the collar. . .Eddie narrowed his eyes at him.

"You can't have my vest. I worked hard on it. I literally put my blood, sweat, and tears into it. Do you know how long it takes to sew - !"

Eddie was cut off by Steve pulling him close and smashing his lips to his. Eddie's eyes went wide - HE DOES NOT LIKE MEN, HE DOES NOT LIKE MEN - Okay, so maybe he does like men. Eddie's eyes fluttered closed, and he was about to return the kiss when Steve pulled away.

"You can have whatever you want, take my fucking wallet if you want," Eddie said, dazed.

"I don't want your wallet, Eddie," Steve chuckled. "Just you."

Eddie pushed up against against the doorframe, his hands on his chest. . .looking rather intense. Steve stared at him with wide eyes, unsure of what he was going to do. Eddie's hands went to his throat, and then cupped his face. Steve relaxed and smiled. Eddie noticed there were some green in his brown eyes. . .hazel. Eddie kissed him. Steve's hands went his hips immediately, pulling himself harder against Eddie and deepening the kiss. Eddie's hands went to the back of his neck, moving his lips roughly against Steve’s, gripping his hair. Steve pushed him back against the other frame, his lips moving to Eddie's neck.

"Fuck," Eddie cursed.

It wasn't the first time Eddie cursed tonight, and he felt like it wouldn't be the last. He was pretty sure he liked women. . .particularly cheerleaders in short skirts. . .skirts that showed their ass a little bit. Yeah, he did. The image of Steve Harrington in a cheerleader skirt immediately flooded his mind. . .the hint of his perky ass just peaking out. . .Eddie let out another curse as Steve sucked on his neck, and the image of Steve wearing the uniform was a little bit too much. He pushed Steve off of him. Yeah, Eddie was hard.

"Sorry, did I go too far?" Steve asked.

"No, I went too far," Eddie gasped. "I was picturing you in a cheerleader uniform."

"Why?" Steve asked coyly.

"I was trying to figure out if I still liked women," Eddie said and tried to cool himself off.

"Oh! Oh shit, I didn't know that you didn't know!" Steve exclaimed, his eyes wide with panic.

"How could you have? I didn't tell you and I didn't fucking know. There were signs!" Eddie shrieked and then muttered, "I bet Ronnie knows."

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

"Yeah. . .it was a great fucking kiss. I just I'm confused. . .women or men, men or women!" Eddie exclaimed and held up both of his hands. "Put them together. . .yeah. . .okay."

"Eddie, I'm bisexual," Steve said gently.

"You're a woman and a man?" Eddie asked. "That's fucking metal."

"No!" Steve laughed. "That's good to know that you're okay with that, too, though. It's means I'm sexually attracted to more than one gender."

"You know, I was wondering why Jeff was giving me an odd look when I was talking about David Bowie being bisexual. . .why the fuck didn't he correct me?" Eddie asked.

"Because he probably thought it was funny," Steve said.

"Asshole," Eddie said, cursing out Jeff. "I feel like such an idiot."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up, man. We're all figuring things out. I didn't even know there was a name for it until a few months ago," Steve said, taking his hand.

"But you knew," Eddie said. "Unlike me. . ."

"There's a lot of things that people don't about themselves. You get to know yourself, too, when you get to know other people. Don't call my thief an idiot like that again. . .you were just clueless," Steve said.

"What's the difference?" Eddie asked.

"Well, one feels a little bit more like Scooby Doo," Steve said. "And you're trying to solve a mystery."

"Stop getting sexier," he scowled.

"Come on, since you're still figuring it out, let's go downstairs, and we can watch the cartoon Lord of the Rings. I rented that one, too," Steve said and kissed Eddie's hand.

"I said stop it, you goddamn Disney prince," Eddie mumbled, blushing.

"Says the thief who invaded my castle," Steve winked.

"Fuuuucking, stop it," Eddie whined. "Jesus H Christ. . .by the way, your thief?"

"Yeah, no, I decided. . .I'm definitely stealing you," Steve said.

His hands were on his hips in the most bitchiest and sexiest pose ever which Eddie thought was completely unfair. He had no defense against that weapon, and it was safe to say that those hips were weapons of mass destruction because they were completely destroying Eddie and apparently have been slowly over the years. . .he just refused to admit it. 'Imagine him doing that in a cheerleading uniform,' his evil half whispered to him. Eddie shrieked.

"Let's go watch the movie!" Eddie yelled.

He grabbed Steve’s hand and yanked him down the stairs, Steve laughing all the way. They settled in to watching the movie, with Eddie throwing caution to the wind and tossing his legs over Steve’s. Watching it with him did help him relax and enjoy the comfort of someone who wanted Eddie Munson close to them, who didn't fucking draw the pitchforks the minute he broke into his house. No, in fact, Steve Harrington fucking kissed him. This beautiful asshole wanted to get closer to him and apparently not just physically intimate with him. Either Steve really did want Eddie, or he was desperate for anyone's attention, even settling for Eddie. At some point during the movie, Eddie stopped watching it and started watching Steve instead, trying desperately to figure it all out. Steve turned to him, smiling softly, his beautiful haze eyes lighting up at his attention. Yeah, he wanted Eddie "the Freak" Munson.

"Hi," Steve whispered.

"Do you have a death wish?" Eddie blurted out.

"A little bit, why?" Steve frowned.

"No reason," Eddie said and turned back to the movie.

After the movie was over, they talked about in detail for a while with the conversation leading to Steve ranting that all jocks are nerds, that they always have been, and he didn't understand why they went after other fellow nerds. He talked a lot about statistics and math. . .Holy shit, Steve Harrington was good at math. It was the hottest thing he's ever witnessed. It led to Eddie straddling him and kissing the daylights out of him. Eddie had to pull back before he developed another problem, though. He cupped Steve’s face, enjoying the way the other man looked utterly kissed out because of him.

"So, have you figured some things out?" Steve asked softly, rubbing Eddie's back as he continued to straddle his lap.

"I'm like you," Eddie said. "Definitely."

"There's no pressure. . ." Steve said.

"I know there isn't," Eddie laughed. "Bisexual. . .it feels right to me. For me. Just like you do. . .by the way, I'm totally judging you for falling for a man who broke into your goddamn house."

"Says the man who broke into said house and gave himself away by watching a movie with me," Steve laughed.

"Touche," Eddie cackled and pressed his forehead. "If I don't leave now, I might stay forever."

"That would be a shame," Steve said with a grin.

Steve walked Eddie to the door and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Eddie could still feel the presence of his lips even when he got home. He felt like he was forgetting something, but he couldn't remember what. He didn't remember it until the next day when he found that someone had broken into his van and placed a package with some jewelry and a note.

To My Thief:

Forget something? Well, I hope you aren't so busy thinking about me that you forget to call.

Your prince,

Steve

His number was down below. Eddie smiled and clutched the note to his chest. Yeah, things were looking up for him. 86 was definitely his year.

[wisteria-lodge]

I don't understand this Draco hasn't done anything absolutely evil but why does Harry consider him as his archnemesis?

Also, the post about Snape, Marauders, and bullying

Does it mean that what Draco does isn't bullying if Harry and the others fight back?

I'd say the difference between a bully and an enemy is the power dynamic. Enemies have roughly the same amount of power, while a bully has significantly more power then the person they're messing with. Bullies also know that they have more power, and kind of relish throwing their weight around. You can still fight back if you have less power, it just probably isn't going to help much.

Draco actually seems pretty aware of the relative power levels of all the people around him. There is a brief window in Book 1 where he DOES have more power than Harry, just because Harry is SO clueless and so new to everything. For a second, Harry is actually intimidated by Draco.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy sneered. “Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron. “But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.”

(Draco talks like a baby mobster, I can't even....)

There are also bits like -

Harry didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

Here, Draco is communicating that HE belongs in this world, and Harry does not (to a comical extent.) Which Harry IS worried about at the beginning of Book 1, so this time the teasing hits.

However... Draco very quickly loses whatever leverage he has. Harry figures out the world pretty fast, does well at Hogwarts, becomes the youngest Seeker in a century, has all this notoriety as "the Boy Who Lived." Draco *tries* to bully him and... fails.

[Malfoy] had tried to get everyone laughing at how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. Then he’d realized that nobody found this funny, because they were all so impressed [with Harry]

Draco is trying to use his power to make Harry's life more difficult, only to realize that that he can't. He is flailing around, trying to to be intimidating, trying to tease Harry in a way that will actually upset him, and it's not working:

“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions class, “for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.” He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled.

Swing and a miss. Harry KNOWS the Dursleys don't want him back for Christmas, and is THRILLED about this.

Draco will sometimes tease Harry about his fame, which kind of works. (“'Everyone line up!' Malfoy roared to the crowd. 'Harry Potter’s giving out signed photos! 'No, I’m not,' said Harry angrily, his fists clenching.") BUT, Draco mostly pivots to going after Harry's friends, people with less societal/social power. People Draco CAN bully. So instead of going after Harry directly, we see him mess with Hagrid, Neville, Ron and Hermione. Very good way to get on Harry's bad side.

Harry does seem to have this continuous low-key obsession with Draco though. When nothing else is going on, he snaps back to What Suspicious Thing is Malfoy Doing Now (lets discuss). He goes undercover to spy on Draco during Book 2, in Book 3 he has all kinds of thoughts about what *Draco* might know about Sirius Black, and in Book 6 he gets Kreacher and Dobby to tail him, all while Harry is stalking-Draco-via-Map. Ron & Hermione tell him to tone it down.

It's not hard at all to take this in a Drarry direction, but even if you don't... yeah, I can see why Draco specifically bothers Harry. Draco is a magical only child, with parents who adore and protect him, who are always writing him letters and sending him care packages. Draco is maybe the closest to what Harry's life would have looked like if James and Lily survived. That the one thing Harry wants more than anything, and Draco didn't do anything to earn all this love and good fortune! Draco sucks!

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! - 11

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Bucky had no idea that someone was making an evil plan against him. He had been advising you on managing Velari’s business for the past few days.

You quickly grasped the management concepts, learning from the best, Bucky. Another reason for your quick understanding was your previous business studies at a prestigious university. However, you couldn't continue your education due to internal conflicts within your family.

That was your biggest regret. You only bark but never bite. You managed to continue your education only because Cassandra sold her jewelry. You will never forget the sacrifice she made for you. You clenched your fists, remembering the heartbreak in her eyes when she sold her cherished possessions.

But still, whenever you tried to rise, life seemed determined to bring you down again. Genevieve used all her connections to prevent you from learning business and management.

You discovered this when you confronted the dean, who said, "Mrs. Sinclair donates a lot to this university, and we don’t want to disappoint her." You had felt a cold rage, your hands trembling as you realized the extent of her influence.

Most prestigious universities denied you. The only place that accepted you was a community college, where you randomly chose to study health and physical education because, at that time, you felt utterly lost and alone.

You just wanted to get a degree, any degree. You sighed, recalling the sense of defeat and the hollow feeling in your chest as you enrolled in a field you had no passion for.

Sometimes not expecting anything gives the best gifts. The lecturer and friends you met were the most supportive and kindest people you had ever encountered. That’s how you got the job as a teacher at Granite Hills Reform School, where problematic, delinquent students from all over the country were gathered.

It was tough at first; your teachers and the principal had warned you to be careful. But you felt like you could make some changes because you knew how the students felt: not being listened to, getting bullied, not being appreciated, and being ignored. You remembered the frustration in their eyes, a mirror of your own past struggles.

Comparing the discipline required for dealing with delinquent students who always gave outrageous excuses, working at Velari seemed easier.

After redefining the clothes' design with Andrea, you felt like the old Velari was back. You never thought redoing the design would be easier than looking at the accountant's records.

It was a mess. You ran your fingers through your hair, your brow furrowed in disbelief.

You scratched your head, unable to believe how much the business was bleeding. Bucky was also reading the numbers. "If you don’t do something, Velari will be closed in two years." His tone was serious, and his eyes met yours with concern.

"Urgh." You threw your head onto the book on the table and hit it a few times in frustration.

Bucky extended his hand and placed it on your forehead. His warm hand held your head gently. "Don’t worry, you can fix this." His touch and reassuring words made you pause, feeling a flicker of hope amid the chaos.

You felt your face warm up. Bucky noticed too. "Are you having a fever?" he asked, concern evident in his eyes.

You quickly moved your head away from his hand and shook your head. "No, I guess I hit my head too hard," you replied, trying to downplay your flustered state.

The chat between you and Bucky didn’t go unnoticed by Andrea, the senior designer. She bit her lip and continued drawing, stealing glances occasionally.

Bucky cleared his throat. "If you want, we could make a press release for a new rebranding for Velari."

"That’s a good idea," you nodded. "Can we also include AstraNova Group in the press release?"

Bucky nodded. "Sure." He looked at his watch and got up. "I’ll send the PR team to help you with the press release."

"Thank you," you said, your gratitude showing in your smile. Bucky smiled back and left the room.

"It was so sweet, I can't even describe it," Andrea remarked, taking off her glasses and smirking at you.

You felt your cheeks warm up again. "It's not..."

Andrea raised her hands in a mock surrender. "I won't tease you, but I saw how he always comes here and even stays with you until late at night. It says something."

You sighed, looking down at your hands. "I don’t know... To be honest, I don’t believe in romance after what I saw happen to my parents."

Andrea nodded sympathetically. "I understand, but not every story ends the same way. Sometimes, you just have to take a chance."

Andrea sighed, then approached you and gently took both of your hands in hers. She looked at you with a mix of concern and nostalgia. She remembered the first time Ophelia brought you to the shop.

