#desire and decorum mr sinclaire

[storyofmychoices]

Mr Sinclaire for the loveliest @princess-geek 💙

I know I'm late, but Happy Birthday, my dear friend! I hope you enjoy Ernest in this geometric style!

[Geometric Art Masterlist]

[missameliep]

Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.  

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.  

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.  

But he could be wrong.  

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist. 

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria. 

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.  

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens? 

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.  

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.  

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.  

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy. 

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.  

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.   

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force. 

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.  

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.  

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.  

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack. 

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes. 

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it. 

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look. 

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long. 

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.  

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”  

“I’m buying a gift.” 

“Anything in mind?” 

“A book.” 

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation. 

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?” 

“The Erotica section is in the back.” 

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat. 

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead. 

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.  

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.  

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.  

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”  

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. 

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?” 

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat. 

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.” 

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.  

With maybe hints of blue in this light.  

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look. 

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.  

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.  

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.  Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo.  Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,  Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. 

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.  

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses. 

Quiero hacer contigo  Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos. 

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes. 

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe. 

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.” 

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly. 

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.  

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend? 

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.   

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?” 

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth. 

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.” 

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?” 

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...” 

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.” 

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –” 

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.  

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.” 

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words. 

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.  

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else. 

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.” 

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up. 

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung. 

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages. 

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...” 

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.” 

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.  

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.   

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.  

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.  

Neruda.  

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd. 

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.  

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.  

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her. 

Thanks for reading!

[bri1234]

Created this from the quote at the top that @peonierose had sent to my inbox! I'm rereading D&D right now and thought the quote fit my MC and Mr. Sinclaire 😊

[rosesnink]

Threads of Gold

Author's Notes

A few days ago, I commissioned Thia @oh-so-youre-a-nerd from their Your Characters comms this beautiful piece of Mr. Sinclaire and Marianna, and the moment I saw the sketch, I knew I had to bring it to life.

I am aware that I said I'd stop writing Marianna here, but she's too amazing to just quit writing her here and the brainrot's stronger, lol.

English isn't my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes I may make.

To read more of Ernest and Marianna's journey, click here!

Check out my masterlist for more!

Summary: Ernest and Marianna share a cozy and intimate moment

Word Count: 644

Category: Fluff

Rating: G

Book: Desire and Decorum

March, 1812

It was late night, and Ernest Sinclaire found himself in Marianna’s house once again. He had duties in London, and if he had endured them, it was to see her once the moon was out. After a passionate session, they got decent and Marianna prepared some tea before the man went back to his townhouse.

“What am I to you, sir?”

Ernest looked up, blinking, rather confused and drowsy. “Sorry?”

“I asked you what do I mean to you.”

“I… haven’t thought about it deeply. But… I know that I like being with you, and not just because of…” his ears flushed pink, but he carried on “but more than that. I like talking to you, listening to what you have to say…”

Marianna bit her lip “I feel the same. I can’t explain it, but… there’s something about you that keeps drawing me back to you.”

They both stood in silence, the theme on the conversation weighing heavily on them. It was clear that they were more than lovers, yet they weren’t in love with one another. Not at least on his part. It’d be more complicated for her than him. He wasn’t the first man of his station to marry someone like him. Indeed, the second wife of his ancestor, Walter Sinclaire, had married a woman of the night’s daughter who sold oranges for a living, and theirs had been a beautiful and tempestuous relationship that had led to the century-old tale of the duelling pistol hanging in Ledford Park.

He could see that she did not wish marriage. The way she shifted and acted when the word came out in her presence wasn’t difficult to miss for someone like him. He was used to lurk somewhere and observe and read the room, an underrated societal skill few used, desperate to shine in the scene. Many failed miserably, and it was quite pitiful to watch.

But somehow, Marianna always stole the spotlight. Despite being eleven years his elder, she looked like she was his age, maybe younger. Her fair skin shone brightly on the fireplace’s shadows, her golden locks now down and messy. The thin nightgown carved her perfectly plump figure, sign of years of work, children perhaps as well. He suddenly remembered his travels to Italy, and seeing the statues of Aphrodite and being mesmerised by the detail of the naked female body. It came to him that the same proportions had been given to Marianna: beautiful hip dips, her body being plump and soft like a pillow. Her face was earth-shatteringly striking: light blue like the Pacific Ocean, plump cheeks and mildly full lips with the perfect shape that drove him mad every time he kissed them. Her neck was elegant, and her collarbones had this effect on him that he couldn’t describe. She was too beautiful to work there, enduring blithering idiots and blind drunks who sought refuge from their wives. She was a work of art, and he wished he was blessed with the gift of art. He’d gladly paint her. The image sent heart flutters to his chest.

