#i consider it a glowing review

[vaticinatrix]

if the original winx club cartoon premiered in 2023 it would become bullshit culture war fodder faster than you could say alfea

[rabbitindisguise]

Me: hmm I want to try other granolas. Branch out. Get more protein

Me, mid meal: what the fuck this just tastes like fuckin. Oat Puff Cereal. It's squishy. And gross.

Ingredients: whole rolled oats, textured soy prot-

Me, scornfully: what the hell man that's totally what it is. this should feel like eating rocks. In a bad way. This doesn't even hurt my mouth a little bit. smh. And you call yourself a company. So fucking disappointed in you Open Nature™

[wastefulreverie]

For that ask game!

🎧 Headphones or earbuds?

[Ask game] Earbuds! I love the feel of headphones but I have the unfortunate habit of breaking every pair I've owned 😅

[w4ndal0ver]

The Art of Submission (1)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: As a growing author, you're grappling with a frustrating writer's block while trying to craft your next lesbian erotic novel. With a lack of personal experience holding you back, inspiration seems just out of reach. But when a captivating neighbour steps in, offering unexpected support and a tantalizing invitation to explore the depths of desire, you find yourself on a journey that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, leading to a discovery that you definitely weren't expecting.

content warnings: lead up, talk of submission and sadomasochism, flirty touches and conversation.

note: This is the first chapter of a new story that I'm writing, any ideas or inspiration would be appreciated so if you have any ideas feel free to drop them in my requests, other than that buckle in! (I will try to get the next part out as soon as possible)

The Art of Submission - Chapter One 

The soft glow of your laptop illuminated the cluttered desk, your cursor blinking impatiently on an empty document. You stare aimlessly at the screen, your fingers hovering above the keys waiting desperately for inspiration to strike. It had been hours since you sat down, hoping to squeeze out something, but your mind felt trapped and foggy, yet every time you wrote a sentence, you only sank deeper into it. The end result had started to feel completely out of reach.

Your last book had done okay. It wasn’t groundbreaking or a bestseller, but it was just enough to remind you that you could do this. You could write and publish your writing and make some level of a name for yourself in the world of lesbian erotica. Not that it was hard considering the low level media attention that your field rarely gained. The reviews had been mostly kind and the sales had trickled in steadily enough that you were managing to stay afloat, but nowhere near the level of success that you first imagined when you wrote your first novel. 

Your apartment is a mess, the evidence of your creative block scattered pointlessly across the room. Empty coffee mugs crowded your desk, some still holding the cold remnants of yesterday's caffeine-fueled desperation. You’d also not left the apartment in days, time becoming a blur of restless nights and sluggish mornings, avoiding stepping outside. You found it was easier to stay here, trapped within the confines of your own thoughts, hoping something would come to you. 

You lean back in your chair, groaning in frustration. You thought about getting up and attacking the massive pile of laundry that had sat abandoned in the corner for days, but you quickly pushed that aside, realising that there was no point until you at least got another page written. The cursor was blinking furiously at you and you felt yourself going slightly insane. You wanted to smash your head into the keyboard, but instead you imagined yourself doing it which brought a small smile to your lips. 

It was at this moment that a sharp knock sounded at the door, you spin in your chair, frowning as you try to glance over at the entrance to the apartment. You wracked your brain trying to remember if you’d ordered something, but you couldn’t work it out and you knew you definitely wasn’t expecting company. You push yourself out of the chair with a deflated sigh, stretching your legs out as you go towards the door. The knock came again, firmer this time. Whoever it was, they weren’t planning on leaving. 

Shuffling to the door, you don’t bother to smooth the wisps of your hair or fix the crumples in your shift, you just swung it open. 

“Hey, I hope I’m not intruding, but I thought you could use a break.”