You were cheerful, always laughing at the most minor things. But everything changed after Ophelia died, and not even a year later, your father remarried. Understandably, you have trauma around love and opening your heart to another person.

“Give it a chance,” Andrea said softly, squeezing your hands. “If both of you share the same feelings, that’s good. And… if Bucky cheats, I’m sure you could give him a lesson.” Andrea chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

You chuckled too, the tension easing from your shoulders. It would be a lie if you said you didn't have feelings for Bucky. You glanced down, your cheeks flushing slightly.

Andrea noticed your expression and gave your hands another reassuring squeeze. “You deserve happiness, just like anyone else.”

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "Thanks, Andrea. I'll think about it."

Andrea smiled warmly, patting your hands before letting go. “Good. Now, let’s get back to work. We’ve got a lot to do.”

👗👗👗👗👗

Since his memory returned, Bucky has been practicing touching other people. He started with his parents first. Though he still couldn’t hug them, he could hold their hands without feeling disgusted. His mom and dad were astounded and cried at the same time.

Finally, they could have physical contact with their son again without Bucky feeling nauseated or acting like they were germs. As parents, it was heartbreaking to see him struggle. The kidnapping stole Bucky and their chance to be an average family.

Juliana sipped her tea while watching her son read the newspaper. "So, today you’re going to be the honored guest at Velari?" she asked with a teasing smile.

Bucky nodded, not looking up from the paper.

"I never thought my son could be interested in fashion," she teased again, her eyes twinkling.

"Mom�� I’m just… repaying the favor," Bucky replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Yeah… right," Rowan and Juliana murmured together. Because of Bucky’s condition, he never had the chance to have an intimate relationship with someone. He spent his youth only studying. So now, with Bucky and you? They couldn’t be happier.

Bucky wanted to smile at his parents' teasing but held it in. He stood from his seat, adjusting the buttons on his jacket. "I don’t want to be late."

"Why so early?" Juliana asked, looking up from her tea.

Bucky kept walking toward the door where the car was already prepared for him. "I have to stop by her house first."

"Tell her I said ‘Hi’," Juliana called after him, a knowing smile on her face.

Bucky paused at the door, turning slightly to nod before stepping outside. As he approached the car, he couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing you.

🫖🫖🫖🫖🫖

Bucky arrived at your house and, as usual, greeted Cassandra first. She looked much healthier, having gained some weight since the first time he met her. Even with her dementia, Cassandra was always friendly to everyone. She was sitting in the garden with a blanket on her lap.

“Hello, Grandma,” Bucky greeted her warmly.

Cassandra’s eyes widened with recognition. “Ah, Patrick. It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? Did you have breakfast?”

Bucky smiled softly, though he didn’t understand why she called him Patrick. After meeting a few times, she started using this name. He had mentioned it to you, but you didn’t know who Patrick was either.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” you said, walking into the garden while adjusting your earrings.

Bucky fell silent, momentarily mesmerized by how different you looked today. Cassandra noticed, too, and clapped her hands in delight. “You look so beautiful, Ophelia. Did you make the clothes from my design again?”

You bent down and kissed her cheeks. “Yes.” Bringing your mother’s and grandmother’s designs to life was one of your greatest joys.

At least Genevieve and Victoria had never gotten their hands on the earlier designs. Kneeling beside Cassandra, you took her wrinkled hands and looked into her eyes. “I’m going to revive the old Velari.”

Cassandra tilted her head and caressed your hair gently. “I believe in you,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth and trust.

🚗🚗🚗🚗🚗

The ride to the press release was quiet. You kept silently memorizing the speech you were going to deliver to the journalists and critics. In the fashion world, critics' words held significant weight.

Bucky sensed your nervousness. “Don’t worry. You can do this,” he said, his voice steady.

You took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Yes, I can do this.” Then, you looked at Bucky, feeling a surge of gratitude. You had reached this point mainly because of him.

“Bucky… I…” Your eyes widened when you saw Bucky’s intense focus on you, and he reached for you. “Wait…”

“Get down!” Bucky shouted, dragging your body away from the door. The movement was swift. As the car stopped at a red light, a big SUV suddenly rammed into Bucky’s car.

The car window shattered, showering you with glass. “What the fuck?” you exclaimed, feeling a mix of shock and fear.

Then you realized the person who had shielded you was trembling. You looked up to see Bucky, his face pale, his body rigid.

The traumatic memory of his kidnapping had resurfaced with startling clarity. He had just wanted to go home early from an event hosted by AstraNova, finding the party boring with no kids his age. But that decision had led to his abduction, a memory now mirrored in this moment. The nightmare was returning: the darkness, the cold, and fear.

“Bucky?” you called, trying to snap him out of his frozen state.

‘Bang.’

You hear the door closed from the SUV and see three big guys coming into your car. You saw the driver is fainted. “Shit.”

You touched Bucky's face urgently, trying to break through his fear. "Bucky, look at me! I know you're scared. Me too! But we can't stand still. We have to run. Argh…" Suddenly, strong arms grabbed you from behind.

The person was big and rough, wearing a ski mask. He muttered, "You're a firecracker, aren't ya?" His confidence wavered when you stared directly at him.

You continued kicking and squirming to escape his grasp, but his strength was overwhelming compared to your students'. Where was Bucky?

“Bucky!!!” you screamed, desperately searching for him.

“Don’t worry about him. We just want you,” the abductor sneered as he dragged you toward the waiting car.

Fear surged through you as you realized what was happening—had you just been abducted?

You kept kicking and struggling against the abductor, but he gripped your leg harder. “Be good, or I’ll break your fucking legs…”

“Help!” A voice suddenly cried out, weak and desperate.

You and your abductor both turned toward the sound.

What you saw was beyond anything you could have imagined. Bucky, whose body was smaller than the abductor's, had launched himself into action. With surprising strength and speed, he grabbed the other abductor and threw him in a wide arc.

The abductor struggled, choking and gasping for air. His resistance faded, and he went limp, unconscious. Bucky discarded him like a sack of garbage.

Your abductor's voice trembled with disbelief and frustration. “Fuck, she didn’t mention any of this.”

You were equally shocked. You had never imagined that Bucky possessed such strength and skill.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky had been quietly preparing himself for such situations. He had learned various martial arts and survival techniques, practicing diligently despite his physical limitations. Unable to spar with others, he had honed his abilities with machines and workout equipment, constantly pushing himself to the highest levels.

Now, faced with real danger, Bucky's training revealed itself. His strength and determination were beyond anything you had ever seen from him.

Andrea echoed in your mind, "If Bucky cheated, you could give him a lesson." If she could witness this moment, she would indeed be astounded.

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It is nights like these that make Coriolanus ponder the 'what ifs?' the most; it is nights like these that bring Lucy Gray back to his mind, even after all this time. Even if she's unwelcome.

If he was a better man, a little less power-hungry and a little more altruistic, he would have missed all of this. He never would have found you - a deer so susceptible to the wolf's skilful machinations. So impressionable, so devoted... And what gamesmanship it truly is to make the prey believe there's some grace in being eaten alive.

He's leaning against the doorframe leading to the nursery - awake, although you have told him to go back to sleep when your newborn daughter woke her parents up. Coriolanus is watching the scene unfold from afar, never letting even the smallest of details escape his attention. He wishes to gloat, to bathe in his own triumph.

Your face, which once smiled so brightly only for him, now smiles for another. What's strange, is that it doesn't make Coriolanus as angry or bitter as it usually would. That territorial beast residing deep in his viscera is wary but not bothered. Not yet, at least.

The baby's cries die down as you cradle her in your arms. In gentle, almost fearful, movements, you rock the newborn. Coriolanus sees your lips move but the whisper is too low for him to discern any words. Whatever it is you say to the youngest Snow, it makes her giggle and babble. The sound reminds him of your own laughter, which he so easily elicits with the smallest gestures of affection. Maybe too easily - although just as exciting, it was never a challenge.

You gently lay the baby back down in her cot. For a moment, you study her face with an expression so loving it's almost pathetic. Coriolanus feels his skin crawl. Something animalistic within him beckons the man to do truly terrible things only to ensure that it's him and him only that you look at with such adoration.

But the urge dies down when you turn away from the newborn and meet his gaze across the room. He's back in the centre of your attention, where he belongs. Suddenly, something changes in your eyes.

That glint of devotion is clouded by something much more mischievous, something he used to absolutely hate until he learned about its nature. Since he met you, you've been looking at him with a hint of insightfulness as though you could see right through his facade and read about his sins on the pages of the open book that was his soul. He felt seen and not in a good way. Then, after learning a few things about you, Coriolanus realized that this perceptiveness is the best thing he could hope for - you were smart enough to connect the dots, to notice patterns not many deemed obvious and yet, too blindsided by love, you thought of his wrongdoings as right. Not in the ethical sense, perhaps, but in logic. There was a method to his madness and a very effective one at that. After all, how utterly foolish would it be to play nice while in The Capitol? In a world of "eat or be eaten", Coriolanus was going to throw a feast. You knew it early on and appreciated the wit and grit it takes to do so.

Standing now in front of him, you slightly lift one of your eyebrows, silently asking him what's on his mind.

"You're beautiful," he confesses.

Your lips curve into a smile. "Tell me something I don't know."

His blue eyes bore into yours. The intensity of his gaze makes you want to look away but prohibits you from doing so at the same time. "I'd burn the whole world for you," he whispers, his tone gravely serious.

Coriolanus feels himself shudder when the back of your hand gently brushes his cheek. Still looking at you, he tilts his head to kiss your fingers.

"I said 'something I don't know', love," you retort in an equally low voice. "Now come, the morning is still far away."

You take his hand in yours, pulling him back towards your bedroom. And, for some strange reason, he lets you guide him.

If he was a better man, he would lead a different life. A more peaceful one, perhaps. But he's not a better man - in fact, he's far from being considered "good" or even "decent". Which is why his life is pleasant, instead of peaceful. And if awful things have brought him so much joy, why, pray tell, should he ever be anything but despicable?

_____

Me? Writing dark characters with dark themes? In other news, the water is wet.

[numinousmysteries]

@poangsecretsanta

[on Ao3]

Vrooom, vrooom, let's basketball! For the delightful @xf-cases-solved aka diz who loves Milagro:

Agent Scully is already in love .

The words taunt him as she digs her nails into his back. She's crying hot tears onto the shoulder of his sweater and clinging to him like a life raft in a storm. He tries to focus on the thumping of her heart against his chest, the frantic breaths she gasps into his ear—signs that she’s alive, that he hasn’t lost her—but he can’t get Padgett’s words out of his mind. 

Padgett's a liar and a murderer, he tells himself. The guy would say anything to get a rise out of him. 

But he loves her. He's known for years although he doesn't know how to admit that to her, or even to herself. The possibility that she could feel the same way is too overwhelming to even consider. And the potential consequences too enormous. 

The paramedics arrive and give her a preliminary exam on his living room couch. Despite the volume of blood on her clothing, there doesn't seem to be an entry or exit wound and her vitals are normal. They offer a ride to the hospital just to be safe, but she declines.

"Alright," one of them says, slightly baffled. "Well, don't hesitate to call us again or come into the ER if your condition changes."

“Yes,” she says, her voice firm, the Dr. Dana Scully tone she uses for the rest of the world. For everyone except him. 

He shows them to the door. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks her once they're alone.

"Yeah, I think so," she says softly.

"Why don't I get you a change of clothes? Or, do you want to take a shower?"

"I-I'm not sure," she says and he realizes she's shaking.

"Oh Scully, come here," he says, taking a seat next to her on the couch and opening his arms to her.

Her lower lip trembles as she closes her eyes and rests her head on his chest. He wraps his arms around her and rubs soothing circles on her back. Her blood stains his sweater, marking him. 

"It's okay," he says. He leans down to kiss the crown of her head. It's warm and damp with sweat. She smells like fear. 

He hears her sniffling and trying to catch her breath. After a few moments of sobbing, her breathing slows down and becomes more measured. He feels her pulling back and he releases her from his embrace. 

"I'm sorry," she says. "I should go."

"Hey, wait, Scully," he says, grabbing her onto her wrist to keep her from rising from the couch. "You don't have to go just yet. I don't know if you should be driving like this."

"I'm fine," she says, although her warbling voice betrays her vulnerability.

"If you think I care about anything he wrote in that book—"

"Oh, Mulder, stop," she protests, but he continues.

"He didn’t know you at all. It was just the fantasies of a mad, lonely man."

"That's the thing," she sighs. "I think he did know me. Some of that was eerily accurate. It was almost like he was profiling me. I felt so exposed."

"But not all of it, obviously," he says.

"You mean, that I’m not in love?” 

He pauses, frozen in his tracks. He meant the part about her sleeping with Padgett. He wasn't expecting they'd actually discuss that part. 

"Scully, I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it."

She sucks in her top lip and bows her head, tears still wet on her face.

"What would that mean?" She asks. "I mean, to you? What would it mean to you if I were in love?"

He's confused, tiptoeing carefully around her question. "Well, I'd buy the lucky guy a beer to congratulate him. Let him know he's in for a lifetime of being second-guessed. But also that I'm damn jealous of him for getting to spend it with you."

A soft laugh catches in her throat and turns into a cough. "Mulder," she starts, looking down at her hands in her lap. "You know there's no one else...in my life."

"No one else besides..?"

She sighs again, this time more in frustration, and looks up at him with wet, blue eyes. "You're really going to make me say it?"

"I don't want to assume anything. But if you were to say you were in love with me, I'd assure you that there's nothing in the world that would make me happier. And that the feeling is more than mutual." 