Getting close as she gathered her thoughts, he stroked her hair, smelling the jasmine and the hint of rosewater on it. Marianna softened at his touch, not daring to turn around and face the question in both their minds.

Playing with her hair, he created threads of golden hair, the colour of the sun, and set aside some stray hairs to kiss the nape of the neck “I may not have the word for it yet, but you mean more to me than the English language’s adjectives can provide. Know that. Always.”

Embracing, they observed how the sun slowly rose, and Ernest hoped that, whatever happened between one another, memories like these would prevail in both their memories.

[princess-geek]

Mr Sinclaire Icons

Made by the lovely @ladylamrian. Thank you so much 😘😘😘😘

@jeanele  ❣  @missameliep  ❣  @regencylady1810 ❣ @i-put-the-sin-in-sinclaire   ❣ @whenyourheartskipsabeat ❣ @xjustin-ethansgirliex   ❣@noesapphic  ❣  @gardeningourmet  ❣ @paisleylovergirl   ❣ @dailydoseofchoices  ❣  @rhyssescups ❣  @storyofmychoices  ❣  @a-shining-lucky-star  ❣   @lorircreates   ❣  @lorirwritesfanfic  ❣ @walkerduchess   ❣@indiacater  ❣ @kinkypot ❣ @anotherbeingsworld  ❣ @hellooliviaolivia  ❣ @pixel-writer19   ❣ @sinclaire-ity  ❣ @darknessabovethelite  ❣  @brightningstar  ❣@ezekielbhandarivalleros  ❣ @marlcasters  ❣ @bhartigat81  ❣ @lyannacyrill706  ❣ @daddytyrilstarfury   ❣ @secretaryunpaid  ❣ @allisonreilynn  ❣ @fauxleaves ❣ @twinkleallnight  ❣ @kingliamrys  ❣ @iloveethanramsey  ❣ @surewhyynot  ❣ @yvettegolx  ❣ @itlivesinpixelberry  ❣  @chutchoices ❣ @electroniccreatorwerewolf  ❣ @spookycolorpeanut  ❣ @peonierose  ❣ @quixoticdreamer16    ❣@lilyoffandoms   ❣ @tessa-liam

[sapphoschoices]

Mr Sinclaire would do numbers on Tumblr, and I'm not joking he's literally so (unintentionally) funny

[princess-geek]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Mr. Sinclaire, my hero ❤️

[choicesficwriterscreations]

February Creator of the Month: Noesapphic

Each month, CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers or artists, and this month’s creator of the month is the lovely @noesapphic!   The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page. Past COTM's can be found here.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog Masterlist

How do you want to be known on Tumblr? 

Noe is fine, really!

More below...

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I started in 2018. I was bored in a friend's house and fighting good old insomnia when I saw the app and tried it for funsies. The first book was 'High School Story'. 

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

I joined around late 2018 early 2019 and I had just left my community in Amino because the admin had gone full puritanical dictator and I was curious about Tumblr.

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

It was simple: my nickname is Noe and I am a sapphic (aka lesbian). It's a no-brainer, really. 

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

It was a reblogged quote. I related to what it said and I reblogged it 

5- Do you write fanfiction, create fan art, or are you one of those really gifted people who do both? 

I write fanfiction. God did not grant me art skills I'm afraid. My fingers are too fat and my pulse is terrible. 

6- How long have you been creating for Choices and for any other fandoms?

I've been creating for fandoms as long as I can remember. I've had a really troubled life, so creating stuff helped me. As for Choices, I've been creating stuff since 2019 

7- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to create for?

Without a doubt, Desire and Decorum. The first book is simply a masterlist and its characters are so well-written, and everything about it just draws me to it. They definitely botched the other books, but it will always be in my heart. I also enjoy creating for other historical books and books that have similar themes 

8- Share your first Choices fanfic or fan art that you posted with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were creating it today?

It was a set of headcanons of Mr. Sinclaire and my MC, Celestine, finding out that they're going to be parents. While my spelling is terrible, I wouldn't change a thing. The engagement I received was such, it drove me to write for more. I haven't stopped creating since. 