You blink in shock, momentarily stunned. Wanda stood in your doorway, her familiar yet distant neighbour from across the hall. You knew her as the woman who you occasionally exchange small talk with in the corridor, but there she was holding a bottle of wine like she’d been planning this all along. Her reddish-brown hair flowed over her shoulders, perfectly catching the dimming light of the room, the colours of her striped blouse almost too cheerful for the cluttered mess that she would soon walk into. 

“I can basically hear your sighs from across the wall. Writer's block?” Wanda smiled, her green eyes warm but with a hint of darkness behind them, as if she knew something that you didn’t. She stepped further inside, her presence filling the small apartment yet you didn’t move to stop her, you didn’t feel the need to. 

“Yeah no of course, come on in.” You say, brows furrowed in confusion. You hadn’t told anyone that you were trying to write again, come to think of it, you hadn’t even told her that you were a writer in the first place. Suddenly, your cheeks flushed pink in the realisation that she knew who you were. 

Wanda set the bottle down on the counter, next to a half empty cup. The sound of it landing felt louder than it should, cutting through the quiet tension that was arising around the pair of them. 

“You’ve been in here too long, I thought wine might be a good excuse to step away from the screen for a bit.” Wanda spoke with a caring tone beneath her soft voice, yet you found it unsettling in how she acted so naturally, offering up solutions to problems that you hadn’t even told her about. 

Wanda always seemed to have a way of appearing when you least expected it, offering little moments of relief, like that time she helped carry groceries up the stairs. She was friendly, sure, but there was an edge to her friendliness. A knowing look, like she was always a step ahead of you, just waiting for the right moment to weave her way into your life. You didn’t know why, but you weren’t exactly complaining about it. 

“You know, I’ve read some of your stuff.” There it was, you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Your eyes dart to Wanda’s face, as if you were searching for any hint of a joke but instead you’re met with a calm, confident smile. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You’d always presumed that your audience was horny teenage girls, but Wanda was a mind-blowingly gorgeous woman, the exact opposite of who she was expecting. Besides that, your books lived in a cosy corner of the erotic fiction world, usually flying under the radar, definitely not the type of thing a neighbour casually brings up over wine. 

“You have?” You ask, trying to sound casual but your voice comes out a little more strained than intended. You walk around the kitchen counter where Wanda had perched herself, your hands almost shaking from the unexpected social encounter. You reach into the cupboard, finding two wine glasses and placing them down between the two of you. 

“Mhm.” Wanda leans against the counter, an almost playful spark in her eye, “You’re good. The way you write about submission, it’s real, raw. It’s incredible.” 

You feel your cheeks warm up, unsure on how to respond. This was the first piece of praise you’d received from inside your own kitchen. You felt your pulse quicken, the fact that Wanda had read those words, the intimate fantasies that you’d put into your stories was making this situation way more intimate than deemed necessary. 

You literally were stuck in a state of speechlessness, but Wanda was acting like she expected this. She lets you stand with your back against the counter opposite her, fiddling with the ends of your hair while she pulls up a stool. “Corkscrew?” 

“Oh yeah, of course.” As you turned you wanted to slap yourself, why were no words coming out, you are absolutely embarrassing yourself, yet the redhead was still gleaming at you as if you were adding something to the interaction. You rummage through your drawers to find what you needed before handing it over to her. 

“You know, when I first picked up one of your books I wasn’t sure what to expect.” She chuckled, tilting her head thoughtfully as she worked on opening up the bottle. “But then, well, I couldn’t put it down. Dangerous stuff.”

This time you manage a small laugh, still processing the idea of Wanda - the beautiful and put-together woman from across the hall - curled up reading the things you’d written. “I guess it’s not what most people expect from their neighbours.” Once again you’d tried so hard to sound casual that your voice was wavering in response. 

“Well maybe we just don’t know our neighbours as well as we think we do.” With that, she pulled the cork from the bottle and filled up the two glasses, leaning in a little closer as a smile grew into a smirk. 

You glance down at her as you reach for the glass, “I never really imagined someone like you reading my books you know.” You say sheepishly, taking a sip of the wine hoping to mask the nerves that were creeping up your spine. 