She stares at him in stunned silence and he immediately wants to take his words back. Not because they aren’t true, but because he isn’t sure he’s ready to face their implications. 

“Shit, Scully, I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re in shock.”

“No,” she says quietly but resolutely, bringing a small palm to the center of his chest. Her touch feels firm. “I feel the same way. I have for a long time.”

“I’m flattered, truly,” he stammers. “But it doesn’t have to change anything between us. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it weren’t for Padgett and I don’t think we should give him that much power.”

He expects her to withdraw her hand but she doesn’t. With each fervent beat of his heart he feels the gentle but assured pressure of her touch. Not for the first time, he feels as if his heart will stop beating if she pulls away. 

“Can we really go back, though?” She asks, her eyes pleading. “To the way we were before?

He thinks, No, please, anything but that. He says, “Of course we can. We’ve made it through far worse.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to go back,” she says quickly, just barely above a whisper and he freezes. 

“Well, then.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds strangled in his throat and he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing. Or the right thing. “Then maybe we don’t have to. What's stopping us?"

"I'm scared," she admits, with a furrow of the soft skin in between her eyebrows.

"I am, too," he says softly, stroking her back with one broad palm, feeling muscles easing underneath his hand.

She stares at him in puzzled amazement and he fears he's gone too far. But he sees her lips starting to part and they simultaneously lean in to meet in an impossibly soft, delicate kiss. It's sweet and sad and endearing. They're both scared to push the envelope so they barely move as their lips touch, as if just getting used to the sensation of touching in this way. It feels ancient and new at the same time. Like coming home while also jettisoning out of the earth’s orbit. 

She sucks in a sharp breath of air and pulls away.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"No, no," she says quickly. "Please don't apologize. I want this so badly, too, trust me. I just...I don't know what it will look like. How it will change things between us."

"I don't know either," he admits. "But I think it's worth a try."

He has all the same questions she has. Do they keep this a secret? Can they ever be seen in public as more than just coworkers? Can they sleep over each other's apartments? They've been followed and trailed and bugged before so they know any change in their normal activities would quickly get noticed by their enemies. Although, in light of recent events, it seems that the group of men who've been conspiring against them might be much smaller in numbers now.

"I don't know what this will look like," he reiterates. "But I don't think I could live without you."

She nods solemnly. "What if they use this as an opportunity to tear us apart?"

"Who? The bureau?" he asks. "I'd quit. I don't care. You're more important than all of this."

She pauses thoughtfully as his proclamation washes over her. He knows what he's saying and he means it. Six years ago he told her nothing else mattered beyond finding his sister. At the time it was true. But six years later, his priorities have shifted. He's been lied to and fucked over too many times to genuinely believe that the truth about his sister is knowable. And if it is, he'll only find it with Scully at his side.

He told her once that she made him a whole person and it's truer now more than ever. Losing her would be worse than losing a part of himself. 

"I want to try then," she says, embarking on this shift in their relationship with the same seriousness she applies to everything she does. Scully does not leap without looking. He felt hurt in the past when she had her one-night stand with Ed Jerse, confused how she could do something so rash and frankly, stupid, but he realized she was only able to act so quickly because it meant so little to her. When the stakes are high, she takes her time.

"Me too," he says.

She gives a little laugh out of overwhelm. "We're talking a lot about this for people who have just barely kissed."

He smiles, feeling love and warmth emanating off her. "Well, I plan to change that as soon as possible. Why don't we get you in the shower to clean off and take it from there? Only if you're, um, comfortable of course." He wants this so badly but he also doesn't know if he wants their first time to be marred by the brutality of this attack. 

"I think I'll be very comfortable with that," she says. "Will you join me in the shower?"

"Pull my leg.” 

She rolls her eyes at him and he remembers, It’s Scully . No matter how their relationship changes, they’ll still bicker and disagree and she’ll still give him that look. 

He stands up and offers her his hand. She takes it and he leads her to the bathroom. The water takes a moment to warm up so he twists the knob first before addressing their clothing. She's already discarded her jacket on the sofa when the paramedics were examining her, so he starts with slowly unbuttoning her bloodied blouse. He moves so slowly, wanting to memorize this moment. He wishes there wasn't any blood.

After each button, he looks up at her, silently asking for permission to keep going. Her pupils are big and glassy but she nods each time they make eye contact so he continues. Her skin is soft and unbroken underneath her shirt but still marked red with blood. Her skin goose-pimples from the cold so he pulls her into his chest before sliding the shirt off her shoulders. 

"I love you," he whispers into her hair. "You know that, right? I've loved you for so long."

She leans against his body and sniffles. 

"I know," she says, and he kisses the part in her scalp, the white skin where her red hair originates. "I love you, too.” 

He returns to undressing her, moving more quickly now as he's eager to get her into the warm shower. Once she's naked in front of him, he pauses for just a moment to admire her before quickly pulling off his sweater and t-shirt and stepping out of his jeans. Her intellect and integrity loom so large in his mind that he forgets how physically small she actually is. He can span her waist with two hands. He’s terrified of what a man with less noble intentions could do. 

They take the final step into the shower together. She gasps when the hot water hits her skin and he feels a jolt of panic before seeing her visually relax in front of him. She closes her eyes and tilts back her head. On the shower floor beneath them, the tide runs scarlet.

The water is hot but she's still shivering so he pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her, pushing his torso into hers. 

He imagines Padgett touching her like this, his leering gaze lingering on her skin as he skimmed his hands over her breasts, her waist, her hips. He grips her more forcefully imagining how much this stranger wanted to do this to her, but never will. Mine , he thinks to himself as he goes in for another deep kiss, his hands on her neck feeling her stubborn, insistent pulse. She perseveres.

"I want–" she says into his chest. She doesn't finish her sentence but he knows what she wants. He wants it, too.

He takes a step back, still with his arms around her but at a distance so they can meet each other's eyes.

"There's no going back after this," he says. "You know that, right?"

Even amid the running water he can see tears forming in her eyes.

"No going back," she promises. Her voice is firm, strong. It’s the voice he’s come to trust above all others.

He's kissing her again, this time without hesitation, searching furiously within her mouth with his tongue as his hands explore her body. He's hard, now, aching for her and he doesn't shy away when he feels her soft belly press against his erection.

The water is running clear now, all the blood rinsed off her skin. He reaches for the faucet handle, seeking approval in her eyes. She nods and he turns the water off. Without stepping out of the shower, he reaches for the nearest towel, wrapping it around her. She's shivering so he brushes his hands vigorously against the cloth, hoping to warm her up. He's still wet, naked in front of her but he doesn't care. There's only one towel on the rack. Why would there be another? He always thought he'd die alone here. It's been years since he knew she was it for him. Either she'd come around or she wouldn't and he'd have to be content with their friendship. But now she's here. Naked in his shower wrapped in his only towel.

"Just a second," he says. He pads out of the shower, leaving a trail of wet footprints through to his bedroom where he finds an old threadbare towel in the closet. It smells vaguely mildewy but he doesn't care. He just needs to get himself sufficiently dry. He towels himself off then tosses it in the corner of the bathroom and returns to her.

"Cold?" He asks.

“A little, yeah.” 

He  embraces her once again, the towel she's clutching under her chin the only thing between them.

"Come get warm."

He guides her to his bed, pulling the sheet and coverlet over her, lifting her wet hair up on the pillow she lies on so it spreads out around her like a halo.

"You," she says.

He knows what she means. He slips under the covers to hold her against him. He's kissing her neck and whispering I love you, I love you, I love you into her collarbones when she stops shaking.

She snakes a hand between them and she feels her small, thin hand wrap around his cock. He gasps, involuntarily, the novelty of a touch that isn't his own for the first time in years is enough to set him off. The knowledge that it's Scully's hand is enough to make him cry.

"We don't have to...tonight," he says.

"I want to," she says.

"Well then I'm not going to argue with you," he says, smiling. She grins back at him and he feels the weight of the universe lifting off him. 

“That’s a first.” She grins. It’s a challenge and an invitation.  

He pushes himself up so he's on top of her, kissing her hard as she holds his rigid cock in her hand. Then, he starts working his way down her body, giving a little sigh when he's low enough that she has to release him. He wants this to last forever. He doesn't know if they'll have another chance. If she'll wake up in the morning and realize she was acting on fear and adrenaline and tell him this can never happen again. It's entirely possible, so he wants to savor every moment in case this is their only time. He wants to see her body respond in pleasure, instead of fear or pain.

She's already moaning by the time he makes his way to her navel. He tongues the concavity, then turns his head to face her gunshot wound. It's only a few months old, still dark and angry against her pale skin. He kisses that, too. 

Lower still, he gently parts her legs with his palms, pausing to glance up and lock eyes with her. He’s looking for a nod, a sign she wants him to keep going. She keeps her gaze steady on him, though, then opens up her legs further and wraps her calves around his back. 

He’s seen her naked before, but never like this. Never so open, so vulnerable and welcoming, and he knows how significant this is for her. For both of them. He presses a kiss on her mons, the soft hair still damp from the shower. He smells his own soap but underneath that, her . She tenses her thighs around him and lets out a little frustrated gasp that makes him smile to himself. 

He can’t deprive her what she wants. He gives her leg a squeeze, then licks her slowly, running his tongue from her opening up to the hood of her clit. That last part makes her gasp again and he focuses solely on her clit next, pursing his lips to suck while teasing her with his tongue. Just like he’s learned nearly everything there is to know about her over the years—when she’s truly angry at him or just needs a lame joke to break the tension; the way she licks her lip when she’s pondering a mystery—he takes the time to learn what she likes. She isn’t loud, but he seems to be expertly interpreting each of her little sounds as her body responds around him and she grinds her hips up to meet him. 

“Mulder—” she calls out and squeezes his shoulder.

He stops suddenly, panicking that he's done something wrong. She reads him easily, though, and gives him a reassuring smile. “Get up here,” she whispers.

He kisses his way back up her body until they’re face to face.

She takes the lead now, pulling his head down to meet hers and kissing him hungrily. He’s achingly hard against her and terrified he isn’t going to last long enough to make this memorable. 

“Can I?” He whispers into her, grinding against her like a teenager.

She answers by reaching down and guiding him inside her. She’s wet but so, so tight and he looks to her to make sure she isn’t in pain as he lowers himself down into her inch by inch. He’s trying to move slowly, fighting against every instinct in his body to plunge fully inside her. She takes him out of his misery by sliding her hands around to palm his ass and bring him closer to her. 

“You feel incredible,” he whispers into her ear.

He wants to remember every sensation—the warmth of her breath on his neck, the smell of her sweat, the grip of her inner walls around his dick. 

They start moving in unison, their bodies finding a rhythm that mirrors the intellectual volley they’ve established over the years. Burying his face in the curve of her shoulder, he hears her moaning into his ear. Thankfully, it seems like she’s close because he doesn’t think he can last much longer. 

“Oh, Mulder,” she purrs as her orgasm ripples through her body. His name on her lips is enough to make him surrender, thrusting quicker and harder until he comes hard inside her. The scope of his universe is suddenly reduced to their bodies, tangled and intertwined on his bed. 

Coming down from his high, he rolls off of her. Without speaking, they turn to face each other. Burgeoning tears blur his vision. He blinks to see her more clearly and she wipes them off his cheekbones with her thumbs. 

“That was…” He pauses, struggling to find the words adequate to describe the immensity of his emotions.

“Perfect,” she finishes for him. 

Their lips meet and this time the kiss is languid and indulgent. Worn out from physical exertion and emotional exhaustion, they take their time. His fear that she’d immediately regret what they did and they’d have to go back to being partners evaporates. It’s not an ending. They’re evolving into something new. Just as they’ve gone from coworkers to friends, the road to this next level of their relationship, he knows, won’t always be smooth but will be more than worth the journey.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I know that Malleus is a sensitive topic here. Even though, he has his weaknesses (which is made very apparent in the canon material); he also has his strengths. One of the things I could immediately think of revolves around his familial attitude towards his family (Lilia, Silver, Sebek). Malleus cherishes his family very much. After all, his fears of losing Lilia was so immense that it ultimately lead him to the overblot. At the core of his character, I see him as someone who is fundamentally familial at heart. Most of his actions in Book 7 are rooted in this aspect of his character. This contrasts his tendency towards self-isolation and enriches his story.

Hey, I want to clarify that Malleus is only a sensitive topic if an ask's tone is aggressive or pushy to begin with. For example, I've previously been spammed with demands to explain why I dislike him + reasons why I should change my mind, told I was "hate criming" him (gross misuse of the term, by the way) for expressing those opinions (I would link to the post, but I actually never publicly responded to this ask or really talked about this publicly), and accused of "[wanting and expecting]" the worst out of him". It's a loud minority that has made me wary when Malleus is brought up. I can't help it, it's sort of gut reflex at this point/j But I'm generally fine with people wanting to discuss him, gush about him, critique him, whatever, so long as things stay civil and open-minded.

I also want to make it clear that even if someone personally dislikes a character, that is not the same as them disregarding the character's positive traits or claiming that the character has no positive traits to begin with. Malleus is certainly no exception to this. (I have a post going over some of the things I enjoy about him, although please keep in mind that it's not meant to be an exhaustive list of his good points.) Personally disliking a character also doesn't mean that you're automatically flagging a character as flat or poorly written. A character could be the best written thing in the entire world or the most complex character ever and people could still dislike them for any reason. Design, vibes, whatever.