9- What your favorite piece of fiction or art that you created? 

It's no secret for anyone who pays attention to my blog: my au, The Cursed Heiress, is probably my best creation. It's complex and a juggernaut of lore and history, and has all I've ever wanted in a fic and book in it. Although a close second is my Tudor AU, For Love and Duty. I simply love the 'arranged marriage' trope 

10- Do you have a fic/art that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to do well but found it could use a little more love?

The second part of a one shot, A True Man, was probably one of the most difficult to write, and with a very traumatising and important theme. I was 100% hoping anon hate telling me to delete it, but found instead that the people ate it up! It has now 30 notes (which is A LOT for a small fandom like the D&D one) and now that I reread it, I'm proud of what I created and the message I wanted to send, which resonates with happenings of my past and experiences. 

11 - If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why? 

Definitely angst. There's something so cathartic and relieving as letting out those emotions you can't express out loud without being locked up for being unhinged, and it has helped me understand myself many times. Also, smut is def something that I can't physically write 😅 

12 - Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

There are small parts of me in every MC. A fragment of my past. Something of their lore that I went through. Something I aspire to be. Something I wanted to be once. I like to think that every writer leaves a part of their heart and soul with each character they create. 

13 - What element of writing/art do you struggle with most?

Ooof, where to begin. I think the hardest part is to just write. I can go on for weeks looking at my turned-off laptop and goof off on Tumblr. But when I do write, the 'boring' parts or writing a character that I am not familiar with or that there isn't much info about can be challenging. 

14 - Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Oof, where to begin, lol. My modern AUs, The Viscountess and Plan B. There's also Your Most Ardent Admirer and For Love and Duty. There's the fix-it fic series of the Blades LIs. Profiles of my MCs from several series. And also fic ideas that I want to create, but don't know where or how to start it. Woe is me indeed 😭 

15 - If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to see your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you show them first? 

Depends on the person. I would be very, very picky. I did show some parts of The Cursed Heiress to two trusted friends. But I wouldn't be against showing my mom a few chapters of The Viscountess… Unfortunately, she does not speak a word of English and I am terrible at translations, so it's wishful thinking, lol. 

16 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing or art? Are there any artists that influence you?

For the published ones, Holly Black and Cassandra Clare have probably been my biggest help. Leigh Bardugo is also a newer inspo, and Spanish author Laura Gallego got me into fantasy, and anonymous author Bebi Fernández's raw and brutal prose have helped me find my voice. I have now bought George R.R Martin's Game of Thrones, looking for new sources to grasp. 

As for fandom-wise, the very first writer to inspire me unfortunately hasn't been active since the pandemic, and despite our differences, @hellospunkiebrewster 's writing and essays got me into Regency and its history. My thriving years were by her side, and I'm grateful of having had a great fandom friend and hyper. The most recent ones are @missameliep my amazing fandom mom (te quiero mami 🥰) and some pieces by @princess-geek 's writing have inspired me to expand my horizon. 

17- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series? 

The Cursed Heiress, definitely. I think that my messages would resonate with many people. There's also The Viscountess: many people should see the messages Nicole, Anne and others have, and for what I have planned (and have been stalling out of laziness 🫣) would put things into perspective for many minorities and certain groups that are neglected by society and governments alike.  19- Do you write original fiction or create non-fandom art? 

I am now at the outlining stages of making The Cursed Heiress an original novel. I tried many times to make my own novel, but always dropped it. But now that I've been for years with it, I feel like this might be the one project I dreamed of publishing one day. It's tough and scary, but I'm loving the ride so far. 

Also, I have tried my hand with poetry, but it didn't have engagement and felt like talking to a wall, so I now feel discouraged. But if someone out there is interested, lmk 👀 

20-  What other hobbies do you have?

Apart from literature, I love make-up, skincare, cooking and making gifs and videoedits. I also love travelling and discovering new adventures and learning as many languages as I am capable. I also love listening to music. Basically anything that has to do with the humanities and art, I'll take it. Also, I am very invested in modern royal gossip. I know, not very republican of me… 🫣😅 

21 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

Apparently, the one I use the most is 🫡🫶🏻👀. Heh, sounds like me, lol 

22: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

____

Two reminders to both creators and onlookers alike: 

Creators: making content is NOT a race or a chore. It's something you make just because, and share it with the world. If you don't enjoy it, it's not worth the effort. 