That being said, I don't think "familial" is an adjective I've ever personally associated with Malleus? I definitely get those vibes when I browse romantic Malleus fandom works (it's very common to see him being portrayed as a loving, protective father and husband), but not that much with canon content. That's not me claiming Malleus feels nothing toward his Diasomnia members (he definitely DOES care for them), but I don't get the sense that he views them as family or that he’s overtly warm towards them??? At best, I see him perhaps viewing Lilia as a guardian or father figure, especially since it was the fear of losing Lilia that kicked off the major conflict in book 7 + his grandmother seemed too busy with royal duties to raise him. Furthermore, we see that Malleus hatched because of Lilia's magic and how excited he is to see Lilia in multiple flashbacks to Malleus's childhood. He clearly respects Lilia a lot and associates him with the few genuinely happy parts of his childhood. However, I don't see him breaching professional boundaries with Sebek and Silver and skirting into familial territory. (I discuss this more in detail in an older post, so I'd suggest taking a look if you're interested!) Lilia does refer Diasomnia as “not related by blood [but] we are still family", and I believe even their VAs referred to Lilia as a father and Malleus and Silver as brothers. Problem is, I don’t see this reflected in Malleus himself and how he behaves.

It's obvious that Malleus seeks companionship, but that he doesn't realize this about himself without outside help (he couldn't even identify that he was lonely until Yuu pointed it out to him early in book 7). He's so enabled he has become used to the isolation that comes with being at the top and never really thought to question it. This comes through in many of his behaviors: he becomes upset at being left out or uninvited to ceremonies and meetings, when his grandmother (his only living relative) fails to spend time with him despite promising to, and constantly faces struggles connecting with his peers (he tries to, but usually fails in these attempts). And because he fears being left behind, he tries to stop everyone from leaving him. Malleus is also pretty emotionally stunted and awkward due to his growing up alone. This could be a matter of our individual POVs differing, but I think Malleus's loneliness and longing to be with others--despite being raised in relative isolation--is being conflated with being familial?? I genuinely do not recall any standout moments in which Malleus acts familial towards Silver or Sebek, or even towards other peers (though if you can think of any, please share). The only thing that comes to my mind is when Malleus helped Lilia with raising baby!Silver... but even then, I sort of wonder how much of that was intentionally arranged by Lilia to expose Malleus to humans + combat the bigoted worldview he might otherwise develop. Their current day relationship dynamics just don't read as familial to me.

But also 💦 “familial” is a pretty vague term and could mean different things to different people. I think it assumes that families have amicable dynamics within themselves, and I don’t think that’s always the case. Maybe our definitions are entirely different and that’s also contributing to our conclusions looking nothing alike.

[rascalentertainments]

Alternate Ideas For Wish Granted 📝

The story is inching closer to the end, and after 1 year of writing and planning this AU, not exactly everything I thought of was put into this. So, I'd like to share some concepts that ended up getting changed or left out altogether!

✨The original idea for this AU was going for a more serious/classic Disney feel like Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Pinocchio, ect. But the more I wrote, it ended up not feeling it. So instead I chose to base it off my favorite Disney era, the Renaissance era!

✨The tone was supposed to be more dramatic, but I like to give people fun ideas and stories, so I ended up making it a huge comedy! 😂 That's part of why I consider it to be the more goofy version out of all the AUs, lol.

✨Flazino was never meant to be a major character. In fact, he was supposed to be sent into the dungeon really early on after Sabor rats him out. Leaving it to be a mystery on why he hadn't returned in a few days. But he got so popular that he ended up being way more important. Glad he has a lot of fans! (Now there's so many Flazinos, lol)

✨Flazi was also going to have a pet messenger owl named Archimedes to complete the reference to The Sword in the Stone, but.....there really wasn't a point to have him in here, so I left him out. Maybe I can design him for you though!

✨Sabino was originally going to pass on, but since Asha had already lost her father, it didn't feel right to add a second death. So he's just fallen ill due to losing his wish.

✨ Cosmic!Star originally looked a lot more animalistic. He kind of looked like Toothless, but with big claws and fangs. There was even a point where grew wings and was a reference to Chernabog more than Dark!Genie.

✨Asha was going to be more upbeat at the start like the canon movie, but after seeing the deleted scenes, I liked the idea of her being a bit more serious to balance out Star, so I went with it. She's got a bit of attitude, but I didn't want to make her a jerk, so she opens up more as the story goes on.

✨Plushie!Star was going to be an actual toy at first.

✨One sequence of Star that didn't get used was when Amaya had Asha and the teens fall to their deaths in the sea, and Star transformed into a giant whale to catch them in his mouth before they hit the water. Unfortunately, nothing ever lead to that...😅

✨Star's personality wasn't upbeat at first. He was actually more timid about the world and Asha helps him to become more confident. But I LOVED the goofy and fun concept from the art book! And honestly, that fit way more to me. And now he's a big ball of energy everyone loves! 😂

✨Also, the other idea was to have Star flirt with Asha from the start for comedy. He was gonna more like Naveen! But I thought it would be part of his character arc to learn what love is instead and he slowly realizes it.

He also fell for Asha first in this version, but I ended up reversing it cause I think it's funny that Asha has fallen so hard for Star that she's internally crashing out. 😂

✨ Flazino x Dahlia (Dahlzino) was just gonna be a background ship, and I hadn't given it that much thought at the time I began. But the more I wrote them together, the more I loved their dynamic, and their moments and AAAAAAA!!! 😍 Now they're my second favorite ship to write in here! (Tired x Energetic just fits so well for them!)

✨The crush was going to be one-sided on Dahlia's side.

✨Dahlia also had more uh....suggestive dialogue when it came to flirting with Flazino. It was funny, but I don't think it works in the story anymore. Its a more family friendly story. Besides, its funnier that Flazino just doesn't pay attention when he's getting hit on most of the time. 😂

✨I did consider using Magnifico's canon backstory as the reason he's evil in this AU. But instead I chose to just let him be a power hungry king since its more fun to write. He's CHOSEN this path himself

✨Alongside Monster!Magnifico, I've heavily considered having Dragon!Amaya in here as a double trouble final boss. I'm having second thoughts though. It might be a bit too much...

✨ Charo was going to remain unchanged, until I got inspired @annymation's lynx idea with Bravo, so I wanted to spice mine up too. And I went with an African lynx so it wouldn't look too similar to other versions. That's how we got Sabor!

✨ The 7 Teens were going to be removed until I started coming up with ways to put twists on their personalities. Then I decided to bring them in one by one so they get developed more. That way they actually mattered to the story!

✨ The Julia Michaels version A Wish Worth Making was going to play during the credits, just like the movie. But now the Sabino version will be played in the final chapter. Just before we get our book closing ending. I'm actually going to use "Something That I Want" from Tangled, since its more upbeat.

✨ Lastly, Star originally had no family. But since there are countless stars in the sky, I figured SOME of them had to be relatives. Plus I hadn't seen anyone give Starboy a family at the time. Now he's got a big family he can no longer see often...

And that's all cut content! Feel free to use some of these ideas if you have a rewrite of your own in mind! 😉

Thanks for reading!

@oh-shtars @tumblingdownthefoxden @chillwildwave @your-ne1ghbor

@lazytitans-world @thesafireartist @natsuki208

@snackara @kenihewa @mythartist21 @uva124

@spectator-zee @cocoapowderpictures @starss-artss

@pinkninja0708 @a-storytellers-wish @ishadow246 @jojo-ker06

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🦇 Tell Me How You Really Feel Book Review 🦇

❓ Do you listen to any podcasts? 🦇 Podcasters Maeve and Finn have just gotten a life-changing, blockbuster deal for their viral sex and relationships podcast, Tell Me How You Really Feel. Unfortunately, given their history, they can barely be in the same room together. Now, Maeve needs to find a way to keep the show going without letting Finn completely ruin her. But to make things even more challenging, Finn is dead set on winning her back over. Told between flashbacks to the start of their show and the present, Tell Me How You Really Feel follows Maeve and Finn as they navigate their growing celebrity, try to make podcast history, and rediscover what they mean to each other.

💜 Gimme forced proximity + second chance + all the tension. Let's break it down:

✨ Characters (4/5): I adore Maeve for her wit, mental fortitude, and struggle. Her constant effort to break (or even reach) the glass ceiling is so real. Every scene of her providing advice, helping someone word an apology or reframe their mindset, was absolutely beautiful. Finn is perfect in the worst ways; he's the cis white boy who knows exactly what to say, the one everyone adores, who can do no wrong. To see his character make mistakes with real consequences, to have to navigate real solutions that go beyond a surface-level apology, was great. I don't love how the book ended (how easily he was forgiven) though.

✨ Plot and Pacing (3/5): There are a few lags in the pacing that some bigger, more impactful flashbacks could have aided.

✨ Romance (4/5): It's hard not to love these two together. Finn is so heart-eyed and plays the constant cheerleader to Maeve, while Maeve proves he has worth outside of being a nepo baby. It's very obvious that they were friends first; it shows in how well they know one another, how they tend to one another in big yet quiet ways. I don't love that the entire romance, and novel, relies on a constant miscommunication trope, especially when both characters help support and repair other relationships. However, this does make the conversations they finally have bigger on a more impactful scale.

✨ Mystery/Suspense (4/5): I'm glad we don't see every detail that caused their friendship to shatter too soon. That tension helps drive the story--and character growth--forward.

✨ Tone/Prose (3/5): The prose isn't as captivating as I'd like. The back-and-forth dialogue between Finn and Maeve more often carries the story.

🦇 Recommended for fans of Will They or Won't They and The Breakup Tour.

✨ The Vibes ✨ 🎤 Friends to Lovers 🎤 Enemies to Lovers 🎤 Second Chance Romance 🎤 Forced Proximity 🎤 Miscommunication Trope 🎤 Mental Health Rep

🦇 Major thanks to the author and publisher for providing an ARC of this book via Netgalley. 🥰 This does not affect my opinion regarding the book. #OneLastWord

💬 Quotes We don’t have a spark, we have a forest fire.

I don’t know what normal is for us. Normal is giving her everything, every last bit of me, all the best parts that I didn’t even know were there until I was around her.

It’s like we click into place, and all the kisses I’ve had before this one were just practice for this.

I realized I had just given up what might have been my only chance to be with my soulmate. I can only date other people and have them feel halfway right when you’re in the picture. Because all the things that make me tick, make you tick. We challenge each other, and ever since I met you I couldn’t imagine a world without you. I didn’t want to, ever again. Maeve, I love every fucking thing about you. So much. And without you? A piece of me was missing. We are perfect together, and I don’t want another day to go by without getting to say I love you. I love you, Maeve.

You shouldn’t have to leverage a painful moment to drag the fight for equality forward. But that’s what women, people of color, queer people,— that’s what we’re all forced to do.

[intothefairiesland]

Chapter VIII ― willow

Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in As if you were a mythical thing Like you were a trophy or a champion ring And there was one prize I'd cheat to win The more that you say The less I know Wherever you stray I follow I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans That's my man

Masterlist

Previous Chapter — Next Chapter 🖌️

I don’t know how tags work, but if you want to be tagged, leave me a message. - Abby xx

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"Are you alright, brother?"

Benedict had given his word to his mother that he would fulfill his social obligations this season, but more than anything, he had promised his sister Eloise to be by her side at every ball, to protect her from the “foolish suitors,” as she liked to call them. That also meant being more present in family life—something he had never truly resented, as there was no company he cherished more than his family. But that company took on a different meaning after a sleepless night, plagued by confused thoughts and the lingering taste of alcohol.

The night before, Emma had left him a little too soon for his liking, and he could still feel the imprint of her hasty departure on his lips. He hadn’t expected her leaving to affect him so deeply, nor that her general absence would create in him a void he was not prepared for. He had misjudged himself, and he realized it bitterly. He sought nothing more than her simple presence—a presence that calmed him instantly. She could have simply stayed there, silent and focused on her drawings, and that would have been enough.

That was, in fact, exactly what he wanted at that very moment. Breakfast had just been served at Bridgerton House, and the conversation was in full swing, everyone speaking at once, their voices blending into a joyful and familiar cacophony. But Benedict, caught in this whirlwind of voices and laughter, felt that nothing could soothe his mind like a single glance from Emma. But she wasn’t there. How could she be? He knew well that, even if he held no contempt for those of lesser social rank, he himself, by virtue of his family name and wealth, had never had to concern himself with societal constraints. Yet, he was keenly aware of the world’s cruelty towards such uncertain and undefined connections.

But what kind of relationship did he truly have with Emma? He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he adored her presence, her sharp wit, her contagious humor, the delicacy of her hands when she drew, and her lips—and he suspected that he would grow to adore much more of her.

Benedict, his gaze slightly lost in space, seemed out of sync with the lively atmosphere around him. His thoughts were far from the noisy, sunlit breakfast.

It was then that his brother, Anthony, observed him with amused, slightly mocking eyes.

— "If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say something’s troubling you," he said with a smirk.

Benedict, as if pulled from his thoughts, vaguely raised his eyebrows and muttered distractedly as he reached for his fork:

— "I’m fine, thank you."

Then, without another word, he resumed eating, quickly swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs, as if trying to keep his mind busy with something else. Anthony watched him, amusement flickering in his eyes, but said nothing.

Just then, a light, insistent cry rose from the other end of the table. It was drowned out by the complaints of their sister Hyacinth, who excelled in the art of speaking fast, loud, and often. Benedict felt momentarily relieved to be freed from his brother’s attention and allowed himself to sink back into his reflections.

But the peace was short-lived. A few moments later, Eloise emerged from behind her book, toast in hand, and with a near-innocent tone, asked:

— "Do you know Emma Watts?"

The question struck him like an intrusion into his inner world. Benedict, mid-motion, about to pour some tea, nearly spilled the cup. He caught himself and, with subtle caution, replied quickly:

— "Yes, I…I’ve seen her around."

But already Hyacinth, ever eager for gossip, cut in before he could take another breath:

— "Who is this Emma Watts?"

The conversation immediately caught the attention of their mother, who, without saying a word, listened closely.

— "She’s Miss Louise Braybrooke’s maid, but she also takes evening classes at the Academy," Eloise explained casually.

At those words, a curious smile tugged at Anthony’s lips, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow:

— "Since when can women paint at the Academy?"

Benedict, momentarily frozen, said nothing, but Eloise, always ready to defend any cause she found just, fired back without hesitation, her mouth still full of toast:

— "What’s the problem, brother? Afraid women might outshine men in painting?"

The remark made their mother twitch slightly, who, without abandoning her dignified expression, exclaimed sternly:

— "Eloise, mind your manners!"

Eloise rolled her eyes in exasperation but sat up straighter, her eyes alight, ready for debate, and replied with conviction:

— "I think it’s an excellent idea to open the Academy to women. I’m sure she’s very talented."

All eyes turned then to Benedict, who, despite his apparent indifference, had already seen Emma’s work. He had even, on several occasions, allowed himself to leaf through her sketchbook—an act he knew was forbidden, but couldn’t resist.

— "She is."

The words fell, clear and sharp, into the air. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, but his answer, almost imperceptibly steady, did not go unnoticed. — “How do you know that?” Eloise insisted, intrigued. “You said you only knew her by sight.” Benedict hesitated for a split second, then added, in a hesitant, awkward tone: — “I’ve seen her work.”

A subtle tension filled the room, everyone trying to decipher the meaning behind his confession. Eloise raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly, piqued by her brother’s reply. Her eyes, locked with his for a moment, returned just as quickly to the pages of her book, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a passing breeze between two chapters. Her voice, light and almost indifferent, rose again without the slightest quiver: — “Very well. If you see her, give her my regards.”

Benedict remained still for a moment, caught in the fleeting glint of his sister’s gaze. He understood then that she had seen right through him — that she had uncovered the lie before he’d even had a chance to disguise it. And yet, she said nothing. She was offering him the silent luxury of choosing the moment for his truth. However, many days or weeks it might take, it didn’t matter.

Later that day, as he walked the long corridors of the Academy, bathed in the pale afternoon light, Benedict couldn’t stop replaying Emma’s words in his mind. She had told him she would see him today — he was certain of it, would have sworn it. And yet, there had been no sign of her silhouette, no spark of her laughter around any corner.

As the hours passed, a dull frustration began to gnaw at his calm, like a rope pulled taut in silence. It wasn’t just the waiting that troubled him, but that faint tightening lodged somewhere between his throat and his stomach — a worry he refused to name, but that crept in with every heartbeat.

The unease lingered even as he stepped into the Flynn reception hall. The hushed conversations, polite laughter, clinking of glasses: all of it slid over him, never quite touching. He was there, but not really — a figure passing through a painting he hadn’t chosen. He knew Emma wasn’t one to lose track of time or let the day slip by without cause. She didn’t have the luxury to dawdle. Every piece of her time was accounted for — between her work, her responsibilities, and the rare slivers of freedom she devoted to her art. But she never missed class. And it was precisely that “never” that fed his growing unease.

Benedict spent most of the evening with his sister’s arm tightly looped through his, like a limpet clinging to its rock — or rather, like a sister clinging to her escape plan. He silently thanked her for every tour of the room, every dodged curtsy. Thanks to her, he avoided endless dances, calculating glances from young ladies, and — worst of all — the mothers. Ah, the mothers — armed with affable smiles and marriage strategies sharper than blades. The word marriage alone sent a cold jolt down his spine, as if someone had poured ice water down his back. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be. He couldn’t even see why he should be. It all felt so... foreign.

He had danced only twice that evening — a distracted quadrille, a lacklustre cotillion. So, when the first notes of a waltz rose into the air, he decided it was time. With a composed step, he approached Miss Louise Braybrooke, bowed with grace, and offered his hand. — “May I have this dance, Miss Braybrooke?”

It was not a love for the waltz, nor a desire to become acquainted with Miss Braybrooke that brought him to her. But she knew Emma, and that single thread — however thin — was enough to justify this dance.

It was the only thing tonight that might bring him closer to her.

Louise wasn’t surprised by the invitation. In truth, she had seen it coming from the first moments of the evening. Benedict Bridgerton, who in two entire seasons had never granted her more than a polite greeting, now looked at her with calculated attention.

She understood. She didn’t take offense — on the contrary. This renewed interest wasn’t for her, but for what she represented: a bridge, perhaps, to Emma.

As they began to dance, she locked eyes with him, and without giving him a chance to start the conversation, she said with sly confidence: — “You know,” she said, eyes fixed on his as they followed the rhythm of the waltz, “you didn’t need to invite me to dance in front of half the room just to ask about her.”

Benedict furrowed his brow slightly, caught off guard, but twirled her without saying a word too many. — “I beg your pardon?”

Louise lifted her chin with a graceful poise. Her voice, soft yet pointed, held steady. — “I’m sure I’m a fine dancer and, indeed, perfectly decent company… but don’t pretend this invitation was purely social. You’re not going to try and explain the rules of courtship to me, Mr. Bridgerton. If you’re here, dancing with me, it’s because you have a very specific intention.”

Benedict stayed silent a second too long. She had seen through him — completely, neatly, without malice but without mercy. He had prepared it all: an innocent conversation opener, a delicate approach, phrases vague enough to hide his true motives. He’d rehearsed every word in his head.

But he hadn’t prepared for Louise Braybrooke. She knew. How? He had no idea. And he wasn’t sure yet whether to be worried… or relieved.

She ended his silent struggle with a calm, almost weary voice: — “She told me everything.”

Then, lowering her eyes, thoughtful, she added in a whisper: — “Well… not everything, I suppose. But enough to know that if you asked me to dance tonight, it wasn’t for the pleasure of my company, but to get information about my lady’s maid, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict gave a sheepish smile and let out a quiet laugh, caught red-handed: — “Caught in the act, it seems.”

— “Forgive my bluntness, but you’re not very subtle,” she replied with a wry smile. “I can already see tomorrow’s headline in Lady Whistledown’s column.” — “Forgive me,” he murmured, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to draw attention.”

Louise gave a quick glance around them. A few eyes were indeed watching their exchange, some amused, others speculative. — “Mmmh… I fear it’s already too late,” she said lightly. “So, we might as well make the most of it. What did you want to know?”

Benedict hesitated a moment, searching for his words. When he spoke, it was with raw honesty, stripped of pretence: — “She was supposed to meet me at the Academy today… But she didn’t come. I just wanted to know if she was all right. That’s all.”

At these words, Louise seemed more moved than she expected. Her gaze softened, and when she answered, her voice had lost some of its earlier mischief. — “Yes. Miss Watts had a bit of bad luck, you see. She’s been assigned to one of the most coquettish debutantes of the entire season. I’m afraid I made her run ragged today…” — “I see…”

Louise, without hesitation and with a steadiness nothing seemed able to shake, spoke again, her eyes gleaming with resolve: — “I won’t claim to understand your intentions, Mr. Bridgerton, but I know your reputation well enough to form an idea. And while I may be young, and perhaps a novice in your eyes, that does not mean I lack judgment. As for your interest in Emma… know this: I would not hesitate to follow you into the darkest corners of your dreams and nightmares if any harm were to come to her.”

Benedict looked at her, stunned. In a flash of clarity, he realized just how deeply he had misjudged her. He had naively imagined that Louise Braybrooke would offer nothing more than a simple reassurance — that Emma was fine, nothing more.

But in front of him stood a young woman who, far from being naive, was fully aware of the games and schemes men of society played. The realization, both surprising and comforting, brought him a sense of peace. He was reassured to know that Emma was not alone — that she was surrounded by people worthy of trust.

In fact, in that moment, she seemed even more precious, more admirable to him, in the light of the fierce protection she inspired.

At a loss for words, he fell silent. The waltz, already nearing its end, seemed to end, and with sudden clarity, he realized that Emma’s absence was not an act of avoidance, but a forced one. Louise, observing his silence, gave him a mischievous smile before speaking again, her tone light but tinged with irony: — "Sometimes, I begin to understand my mother, who says I shall never find a husband unless I learn to hold my tongue. But... I fear my nature is stronger than good sense."

Benedict, unwilling to dwell further on Emma, chose to steer the conversation away. — "You would get along famously with my sister, Eloise," he said, trying to find safer ground.

Louise turned her gaze toward Miss Bridgerton, her expression bright with amusement. "I adore your sister’s company. Beside her, I almost seem demure," she replied, a glint of mischief in her voice.

A moment of silence passed between them, and as the waltz drew to its close, Louise, with unexpected seriousness, added, "Promise me, you won’t hurt her."

Benedict immediately understood her meaning, and discomfort stirred within him. The idea of promising he wouldn’t hurt Emma felt odd, even unnecessary—of course, he’d never act with bad intentions. But such an absolute vow? He couldn’t quite bring himself to utter it.

—"I shall do my best, if that brings you any comfort," he said, hoping to ease her concerns.

Louise, however, didn’t seem entirely reassured. She raised an eyebrow, her expression sceptical. "That’s not a very convincing answer, Mr. Bridgerton," she observed with a subtle irony.

"But it is an honest one," Benedict replied with a faint smile, aware of the simplicity of his words, yet also of their truth.

The dance ended on this note of subtle exchange. Louise, after offering him one last smile, turned toward him, stepping a little closer. "Very well then, follow me," she said, and with determined steps, she walked toward one of the ballroom doors.

Benedict, momentarily puzzled by this invitation, took a few seconds to think. He knew he couldn’t follow her immediately. If they were found together without a chaperone, a scandal would surely follow. So, he left the dance floor, made a loop through the room to greet a few gentlemen, and after a few minutes, made his way to the same door Louise had taken.

Upon entering the entrance hall, he found her already by the door. She turned toward him, ready to leave, and said plainly, "Very well, I shall go now. You can leave the ball in twenty minutes and meet Emma at the corner of the street with your coachman."

She turned briskly, prepared to slip away.

Benedict, somewhat thrown by this unexpected plan, raised an eyebrow and stepped toward her. "I… I beg your pardon?" he asked, his surprise unmistakable.

Louise turned back, a fleeting smile on her lips. "You still want to see Emma, don’t you? She’s not asleep, she’s waiting for me to come home so she can help me. I’ll tell my mother I came home early because I was feeling unwell, and then I’ll tell Emma that you’re waiting in the carriage."

Such a bold, yet strangely reassuring plan began to form in Benedict’s mind, and without a word, he followed her into the shadows, confident now in the quiet friendship that seemed to be blossoming between them.

————————————————————

Emma was slumped in the servants’ small drawing room by the fire, on the brink of well-earned sleep, when Emily burst in: "Miss Louise is already home, she’s waiting for you in her room." Without a second’s hesitation, Emma pricked the needle into the dress she was mending and rushed upstairs.

Louise rarely returned early from a ball—or any social gathering—and a strange premonition made Emma wonder what might have brought her back so suddenly. Not that she minded. She welcomed the prospect of an early night.

As soon as she entered the bedroom, Emma saw Louise, visibly more excited than ever. The young woman was already undressing, casting aside her jewels, gloves, stockings, and delicate shoes. Louise walked quickly toward Emma and, without a word, turned her back to her friend, clearly indicating she wanted help with her corset. Emma obliged without hesitation, though part of her wondered what was going on.

—"Right. Grab your coat and anything you need to paint... though I suspect that won’t matter much. And—" Louise’s voice was hurried as Emma finished loosening the corset’s laces. She suddenly turned around, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Benedict is waiting for you at the end of the street, in his carriage. Hurry."

Emma frowned, confusion written all over her face. "I’m sorry?" she said, slowly realizing the situation. "What have you done, Louise?"

Louise shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though her smile gave her away. "Weren’t you meant to meet him for painting tonight?"

"Yes, but—" Emma couldn’t finish her sentence, her surprise giving way to rising confusion.

"Exactly. So hurry before my parents return and the house is swarming with people again," Louise concluded with cheerful urgency, already pulling Emma toward the door.

Emma, caught off guard, let herself be led while still protesting. "I don’t understand..."

Louise, visibly impatient and in a rush, sighed. "Honestly, no one understands anything tonight, it’s maddening!" She suddenly blocked Emma’s path, giving her no time to think. "We danced together, he asked about you—well, no, not really, I guessed it myself," she said as if pondering the memory. "And I remembered you were meant to teach him painting tonight. So go!"

Emma, swept up in Louise’s whirlwind energy, barely had time to respond. They were already in the hallway, heading for the staircase that led to the Braybrookes’ front door. Louise, without a second thought, grabbed her cloak and threw it swiftly around Emma’s shoulders.

Emma, surprised, offered a soft protest. —"Louise, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Your parents may notice I’m gone, or worse my parents."

"Oh, come now!" Louise said with confidence. "I’ll tell them you went to bed early after helping me. And tomorrow morning, you’ll have nothing to fear. Benedict’s coachman will bring you back whenever you like, I’m sure of it."

They reached the door. Louise clasped Emma’s hand with a reassuring, conspiratorial smile. "Go on!" she urged, her excitement tangible.