Onlookers: I know how much you may love X thing, but remember that behind that art, fic, etc, there's a person with real feelings, real life and that is taking off free time to make something. Enjoy it, reblog it (please, reblog the stuff you love) and if you don't like it, filter the tag, block and move on. It's really that simple. 

Also, happy Valentine's Day AND Black History Month to the black creators of Choices! You're awesome and we love you ❤ sending you love 🥰 

[alj4890]

Escaping for a Moment

(Ernest Sinclaire x MC*Catherine Mills) in a Choices Desire and Decorum drabble

Thirty Kisses in Thirty Days Challenge with the prompt: forbidden lovers sharing a kiss in the shadows

Not quite sure who to tag for this one since it has been so long since I last wrote a drabble for this pair. Plus in cleaning out my drafts folder I lost my permatag list 🤦🏻‍♀️Tagging some who won't be too angry at me for doing so, LOL! @hopelessromantic1352 @twinkleallnight @tessa-liam @choicesficwriterscreations @krsnlove

Masterlist

"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

Lady Catherine Mills stiffened at the sound of her fiancé's voice.

There was nothing that made her skin crawl quite like Tristan Richard's oily tone.

A scathing insult sat on the tip of her tongue to give the odious man the set down he so rightly deserved. One glance at her grandmother's stern demeanor instead had her forcing a smile.

"I am. Thank you, your grace."

The Duke of Karlington leered at her. He purposely moved closer and placed her hand within the bend of his arm. He enjoyed watching her suffer being trapped with him.

The Dowager Countess beamed at the pair. She was pleased beyond measure that her natural granddaughter had managed to capture such a prized suitor. There wasn't a young lady here who had done so well in such little time.

Nor with such a questionable background.

"You should dance and show her off, your grace." She prodded.

"What a marvelous notion." Tristan remarked.

He placed his hand over Catherine's, smiling all the more with her trying to avoid his touch.

"Shall we show them how it's done, my lady?"

Catherine knew she must say yes. It galled her to have to spend a single moment in this man's presence much less dance with him. The thought of his hands upon her body made her wish to find a chamber pot to wretch in.

If only she was allowed to marry the one man whom she so deeply loved. Mr. Ernest Sinclair was so many things to Catherine. He'd been her savior, her friend, and finally the one who stirred her soul like no other.

Why had they tarried so long that night before sharing the joyful news of their engagement? If they'd only found her grandmother sooner, Catherine would be eagerly taking a turn on the dance floor with her fiancé, Mr. Sinclair, instead of the fiend pretending to be a gentleman at her side.

Life seemed determined to be unfair for the young lady. Not only was she denied her true love, she also was denied even a glimpse of him. For reasons she assumed were because she was promised to another, Mr. Sinclair had yet to make an appearance this evening.

If it were not for Ms. Parsons and Prince Hamid being there to bolster her spirits, Catherine would most likely have dissolved into tears. Her heart ached for Ernest. She was near the point of throwing decorum out the window and running off to Gretna Green with him.

She no longer cared if her beloved father had intended to leave Edgewater to her instead of her stepbrother. Mr. Marlcaster wasn't a bad sort. Catherine could see that he truly had a kind heart when not under the thumb of his mother.

If her dear Briar believed he was all that was good in this world, then Catherine couldn't doubt it. Her friend had a way of seeing one's true nature. Mr. Marlcaster might fumble the finances and such, but he would be a good steward to the people of Edgewater.

She knew if she was to run away with Ernest, scandal would be forever associated with her name. Did it matter though? Her questionable birth already tainted her reputation, though she had no control over those circumstances. At least the new gossip would be something she could happily live with.

"Lady Catherine?" Tristan hissed. "Are you not paying attention?"

Catherine jerked her head away from the feeling of his breath on her ear.

The Dowager laughed at the notion.

"She is most likely lost in thought over the notion of marrying you, your grace."

Tristan's smile was one most ladies deemed charming.

Catherine found little to like in it.

"Is that true, my dear? Are you thinking about our wedding?" His voice lowered for her ears alone. "Or is your baseborn nature concentrating on our wedding night?"

Catherine jerked her hand from his. Trembling with suppressed rage, she pleaded for them to excuse her.

Blinded by angry tears, she wound her way through the crush of guests in search of an escape. Since the retiring room was filled with giggling ladies, she next hoped to find a quiet corner outside to try and calm down.