Emma, smiling slightly, quickly opened the door. Before stepping out, she looked left, then right. At the end of the street, she faintly spotted a carriage, and a smile spread across her lips. Whether it was the heaviness of the evening, the rush of the moment, or the anticipation of seeing Benedict again, something made her heartbeat faster. Whatever it was, the air suddenly felt lighter.

Emma climbed swiftly into the carriage, and no sooner had she settled than Benedict’s silhouette emerged from the shadows, his smile glowing like moonlight. He looked at her, his smile widening just a touch more, and Emma shivered slightly. There was in his gaze a rare warmth, a sincerity that left no room for doubt. This quiet tenderness, paired with his natural elegance, unsettled her more and more. She couldn’t tire of watching him, as if each detail, each movement, were its own kind of enchantment.

His attire was flawless—a deep blue that highlighted the clarity of his eyes, a cravat seemingly chosen just to complement it, and a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread that shimmered faintly in the light. He was stunning.

—"You… here?" he said, his voice light, touched with jest.

Emma smiled, her gaze locked in his. —"I don’t know what sort of spell you cast on Louise, but bravo." Her voice trembled slightly with emotion, though she tried to keep her composure.

—"My exceptional charm, perhaps," he answered, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Emma, amused despite herself, gave him a look. "You’re rather full of yourself, Mr. Bridgerton. Don’t get carried away."

"Indeed not. Louise frightens me almost more than my own mother," he said, a genuine smile curving his lips.

"And you are right to fear her," Emma replied, perhaps a little too seriously. She glanced briefly out the window, her mind still flooded with questions.

Benedict was quiet for a moment. Then, in a gentler voice, he resumed, "I’m sorry. None of this was planned, but I took the chance when it came." There was a slight hesitation in his tone, as if every word was weighed carefully.

"What did you say to Louise?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

"I could ask you the same." The smile on his lips grew just a little more enigmatic.

"That’s none of your concern." Emma’s reply was sharp, though she knew it wasn’t entirely true. Louise had intervened for a reason.

"No, it’s not." Benedict shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But judging from what she told me, I can only imagine what you must have said about me."

—"You shouldn’t have asked her to dance. Now everyone will talk, including Lady Whistledown. I don’t want her tangled up in my affairs." Emma shook her head, her gaze lost again in the darkness outside. She knew once rumours started, they spread like wildfire.

—"I needed to know if you were all right." Benedict’s voice was softer now, almost a murmur, as if he wished to soothe her.

Emma finally looked at him, a glint of irony in her eyes. "I am fine, as you can see. Don’t take it personally, Mr. Bridgerton. I don’t have the luxury of meandering through life."

A smile of relief ghosted across Benedict’s lips. He sat a little straighter, visibly more at ease. It was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

—"Where are we going?" Emma asked suddenly, curiosity in her voice as she glanced out the window to guess their destination.

—"To my home." Benedict answered simply, his gaze resting on her with such calm certainty that it seemed perfectly natural.

—"Your home?" Emma raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. She hadn’t expected that.

—"You didn’t think I could paint dressed like this, did you?" he replied, his smile growing more impish as he gestured to his impeccable attire.

Emma, slightly thrown, let out a soft laugh. There was something more in this exchange—a quiet complicity weaving itself between them. And despite the odd circumstances, she felt strangely content.

—"You have no regard for rules, nor for my sleep, apparently..." she said, half-serious, half-amused.

A mischievous smile played on Benedict’s lips. "First of all, no. And secondly, Louise assured me you’d have the whole morning to recover from the sleep I intend to steal."

—"Fair enough," she murmured, resigned.

The easy silence between them was broken by the carriage’s sudden stop. Without a word, Benedict stepped out with graceful assurance. Once on solid ground, he turned, arm outstretched, palm open—a silent invitation.

Emma placed her hand in his without hesitation and allowed herself to be guided down.

No sooner had her feet touched the cobblestones than she tried to slip her fingers free. But Benedict gently tightened his hold—not roughly, only to convey, with that masculine delicacy he mastered so well, that he had no desire to break this quiet bond. Emma didn’t protest. She simply followed his lead, hand in hand, to the door of his home.

Or rather, his bachelor pad. A man’s lair, an elegant jumble filled with the heady scent of leather, brandy, and dried ink. The place held that indefinable charm of rooms inhabited by tormented souls: richly decorated but subtly neglected, seemingly in order yet cloaked in a tender chaos. The servants surely did their best to maintain the illusion of tidiness. Yet wherever the eye landed, it found signs of life—clothes draped over a chair, open sketchbooks, books precariously balanced on armrests.

The sitting room opened into a modest library, and further on, a large half-open door revealed a bedchamber—his bedchamber. He stopped on the threshold, turned back toward her briefly.

"Don’t move."

Then he disappeared inside, closing the door with a soft click. Probably to change.

Emma found herself alone, enveloped in the muted warmth of the room. She took the opportunity to step closer to a table cluttered with papers, ink and charcoal sketches, and half-finished canvases propped against the walls. She brushed her fingers lightly over the still-fresh lines of a drawing, lingering on the details. Some paintings seemed barely begun, others nearly complete, but all carried the same unfinished fervour.

When Benedict reappeared, he had exchanged his elegant attire for simpler clothes—though no less refined. His step remained confident, his gaze bright. He ran a hand through his hair, deliberately tousling it—a calculated gesture, almost theatrical, as if to better fit the image of the artist.

Emma glanced at him, then gestured toward the scattered canvases.

—"Either you’re incredibly impatient… or perpetually dissatisfied with your own work."

A smile spread across Benedict’s face as he gave a slight shrug.

—"Both, I’m afraid."

Emma moved closer to the canvases, scanning them with focused curiosity. What she discovered surprised her: only landscapes. Sun-drenched countryside scenes, glimpses of cities at dawn or dusk, solitary trees, forgotten paths. Not a single face. Not a single gaze.

—"No portraits, I see," she remarked, slightly intrigued.

Benedict, already rummaging through a polished wooden box, replied without turning around:

—"When I said I was hopeless… I meant it."

Emma smiled faintly.

—"Very well. Let’s get to work."

As she spoke, she slowly removed the cape draped over her shoulders—Louise’s cape, sumptuous and clearly precious. Her gaze swept the room for a safe place, far from paint splatters, charcoal dust, or oil stains. She finally laid it gently on a sofa near the window, sheltered from the creative chaos. Then, in one fluid, unselfconscious motion, she gathered her hair into a loose bun, with strands already slipping free to frame her face.

"We need a battle plan," she said, hands on her hips. "I can’t promise I’ll be available every day. Between my work at the Braybrooks’, my classes, and my hours posing at the Academy… I’ll soon be leaving for—"

"Kent," Benedict cut in from across the room.

He had stopped, a brush in hand. "Louise told me. But we’re not there yet. What days’ work for you? I can be more flexible than you."

Emma didn’t respond immediately. She watched him silently as he moved with quiet yet confident efficiency. He had cleared a corner of the room, set up a second easel, arranged a set of brushes and palettes where colors blended into deep, rich shades—far more refined than those she was used to. Every movement betrayed a habit, a mastery, but also a barely concealed nervousness.

"I think Louise might allow me a few hours if I ask," Emma said, crossing her arms, her gaze still on the freshly arranged brushes. "But the simplest would be to meet after my evening classes at the Academy. Would that suit you?" She paused briefly, then added with a sly smile: "There will be exceptions, of course… like tonight. But I suppose you’re also doomed to attend those dreadful balls, aren’t you?"

Benedict rolled his eyes theatrically, a weary smile on his lips.

—"I fear I won’t survive the season if I don’t show my face..."

Emma laughed softly—a light, intimate sound that melted into the warm air of the room.

—"Very well. Then it’s settled."

Her gaze drifted around the room, across the canvases, the furniture, the dim light falling diagonally through the window. Then, in a gesture both casual and deliberate, she nodded toward the room.

"And if the opportunity arises… in other circumstances, we can always meet here."

There was no overt insinuation, no clear promise. Just an opening. A sliver of possibility.

Benedict simply nodded, gently, as if sealing a pact.

"Very well."

Emma’s eyes wandered around the studio, then settled on a portrait of a woman hanging above a dark wooden chest of drawers. Intrigued, she stepped closer, her brow slightly furrowed.

"Who is she?" she asked, pointing at the painting.

Benedict looked up, then shrugged with nonchalance.

"No idea. I bought it at a salon recently."

Emma moved closer still, captivated by the painting’s aura. She placed her hands on the frame, trying to take it down despite its height. The piece was clearly heavy, firmly attached—and far too high for her to reach.

Seeing her stretch precariously, Benedict rushed over to help.

"Are you planning to redecorate the entire room?" he asked, laughing.

"Put the portrait on an easel, please. Since we don’t have a live model, we’ll work from this one."

Caught off guard but amused, Benedict complied. Under Emma’s amused gaze, he set the painting on a free easel, moving a few things around to make space. When he straightened, the two artists found themselves side by side, facing blank canvases. Arms crossed, expressions focused, they stood in silence for a moment, like two generals surveying a battlefield.

"Alright then, let’s get to it," Emma said, picking up a pencil with confidence. "The most important part of a portrait is the proportions."

Benedict watched her with near-reverent attention. His gestures, usually somewhat clumsy, were now calm and precise. She drew with an ease that betrayed experience and control. This was a different Emma—focused, methodical, almost solemn.

"You need to structure the face with guidelines: an oval for the head, a vertical axis for the nose and mouth, horizontal lines for the eyes and ears," she explained as she drew. "Only after that can you add your style, your intention."

He nodded slowly but said nothing. It wasn’t the words he was absorbing—it was the way they formed on her lips, the way her fingers brushed the paper. She was beautiful when she painted. Beautiful in a different way.

And he felt, even before he had made a single stroke, that he was already learning something precious.

Benedict followed Emma’s instructions with dedication, though he noted—half amused, half frustrated—that his sketches had none of her grace or precision. But he was no fool: one didn’t surpass the master in a single evening.

The hours slipped between them like whispers—quiet and swift—until neither noticed how time had passed. It was only when Emma stifled a yawn behind her hand that Benedict, fingers smudged with charcoal, set down his pencil with an apologetic smile:

—"I’ve kept you far too long. Forgive me."

Emma shook her head softly, her eyes still bright with concentration.

—"It’s nothing… I lose track of time when I draw."

"So do I." He replied with a frank, slightly weary but contented smile. Then, after a moment:

—"Would you like me to walk you home?"

She stood, stretching lightly like a cat waking from a long nap.

"No, thank you. I’m just nearby."

Benedict watched her for a moment, as if another idea had already taken root in his mind.

—"You could sleep here."

She raised an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-amused. He quickly clarified:

"I mean… you can take my room. I have everything I need to sleep here, in the salon."

Emma smiled and shook her head, mock exasperated.

—"Be serious. With my height, I could sleep ten times over on your sofa. You, on the other hand..."

Benedict glanced at the infamous sofa and had to admit, laughing:

—"You’re not wrong. But I insist. Take my room. I’ll fetch you something to change into."

She narrowed her eyes, teasing.

—"Let me guess… a nightgown left behind by one of your past conquests? How sweet."

He burst out laughing, genuinely amused, though slightly wounded by the jab.

—"Alas, I fear all I have to offer are my own shirts."

Emma shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

—"That will do just fine."

They washed their hands in a small basin of clear water, a remnant of the impromptu studio. Emma cleaned and tidied her workspace with quiet precision, unable to stop herself from smiling at Benedict, who left everything as it was, as if tidiness never crossed his mind. Of course.

He returned a few minutes later with a white shirt in hand—slightly wrinkled, but clean.

—"Here. You can change in my room. I’ll close the door," he said softly, handing her the shirt.

Emma thanked him with a simple look and made her way to the bedroom, the shirt clutched to her chest. As she crossed the threshold, she turned slightly—just enough to see him keeping his word: he had turned his back and was tidying his brushes.

With a quiet, meaningful gesture, she closed the door behind her.

Inside the room, Emma was struck by the contrast between the salon’s lively chaos and the quiet intimacy of Benedict’s bedroom. The space was spare but warm—dark wood, thick drapes, a few books stacked by the bed. There was a chair with a half-buttoned waistcoat draped over it, a cravat tossed nearby, and the faint scent of paint lingering in the air, blending with something subtler—soap, perhaps, or the faint musk of worn linen.

She hesitated for a moment before slowly unfastening her dress, folding it carefully over the back of the chair. She slipped Benedict’s shirt over her head; it hung loosely on her frame, the fabric brushing her bare thighs. The collar was wide, the sleeves long, and she had to roll them up a few times to free her hands. It was far too large, and yet oddly comforting—like being wrapped in something that still held traces of warmth, of breath.

Emma caught her reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. Hair half-loose, feet bare, skin pale against the crisp whiteness of the shirt—she looked like someone else. Or perhaps she had never looked more like herself.

She stepped out of the room with quiet steps, holding the edge of the shirt so it wouldn’t trail on the paint-splattered floor. Benedict had changed, too—now barefoot, sleeves rolled up, seated on the armrest of a chair with a sketchbook resting on his knees. He looked up when he saw her, his pencil pausing mid-line.

His gaze flicked briefly over her—the way the shirt fell, the lightness in her step, the strands of hair escaping her bun—but he didn’t stare. Not exactly. His eyes held something softer. Something still.

—"You look..." he began, but stopped himself. A smile ghosted across his lips instead. "Very artistically dressed."

Emma rolled her eyes with a huff of amusement, crossing the room to the sofa.

—"I expect a new portrait of me like this by morning, then."

—"Only if you promise not to laugh at it."

She gave him a long, considering look.

—"I wouldn’t."

Silence settled again—an easy, natural quiet. The kind that stretches comfortably between two people when the night is late and the world has softened.

—"Do you do this often?" she asked eventually, her voice low. "Invite women to sleep in your bed while you take the sofa?"

He let out a quiet laugh. "No. In fact, I think this might be the first time."

—"Mm. A scandal, then."

He looked over at her, expression unreadable for a moment.

—"Only if someone finds out."

Their eyes met, and something unsaid hovered in the air between them. Not a question. Not yet. Just a flicker of awareness—delicate, deliberate.

Emma yawned again, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The fatigue was setting in now, heavier than before.

—"You should sleep," he said gently. "I’ll be here in the morning."

"You’d better be," she murmured, already shifting onto the sofa. "Or I’ll steal your brushes."

He smiled. And she suddenly thought of his lips on hers, and the image struck her as both familiar and distant. Like a dreamed memory.

Then, in a rush that surprised even her, she asked, her voice barely above a whisper but steady. — "Benedict… would you sleep beside me?"

————————————————————

Emma climbed silently into the bed, settling without so much as brushing the covers—whether it was the warmth of the room, or perhaps the more subtle heat of the moment, it seemed enough. She curled into a foetal position, arms folded against her chest, her breath already soft and even. The gentle glow of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting a pearly light across her figure, tracing the silken sheen of her hair and the quiet curves of her skin.

Benedict entered the room and climbed in on the other side of the bed and turned toward her. She already seemed far away, almost unreal in that silvery light.

He hesitated. Should he simply lie down, keep a respectful distance, let sleep come without disturbing the silence? Or yield to that quiet, irresistible pull drawing him toward her, steady as a tide?

Every part of him longed to be closer—to hold her, to feel her breath against his chest. And so, without a sound, he inched toward her. He nestled behind her, moulding his shape to the curve of hers with restrained tenderness. His arm slid around her waist, and his fingers sought hers in a natural gesture. Emma, wordless, laced her fingers through his, as if the gesture had been waiting for her. As if she had missed it.

They stayed like that, unspeaking, their breaths aligned.

Benedict gently buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent—a mixture of soot and something else, something that belonged only to her.

A rare peace settled over him. A stillness so deep, it almost ached.

Silence now wrapped the room. And yet Benedict could feel, against him, that Emma’s body had not fully surrendered to sleep. Her breathing, though steady, carried a subtle tension—barely perceptible.

He whispered, his voice like a breath: — "Will you come visit me in Kent?"

She took a moment to reply, as if she were weighing the exact weight of her words in the delicate balance of the moment. Then, just as softly:

— "Yes. Gladly."

A smile, unbidden and boyish, touched Benedict’s lips. One of those rare smiles reserved for suspended moments, for tender beginnings.

He replied simply: — "Goodnight, Emma," and, without waiting, pressed a kiss to the back of her head, just where a few strands had slipped free from her bun.

— "Goodnight, Benedict."

He froze for a second. That name—spoken in the dark—resonated through him with the quiet force. It was the first time she had said it.

And in the silence that followed, complete once more, Benedict thought— with the unreasonable, unshakable certainty of a heart in love— that he could die happy, if only she would grant him, again and again, that simple miracle: to hear his name born from her lips.

————————————————————

Disclaimer: I know Kent isn't next door to My Cottage or Aubrey Hall, but we'll pretend it is

[mermaidsirennikita]

ARC REVIEW: A Gentleman's Gentleman by TJ Alexander

4.25/5. Releases 3/11/25.

—"you must marry to inherit"

—trans hero

—"oh no my new employee is hot"

—slow burn to passion

Heat Index: 6/10

The Basics:

Lord Christopher Eden prefers to keep his distance from society, both because he's somewhat eccentric in general, and because he doesn't want anyone to know his secrets. The trouble is, Christopher is going to lose his estate—and his earldom—if he doesn't marry before his next birthday. On his quest to find a wife, he hires the prickly (some might stay STARCHY) valet James Harding, whose stern attitude is both annoying and, let's be real, super hot. As they become friends, however, Christopher's burgeoning longing for James does pose a complication for the whole "finding a wife" thing...

The Review:

TJ Alexander has become an author I can reliably recommend—you'll almost definitely like or love the book if they wrote it, and this is no exception. I am SO happy to see them hitting the historical romance space when it needs a voice like theirs so desperately. Historical romance is not dead! But damn, if you want to keep it alive you need not only diverse writers, but writers who write unabashedly what they want. That is TJ. They are fearless and they are determined and it's just a joy to read their stories.

While A Gentleman's Gentleman does touch on some very difficult topics—transphobia and homophobia are never confronted directly on the page, exactly, but they're forces that obviously shape the world and the circumstances in which Christopher lives—it has a really breezy, wryly humorous tone infused with some classic Historical Romance Pining. I don't know that any romance subgenre does Pining as well as historical romance, and you get the whole nine yards here.

This is entirely from Christopher's third person POV. While I do admittedly prefer dual POV, TJ does a great job of giving us a very clear picture of who James is, what he longs for, his quirks. Christopher is fairly smitten fairly quickly, but in a "This is so embarrassing and also inconvenient, I can't believe myself" kind of way. (There's also a really good beat wherein he discusses whether or not being attracted to a man makes him LESS of a man—something that was refreshing to see touched upon.) It's as the story goes on and he and James become friends that their feelings deepen. It's gradual, it's natural, but it never feels meandering. This is, inheritance plot aside, overall what I would call a character study romance.

When compared to Alexis Hall's Something series (which I love) I'd say this is sort of between that and a "traditional" historical romance vibe. It's set firmly in a more realistic, if optimistic, historical setting. Christopher does have a close queer friend, but he doesn't have a circle, as Hall's characters often do. And part of that is also necessity, right? Christopher is hiding, and I wouldn't say that the urge to hide is ONLY due to his transness (he has a great backstory that DID feel very classic old school historical romance in a lot of ways). But you're in that middle space, where Christopher isn't ashamed, exactly, but also feels pretty alone because while he has a friend that is gay, he doesn't have any friends who are trans.

By rooting this story in a more grounded world, TJ also gets to highlight the reality of trans history: that it is, in fact, a history. That there were and have always been trans people. And there will always be trans people. Regardless of whatever various corrupt regimes try to tell you. It's not that Christopher is truly alone; it's that he feels alone, and once he realizes he isn't, you can truly feel this weight lift a little.

All while he's falling head over heels in love with a very uptight hot man who's all about dressing him.

The Sex:

Although there is explicit sex in this novel, you do have to wait a good while for it. I'd definitely categorize this as a slow burn; but because the emotions are big and the longing is LONGING, I didn't feel undermined or whatever. Plus, what you do get is truly excellent and really unique to the characters. I don't know if I've read a sex scene before that had the exact same kind of... framing, I guess? In terms of where the characters were coming from emotionally speaking.

Also, Christopher is totally inexperienced, so.... a win for the lovers of virgin heroes (there are dozens of us! Dozens!).

I will say, though—if you're a fan of the stretched out tension? Yeah. There's a scene in this book that does tension SO. RIDICULOUSLY. WELL. I may have pearl-clutched a little.

Look, I'm not gonna ignore the elephant in the room: Trans people are under attack in my country. They always have been, but the loud part is very loud right now. Reading and buying and promoting trans romances should always be a priority. People NEED to be exposed to these love stories. It's political. It's emotional.

And, oh look, you also get to read a really great love story. You're winning on every level. Give yourself that win. Buy this book.

Thanks to Vintage and NetGalley for providing me with a copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own.

[gingersnap-17]

Newfound Hope (Suguru Geto x Blind Fem Reader)

Synopsis: Suguru had been at crossroads with his beliefs since Riko and Haibara's death. But after he bumped into a blind young woman, his outlook towards the world took a turn for the best.

Word Count: 1419

Suguru Geto had always been a man of conviction, one who lived his life by the principles he believed in. After the tragic death of Riko, and Haibara, he found himself at a crossroads. The loss of his dear friends had left him questioning his path and his purpose. The world of Jujutsu Sorcerers was a harsh one, with a clear divide between sorcerers and non-sorcerers. Suguru had always been one of those sorcerers who believed in protecting the non-sorcerers, seeing them as innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of the sorcerer's world. 

But the loss of two dear friends made him question the righteousness of his beliefs. He was torn between continuing to protect non-sorcerers or succumbing to the growing realization that many non-sorcerers were not as innocent as he had once thought. The cruelty and indifference of some non-sorcerers had started to weigh heavily on his conscience. 

One fateful day, as Suguru walked through the crowded streets of Tokyo, deep in thought, he accidentally bumped into someone. A voice filled with warmth and understanding greeted him. "I'm sorry. My fault entirely." Suguru looked down to see a blind young woman with a white cane, her face displaying no resentment or anger. 

Suguru, surprised by her forgiving nature, replied, "No, the fault was mine. I should have been more careful. Are you okay?" The young woman nodded, offering him a soft smile as her gaze was slightly downward. This had become a habit of hers since she became blind a few years ago. "I'm fine. Accidents happen. It's the way of the world." Suguru was struck by the resilience and kindness of this blind woman. 

In that brief exchange, he felt a glimmer of hope that not all non-sorcerers were as cruel or indifferent as he had feared. Her words resonated with him, and he found himself wanting to learn more about her. With a friendly smile, Suguru asked, "May I walk with you for a while? I'd like to know your name." The young woman tilted her head upwards slightly and gave a small, thoughtful nod. "I'm Y/N." she said, her tone filled with genuine warmth. 

Suguru's heart skipped a beat as he heard her name. It was a beautiful name that seemed to match the warmth he felt in her presence. "Y/N," he repeated, savoring the sound of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Suguru Geto." 

As they continued walking together, Suguru couldn't help but be drawn to Y/N's presence. Her blindness didn't seem to hinder her in the slightest. In fact, her other senses appeared to be heightened, and she moved gracefully and confidently through the bustling streets of Tokyo. They spoke about a variety of topics, from their favorite books to their experiences in the city. Suguru was struck by Y/N's wisdom and insight. She had a way of looking at the world that was different from anyone he had ever met. She saw beauty in the ordinary, appreciated the kindness in strangers, and spoke of hope and resilience in a way that resonated with him deeply.

 Suguru found himself sharing his inner turmoil with her, discussing the doubts and questions that had been haunting him since Riko's death. Y/N listened attentively, her gentle presence putting him at ease. "It's natural to question your beliefs when faced with such loss and pain." she said. "But remember, there is goodness and darkness in all people, regardless of whether they're sorcerers or not… whatever that means.” She laughs a little. “It's our choices that define us. You have the power to make a difference by staying true to your convictions." Her words touched Suguru's heart. He had been wrestling with his inner demons, but Y/N's perspective made him see the world in a new light.

 He realized that he didn't need to give up on protecting non-sorcerers, but he did need to approach it with an open heart and a willingness to see the goodness in all people. Suguru felt a sense of clarity he hadn't experienced in a long time. Y/N's presence had become a beacon of hope in his life, and he knew he couldn't let it slip away.

 He wanted to spend more time with her, not just for the insight she provided but because he genuinely enjoyed her company. "Y/N, I'd love to see you again," Suguru said, his voice filled with sincerity. "Would you be willing to meet me for coffee or a meal sometime?" Y/N smiled, her eyes filled with a kind of warmth that transcended her blindness. "I'd like that, Suguru. It's not often I meet someone who sees beyond my disability. How about tomorrow?" Suguru agreed eagerly, and they exchanged contact information. 

The following day, they met at a cozy café in the heart of Tokyo. Over coffee and pastries, Suguru and Y/N continued to deepen their connection. With each passing moment, Suguru found himself more captivated by Y/N's strength and resilience. She shared her own challenges and how she had learned to navigate the world without sight, relying on her other senses and her unshakable belief in the goodness of people. 

As their friendship blossomed, Suguru couldn't help but admire Y/N's unwavering optimism and her ability to find beauty in even the simplest of things. He realized that he had been allowing the darkness of the Jujutsu Sorcerer world to overshadow the potential for kindness and goodness that existed within it. With Y/N by his side, Suguru began to view the world through a different lens. He saw that protecting non-sorcerers was not a lost cause but a noble mission that could make a difference. 

His encounters with Y/N opened his heart to the idea that kindness and compassion could bridge the gap between sorcerers and non-sorcerers. Their bond deepened over time, and it wasn't long before Suguru found himself falling in love with Y/N. He was drawn to her kindness, wisdom, and the strength she displayed in facing life's challenges. 

Y/N, too, couldn't deny the growing affection she felt for Suguru. He was a man of strong principles and conviction, and she admired his determination to protect the innocent. One evening, as they strolled through a serene park under the canopy of cherry blossom trees, Suguru couldn't contain his feelings any longer. He stopped, turning to face Y/N, and took her hands in his. "Y/N," he began, his voice filled with emotion, "I can't imagine my life without you in it. You've changed my perspective on the world and given me hope. I love you."

 Y/N's heart skipped a beat as she felt Suguru's warm hands holding hers. Her face lit up with a radiant smile as she replied, "Suguru, I love you too. You've shown me a world filled with kindness and compassion, and I can't imagine my life without you either." 

Their admission of love marked a turning point in their relationship. From that moment on, Suguru and Y/N were inseparable. Despite Suguru being a sorcerer, and Y/N a human, they were able to make things work between their two different worlds.

Suguru and Y/N's love continued to grow stronger with each passing day. They navigated the complexities of their respective worlds, finding solace in each other's arms. Suguru remained dedicated to his mission of protecting non-sorcerers, and Y/N was a constant source of inspiration and strength for him.