She shook her head when Prince Hamid asked if she needed him. After tripping her way to a side door, Catherine slipped outside and rushed deep into the shadows.

Her exit was halted by a pair of strong arms wrapping around her.

"Catherine?" Mr. Sinclair said softly to try and shush her cries.

"Ernest!" She twirled in his arms, her hands cupping his face as her lips immediately sought his.

Ernest deepened the kiss, holding her even closer within his embrace.

Catherine broke away to catch her breath. "I thought you were not coming."

"I could not stay away." He caressed her cheek. "I do not care what anyone thinks. I refuse to stand by and see you married to such a man as Duke Richards."

Though she couldn't see him well, his voice made her heart sing with his next words.

"You were created for me, Catherine. You are to be no one's wife but mine."

She sighed into the heat of his next kiss. Her hands moved along his broad shoulders, glorying in the fact that he was truly here and still wanted her for his own.

"My love," she breathed as his lips brushed kisses down her neck, "I want nothing more than to be Mrs. Sinclair."

"And so you shall." He fervently promised. "We will find a way out of your betrothal. The Duke of Karlington will not lay another finger on you."

The mention of her fiancé's name forced Catherine to reluctantly pull away.

"I should return before my grandmother sends the duke for me."

"I'll escort you back." Ernest pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before releasing her.

She took his arm, leaning closer than appropriate. She needed a few more moments near him if she was to endure the rest of the ball.

Once inside, notes were played to signal that the Allemande was about to begin.

"Would you do me the honor, my lady?" Mr. Sinclair asked in that proud proper tone of his.

Catherine looked up at him. Her eyes traced his handsome features in the nearby candlelight. Her first genuine smile of the night appeared upon her slightly kiss swollen lips. She could continue to play the part of a respectable noble as long as he was near.

"Thank you, Mr. Sinclair." She said with a polite tilt of her head. "I would love to."

As he took her in his arms to dance, Catherine felt both her hope and courage return.

She would find a way to freedom and celebrate it with the man at her side.

[depressedchoices]

I am replaying desire and decorum again, and is it just me or did they put way too much effort into Mr. Sinclair(I mean this in a positive way) like the way he just ARREGHH!!! the house party he hosted and just couldn’t keep his eyes off me until the other woman had to YELL his name!!! TF

HE LIKES ME ! HE LIKES ME!! (and im trying to romance prince Hamid too 😞 i like Hamid but the TENSION 🥵 between Sinclair & I is just 💦💦💦)

[synergysilhouette]

Choices Review: Desire and Decorum

Continuing on with my Choices book reviews, I've decided to do Desire and Decorum. I'll say this to get it out of the way: I wish it was GOC! For a long time, I reasoned that if our genderlocked main character could be a person of color and STILL climb the social ladder in Regency era England. But then I realized that if our MC was GOC, Duke Richards could be female, and a young man wouldn't be forced to marry an older woman since the odds of her bearing (healthy) children would be very low. But they could've reworked it!!!

That said, I'm not a historian, so I don't know what's realistic here and what's not; this is just my opinion. What I DO know is that 19th-century England settings are so overplayed; I'd much rather prefer Tudor, Elizabethan, or Jacobean-era English stories.

Book 1 follows a young woman who finds out that her father is a wealthy Earl after her mother passes. However, while he receives her well enough, his wife sees you as a threat to her power and her son's inheritance. I was disappointed by the fact that the story starts off with MC losing her mom, and the towards the end of the story, he passes. While necessary for the story, it feels unfortunate that you have to relive the pain. I'd rather MC's mother had already passed before the book began and she found a letter from her that explained her birth. Along with this, it feels very odd being given the option to pair up MC's best friend with her stepbrother who acts very cruel on his mother's behalf.

Book 2 has you becoming the inheritor to your father's estate, having overthrown your stepmother but keeping a good report with your stepbrother (or not; depends on the path you choose). However, your grandmother is steering you towards marrying a duke who simply vies for power. And with no one (besides you and your friends) knowing his true intentions, the queen of England gives her permission for you to marry him. It frustrates me that Duke Richards is who MC's grandmother pushes her towards despite stating that Mr. Sinclair is one of the most eligible bachelors and as one of the wealthiest landowners. Granted, he doesn't offer as much rank as Richards, but it's weird that MC's grandmother can't be persuaded to let her marry him (even if you aren't romancing him).

Book 3 covers the wedding of MC to their LI (unless they're romancing the only female option, in which case she marries a secretly gay man who promises to keep her secret and won't hold her to any marital obligations). But of course, that'd be too easy. Your half-brother (who you thought was dead) is actually alive, and your stepmother poisons him against you--making him a difficult character to appease, especially since he is close to the antagonist of this book's story, who hopes to throw a coup against the queen while overthrowing you as well. The story is strong and interesting-but your brother's role in the situation is repetitive, and the fact that this was released at the same time as two other wedding books (AME 3 and TRR 3) didn't help. Had the writers had the foresight to know what they'd do for book 3, I'd want them to nix the stepmother/stepbrother antagonists in book 1 to avoid it being repetitive. Instead, your stepmother could appear amiable and kind until she reveals her true colors now that her other son (and the one with the strongest claim to the estate) is revealed to be alive. Or perhaps we do a tragic story; she's kind and caring, but when her younger son is revealed to be alive, her relief turns to jealousy and anger towards you for "taking" his birthright from him--and maybe for her husband cheating on her and you being the result (I don't recall if he did or if they weren't married at this time). Of course, even then she'd still be the secondary antagonist. Another route I could've seen for this book (and the series in general) addressing British colonialism in India and Prince Hamid could've been an Indian prince instead of an Ottoman prince, as well as MC's friend being mistreated as a maid as a result of her Indian heritage. But this is just me spitballing; like I said, I'm not a historian.

Overall, it was good, but the time period and genderlocked nature of the series makes me lose interest upon replaying it.

[princess-geek]

This one has a very special place on my heart <3

Today’s attempt to art is dedicated to the wonderful @princess-geek. Thank you for always being there. Your friendship means a lot to me 💖

Sorry it only kind of looks like Ernest Sinclaire... I tried! 🙈

[missameliep]

🎂 🫶🏻

Thank you for your ask, my dear, and for your support and friendship! 😊

Here's a moodboard for a Desire & Decorum AU inspired by your detective Hayley Parker. I hope you like it (and the actual fic when I post later)

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

If we're mutuals, send me an ask!

[bri1234]

Just ended Desire & Decorum 2. I would like to announce being officially engaged to Mr. Sinclaire ❤️🌹

But what shocks me... Who is that mysterious stranger? Supposed to be dead according Henrietta??? Don't tell me it's my brother, Harry 🥺🥹 I always wanted to have a brother

Ahhhh omg I can’t wait for you to find out!!!

Honestly I think the 3rd book might be my favorite because MC can finally be with their LI lol

Let me know what you think as you get farther into book 3!! 😊

[rosesnink]

Mad Love

Author's Notes

During the holidays, Thia @oh-so-youre-a-nerd and I made a content trade and today I sent the final product to them and wanted to share it with y'all! Read the warnings and tags just in case, though.

English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos and grammar mistakes

Check out Thia's amazing art here!

Summary: Mr. Sinclaire and Tulsi share a sizzling moment in the carriage (based on b1 chapter 8's event)

Word Count: 1.1k

Category: Pining, historical, slowburn

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Mr. Sinclaire x MC (Tulsi)

Book: Desire and Decorum

The couple ran towards the carriage, the rain turning into a full-blown storm. Mr. Sinclaire dragged Lady Tulsi as far as he could, considering how small she was. At last, he spotted one and shouted “Sir! Sir? The lady needs to go to Grosvenor Square! I can pay!”

The driver, not denying himself good coin, ushered the couple inside and after clarifying the destination, started driving towards the luxurious neighbourhood. Still panting from the exercise and the events of the bridge, Mr. Sinclaire took a breath. He looked at Lady Tulsi, who somehow managed to look beautiful despite being soaked through and panting from such an effort.

He would’ve offered his coat as a relief, but he was as soaked as she was. The last thing he needed was to worsen still her condition. Regaining her breath, she looked at him, and by God, was she beautiful: with her rich brown skin, and her fiery red hair, as red as the end of the flames in the fireplace back at his house.

“That took… a turn.”

“I-it did.”

He couldn’t help being nervous around her. They were soaked, the dress’ fabric was feeble and one could see a glimpse of what it hid. He could see a glimpse of her chemise, which hugged her figure perfectly, allowing him to see certain curves that a man ought not to. Swallowing hard, he looked away. It was improper to gaze upon an earl’s daughter in such a way. Had he not been soaked as well, he would’ve offered his jacket without hesitation.