Y/N's blindness was no longer a barrier, as Suguru had learned to appreciate the world through her unique perspective. He often described to her the beauty of the cherry blossoms, the colors of the sunset, and the details of intricate sorcery techniques he encountered. It was moments like these where the two felt their bond for each other grow.

Their love became a symbol of hope and unity, a bridge between sorcerers and non-sorcerers. They dedicated themselves to working together to create a world where differences were celebrated rather than feared.

As the seasons changed and the cherry blossoms bloomed year after year, Suguru and Y/N's love endured. In the end, Suguru found not only the love he needed in his life but also a renewed sense of purpose and conviction in his mission to protect the innocent. With Y/N by his side, he continued to make a difference in the world, proving that love could conquer even the darkest of circumstances and that unity was stronger than division.

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Birthday Event: My Beloved

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors. This is a rough translation.

I want to celebrate with all my heart that you, my beloved, were born into this world.

One afternoon.

Mitsuki: "Alright, next question."

Drake: "Hm, go ahead."

Mitsuki: "You don't have any likes or dislikes, so do you have any favorite foods in particular?"

After having a meal with him, I bombarded him with questions.

Drake: "Food, huh? I like both meat and fish, but if I had to pick a favorite..."

Drake: "Oh, pudding!"

(Hehe, he's so cute.)

Drake: "I mean the dessert kind of pudding. It's completely different from the pudding I used to eat before. It's really delicious."

Mitsuki: "Are there any other types of pudding besides dessert pudding?"

Drake: "Yup. Sailors often make a pudding by steaming leftovers with eggs during voyages."

Drake: "Once, I mixed a bunch of stuff a bit too much, and it ended up tasting really awful."

Drake: "That taste was so terrible that I'd rather starve to death than eat it."

Mitsuki: "Sounds intense. Alright, I'll note that your favorite dessert is pudding."

Mitsuki: "Then, what's your favorite drink?"

Drake: "Rum. Oh, and mojitos. You know, the one with lime and mint added to rum. I like that too."

He occasionally pondered and answered the questions while I nodded and wrote the answers in my notebook.

Writing this sort of made me feel like Sebastian.

Mitsuki: "Alright, next question. Is there something you want right now?"

Drake: "You."

Drake: “I want you, little fawn.”

He looked straight at me, and in an instant, my heart started pounding.

Mitsuki: “That’s not what I meant. Geez.”

(He always manages to make my heart race whenever he gets the chance.)

Drake: “Haha! It’s true. But man, you have a lot of questions today.”

Mitsuki: “This is an important survey. Okay, last question.”

Mitsuki: “When is your birthday?”

Drake: “----!”

That’s right. I was asking these questions in preparation for his birthday because I’d never heard of him celebrating it.

(That's why, from now on, I will prepare the things he likes and celebrate him.)

I was getting excited just thinking about making him happy. However, Drake furrowed his eyebrows and seemed to be struggling to answer.

Drake: “Birthday, huh? Um, September, I think.”

Mitsuki: “Drake, don’t tell me you don’t remember your own birthday?”

I asked, and he let out a troubled laugh.

Drake: “Well, that’s a possibility. I must have forgotten without realizing it.”

(I didn’t find his birthday in history books, so I had to ask him directly, but I can’t believe he forgot about it. How is that even possible?)

He rested his hand on his chin as I tilted my head in confusion, wondering if it was something easily forgotten.

Drake: “I think I celebrated it with my parents, but I moved from town to town and eventually got separated from them. I guess that’s when I forgot my birthday.”

Drake had a childhood where he had to flee from his mother’s relatives.

After that, he became an orphan and struggled to survive until a pirate ship picked him up. That was probably why he hadn’t had the luxury of counting the days or enjoy the changing seasons.

(In that case, it’s not surprising he forgot.)

Thinking about his life made my heart tighten.

Mitsuki: “But at least you remember it’s in September.”

Drake: “Nah. I decided it was in September from some point in the past.”

His answer made me blink again.

Mitsuki: “So, does that mean you chose your own birthday?”

Drake: “Well, something like that. I think, oh yeah, it’s September 7.”

(Does September 7 hold any special meaning?)

Mitsuki: “Why did you choose September 7 as your birthday?”

He looked a little distant and began to speak quietly after I asked about the reason for that specific date.

Drake: "That was when I was just recruited by the Queen."

------------Flashback------------

The year was 15××, September 7th.

Noble 1: "To our great ruler, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, we wholeheartedly celebrate this day of your birth!"

Noble 2: "Long live Her Majesty the Queen!"

Queen Elizabeth: "Rejoice and enjoy the night to your heart's content."

Nobles knelt before Queen Elizabeth, the most dignified woman in the room. On this day, a lavish party was being held at the palace in England to celebrate the Queen's birth.

In a corner of that grand hall, Drake and his crew members huddled together.

Drake: "Wow, royal parties are quite something."

Crewmate 1: "Hey, Captain. Doesn't it seem kinda weird for us pirates to be in a place like this?"

Crewmate 2: "Yeah, even though we've got fancy drinks and food right here, it just feels kinda scary to actually go for them."

Drake: "You're right."

---------Flashback Ends---------

Drake: "That year, we were invited to the birthday party as the Queen's pirates."

Drake: "But we were just a bunch of ruffians who lived on the sea."

Drake: "Being suddenly invited to the palace completely overwhelmed us."

Mitsuki: "True. Being in the same room with all those important people must have been nerve-wracking."

Drake: "Exactly."

Drake: "Well, that's how the Queen planted a sense of subservience in us, pirates who had enjoyed our freedom."

Drake: "I guess that was also the Queen's intention."

Hearing his words, I recalled the glimpse of his meeting with the Queen that I had seen through his past.

(The Queen seemed to have gotten hold of him under the pretext of a deal.)

(It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to have thought about it that way.)

Drake: "But becoming like a toothless shark would tarnish our reputation."

Drake: "If I, as the captain, were seen bowing to authority, my crew wouldn't find that respectable."

Drake: "And it wouldn't be fun to be constantly manipulated by the Queen."

Perhaps recalling his old feelings, a fleeting sharpness appeared in his eyes.

Drake: "So, I did something to maintain the reputation of the pirates."

Mitsuki: "What did you do?"

He took a sip from the tankard of ale he had ordered and smirked mischievously.

Drake: "I stole her birthday."

Part 2╎Sweet╎Premium End╎Epilogue

[letteredlettered]

hi!! i have kind of an odd question for you. so i want to be a writer, i love to write, however i quickly realized that i am just not witty at all. in reality i am not a very funny person and as someone who wants to write funny/clever characters this can be very challenging as i feel very not-funny. do you have any advice for this? i love your writing and your prose is always so clever and smart!!

Thanks! I'm glad you like my writing!

I'll say two things, which I can already tell will turn into 3:

it doesn't need to be funny. Even if the characters are funny, you can write the time when they are sad. Many people disagree with this assessment; they want fic to have a similar tone to canon, but I'd just keep in mind that fic gives you freedom to use whatever tone you're suited to.

Humor can be studied. I laugh a lot and make a lot of jokes, but in writing, as is perhaps evident, I come across as pretty intensely serious. The stuff I've written isn't the funniest, but I know that some fics and some lines I've written have made some people laugh. And I think I managed to get that because I looked at writing I think is funny--I looked at Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens; I looked at Bridget Jones; I looked at Joss Whedon's dialogue; I looked at how characters from Parks and Rec talked, and I took notes, and I made lists of why different things made me laugh, and I tried to replicate it. I will say, however, that what I find the worst thing in the world is to read something that is trying to be funny but is very belabored. I'm reading a book now where there is a character who is is supposed to be so sharp and incisive and funny and clever that he is literally named Wit, and every joke he makes is SO heavy handed; it's like the author sees the punchline and yet has to spell out every step to get there. So, one of the most important things about writing humor when you yourself are not funny is to either pick a form of humor that benefits from being belabored (lots of Dickens is like that, which is why I turn to it), OR:

Be aware of timing. So much of what make something feel sharp and clever and witty has to do with timing. I would focus less on punchlines and far more on practicing how to make timing work for you, particularly in dialogue. The length and existence of the dialogue tag adjusts the pacing, and you can do a lot by making the reader wait a beat or by sailing quickly through a number of amusing points.

[perfectprofessorloverapricot]

Finding purpose | Male OC (or male reader)

Chap 2

Summary: In a world that is dying and there is no way of saving it, the humanity takes mater into their own hands. They flee from their home planet with hope of conquering another in order to survive. Among them, a couple of brothers with no idea what they’re doing.

Pairings: Jake sully x Oc (friendship), Tsu’tey x Oc (friendship), Neytiri x Oc (friendship). [No current love interest]

Warnings: Mention of violence, mentions of death, use of drugs or alcohol, bad ways of coping mechanisms and obscene language.

Note: - This is not a request and it’s the translation of the original story in wattpad. - My native language it’s not English - The Oc’s name is Eli Thompson.

Prev part - Masterlist - Next part

"Is this thing on?" Eli asked as he pushed some buttons on the camera. He realized that he was recording until he turned to see the screen next to him. "Oh yes it is."

Behind him were Norm, Max and Jake in their respective seats doing whatever on their computers. Jake, like him, was practicing on his first record.

"My name is Eli Thompson. After being asleep for 5 years and 9 months I am finally on the planet Pandora." The soldier started making a face trying to think of what he has to say. "My purpose is to take my brother's place and lead an avatar body that looks like one of the natives here... or something." He scratched his head in some confusion. "Aaaaaand… I think that’s it." He turned to see Norm and Max who were behind him. "Hey Norm. Is that all I have to say?"

The scientist turned when he heard his name. "Yeah, we just have to make sure we document everything we see and feel." Said the man.

Max poked his head from behind Norm's shoulder. "It's what will keep you sane for the next 6 years." He joked.

Eli gave him a small smile, shaking his head and turned to the camera. "Okay. Eli out."

He reached out and turned off the camera.

End of stream.

"Grace Agustin is a legend," Norm said with great admiration evident in his tone of voice. So much so that Eli couldn't help but roll his eyes at him. He had already heard many things about that woman and not many of them were good. "She's the head of the avatar program. She wrote a the book. I` mean, she literally wrote the book on Pandoran botany"

"Well, that's 'cause she likes plants better than people." Max said, backing up Norm's idea about the female scientist.

Jake looked at Eli and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that said "Won't they really shut up?" bringing a smile to his friend.

"Here she is, Cinderella back from the ball." Upon hearing the aforementioned, both soldiers turned to face the front, finally arriving in the presence of a woman with an aura that gave off arrogance.

'This will be good' Eli thought as he saw the doctor.

"Grace, I'd like you to meet Norm Spellman, Eli Thompson, and Jake Sully."

With very little interest in the newly arrived, except for one of them, the doctor turned around, removed her glasses and pulled her cigarette from between her lips, showing that he had her undivided attention.

"Norm, I hear good things about you. How is your na'vi?" she asked in a surprisingly soft tone.

Norm, clearly nervous, raised a hand in the form of support to search for the words he wanted to say. He was in front of his idol. "May everyone's mother… smile upon our first meeting."

Eli brought a hand to his forehead to massage between his brows. The idea of having to use that new language that his brother tried to stick on his head like a mantra wasn't very appealing. He could understand most of the words, so it wasn't hard to form an idea of what they were saying, but speaking it on his own was out of the question.

And it was worse when he saw how pleased the doctor was at having received the words of greeting.

"Not bad. You speak a bit formal."

Norm let out a nervous giggle, but went on with his talk with more confidence. "I studied five years, but there is much to learn."

"Um, Grace? This is Eli Thompson and Jake Sully." The smile on the woman's face disappeared as Max tried to redirect her attention to the soldiers.

"Ma'am." Jake reached out his hand to shake the doctor's. He was trying to remain respectful despite the scientist's clear distaste for having soldiers within 1km of her work area. Eli, on the other hand, stood idly behind Jake.

"Yeah yeah, I know who you are and I don't need you. I need your brothers" the cold words of the woman put a metaphorical wall between the soldiers and the scientist, causing the calm attitude of the soldiers to instantly change to a more hostile one with just an exchange of glances. "You know?" She asked Max, answering before he could. "The PhD who trained for three years for this mission?"

"They're dead. I know it's a big inconvinience for everyone" Jake's tone of voice was evidence enough that they were now on thin ice.

The woman, for a tiny moment, thought about giving them a chance. But her way of giving them that opportunity was nothing short of dismissive. "How much lab training have you had?" She ask abruptly.

"I dissected a frog once." Jake answered with complete confidence.

Eli snorted at the memory of the chaos of that day in class. "I blew mine up." The soldier laughed.

Grace gasped in shock and outrage. Intend to give them a try. "You see?..." she spat at poor Max. "You see? I mean, they're just pissing on us without even the courtesy of calling it rain. I''ll talk 'm going to Selfrigd." The woman turned around with every intention of hitting someone, genuinely panicking poor Max.

"No, Grace. I don't think that's a good idea."

"NO, MAN, THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT!" She complained without stopping to pay attention to them. "I'm gonna kick his corporate butt."

Max stopped in his attempts to talk sense into her. Instead, he turned to the soldiers to give them one last piece of news before continuing with the job. The tour was over. "Here tomorrow, 0800... Try and use big words."

Eli and Jake raised their eyebrows in surprise and somewhat amused to see the scientist leave with the last word from him. They were both sure they wouldn't listen to him. They didn't plan on getting along with the woman, but they would try to make an effort not to make enemies with people they will see for 6 years in a row.