“Did you mean it?” Tulsi asked “when you said…”

“Of course I did, my lady. With my heart on a fist.”

Her enchanting brown eyes gazed at him intensely, and he gulped, his heart beating impossibly fast. He liked to think that the thrill on his body was due to the cold rather than Tulsi’s effect on him. Not tearing his gaze, he brushed away a strand hair from her face “There’s something about you, Lady Tulsi… The way you challenge me, fuddle me, the way you talk, that beautiful smile that makes my head spin… I can’t have enough, I crave more, I crave—,” He stopped short, swallowing hard. If he continued, he might regret it later. Or not. He did not know which one was worse.

Tulsi leaned in his direction, and he sucked up his breath “Crave what, Mr. Sinclaire?”

He fought against his best senses, but his eyes nevertheless landed on her lips: a dark pink with pink rogue and probably tasted of roses. The thought made his heart beat even faster, and before he could even think of it, he was leaning towards her as well “Can’t you tell, my Tulsi?”

Her hands were on his chest, drawing small and sizzling circles on his damp clothes, and his whole body felt like he was on fire. Her hands were surely smooth, as smooth as a baby’s skin, and warm. Her hands then went up to his upper chest, where he was sure she felt his heartbeat. His body responded by leaning dangerously closer to her, and her hands were then on his shoulders. Against his best senses, his hand went to her untamed red hair, and the other to her gorgeous blue dress, returning the favour. A throaty hum came out of her, which encouraged him to carry on. They flushed their chests together, the damp clothes giving the other a forbidden glimpse of one another. His hands at last found at last her hair, and buried his fingers in its scalp. It was smooth, like touching the finest silk. His other hand found the small of her back, and her body was probably as warm as his own. Her hands then found his jaw, which she traced, and he had to bite back certain noises coming from his throat. He shuddered from pleasure when her fingers found his lips, tracing them, and he nearly ended such torture. He kissed the tip of her finger, and his eyes found hers. They were blown with wanting and yearning, as surely his were, her cheeks warm and her mouth open in a small ‘o’, much like himself. He worked the courage to break the embrace when the carriage passed over a pebble, and both tumbled to the floor, Tulsi on top of him.

Her face was now only a few inches away from him, and Tulsi murmured something. His hands were now on her waist, and felt every inch of her, and her of him. He could not speak, he could barely breathe or move. This position was all too perfect, the woman he had always dreamt of having at his entire mercy, and nothing but a dark carriage all for themselves.

“Will you look at that, Mr. Sinclaire,” mused Tulsi “it seems we have some sort of habit on tumbling onto one another. What will you do now?”

He took a deep breath “I—I don’t… mean to take such liberties with you, my lady?”

She purred sensually in his ear “But what if they’re eagerly given, sir?”

His whole body tensed of anticipation, wanting nothing to end such torture and kiss her until he could no longer remember his own name. Her hand traced his cheeks, drawing their bodies impossibly close, a small, throaty moan coming out of him.

“Don’t, Tulsi.” He whispered.

“Whyever not?”

“Because if we start now, I won’t stop myself from doing… things a gentleman ought not to do to a lady.”

“I don’t wish to be a lady right now.”

By God, she was an expert at driving him mad, was she not? Many sinful thoughts once again raced in his mind, many terrible ones a gentleman ought not to think. If he could, he’d give himself to her, allow her to make him hers, and hers alone. What an incredible feeling that must be, to have Tulsi claim him as he so badly wanted her to.

But the rumours of her came back. He’d only make them true, and Edgewater would sink. Mustering an Herculean effort, he got up, not daring to touch her, for if he did, he’d be back to the limbo where only he and Tulsi would ever exist. Her untamed red hair, her warm brown skin, her full lips, her intoxicating warm body…

He cleared his throat as the driver pulled to her destination. He helped her out and kissed her hand. Suddenly, her lips were on his cheek, and he inhaled sharply “Good night, sir. Let’s do this again sometime.”

If such thing happened, he would surely die of heart palpitations. Coming back onto the carriage, composing himself, indicated the driver to take him home, a few neighbourhoods away from hers.

If it wasn’t clear how maddening his affections for her were then, now all doubts had been cleared in a few minutes.

[princess-geek]

(Modern) Beatrice Foredale X Ernest Sinclaire

by @tveitertotwrites