Wanda raises an eyebrow, her smirk more prominent now. “Someone like me?”

You shrug, avoiding her gaze as you fiddle with the stem of your glass. “You know, my audience is usually different. Younger maybe.”

She chuckles softly at your response, “Are you saying I’m too old for erotic fiction?” Her tone is teasing, yet there's a glint in her eye that makes your palms sweat. Her comment about submission still lingers in the air, your cheeks continually growing warmer. 

“No! No, I just-” You stammer, flustered by how casually she was controlling this conversation, “I didn’t think you’d be into, you know, that kind of thing.” Your voice is desperately pathetic and all you can do is smile shyly, trying to lighten the tension that was twisting in your chest. 

Wanda takes a slow slip from her glass, her eyes never once leaving yours. “Don’t assume you know what I’m into,” she comments, voice soft but full of unspoken meaning. There's that look again, the one that says she knows more than she lets on. “But seriously, I thought your writing was refreshing. You don’t hold back and that's what makes it compelling.”

You feel the blush rise again, her praise catching you off guard. “Thanks, I guess.” You mumble, feeling a little more exposed than you’d like. 

She waves a hand in the air, brushing off the awkwardness as she crosses her leg over the other. “I could tell you were stuck though,” She adds, swiftly changing the topic with a casual flick of her wrist. “So I figured I’d rescue you from yourself for a bit.”

It was your turn to raise an eyebrow, “Rescue me?”

She nods, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve been hearing you pace around for days, It’s not hard to guess you’ve got yourself into a block.” 

You can’t help but laugh, the conversation switching to something that was making you more comfortable to talk about. “Yeah, something like that. I’ve been staring at that god stupid screen for hours.” 

Wanda shakes her head, mock disapproval on her face. “That’s no way to get inspired, sometimes you just need to step away.” She gestures to the wine and the dim, cosy lighting of the room. “This is your moment to relax.” 

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight on your chest lighten ever so slightly. “I guess I have been driving myself crazy.” This would usually be an overstep in a first proper conversation, but the curious look behind Wanda’s eyes made you feel like she was making you say all of this, like she was dragging the vulnerability out of you. 

Wanda smiles at your openness, a knowing, almost secretive smile as she lifts her glass to her lips again. “There's a reason they say inspiration strikes when you least expect it, maybe you just need to stop expecting it.”

The laughs were more relaxed now, “Oh, is that how it works?” You tease playfully, finally getting to a point where your nerves have stilled out. You could feel the tension in your body loosen just a little, but Wanda’s gaze still never faded.

She grins at your response, swirling the wine around in her glass. “Well sometimes it helps to just let go.” Her eyes sparkling as she watches you. “So what’s this book about anyway? What's got your pretty little head in a spin?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how to respond. There's no easy way to explain what you’re writing without dipping into something personal and intimate. But the way Wanda is watching you so intently, waiting, you decide to just go for it. You’re thinking maybe talking about it will help you sort out what’s been blocking you. 

You clear your throat, and look down at the glass in your hands. It’s, uh well, it's another one in the same genre as the others.”

Wanda cocks her head at you, leaning in again. “Mhm, go on.” She pulls out the stool next to her, tapping on the top of it. You smile in the safeness of her space, walking round the counter and sitting down next to her. 

“It’s about sadomasochism actually. I’m trying to explore that dynamic, the balance between pleasure and pain, trust and submission.” You feel your face flush, realising that there's no backing out now. This is supported by Wanda’s lips curling into an all too well knowing smile. 

“So you’re digging into the darker side of submission? That’s bold.”

You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah it’s more about the psychological aspect of it - how it feels to surrender completely to someone else but it's hard to get it to feel real rather than just something for someone to get off on.”

There's a brief pause, both of you deep in thought, but you can feel Wanda’s gaze like a weight on your skin. Her eyes darken, just for a moment, as she processes your words. “Sounds intense.” She murmurs, her voice dropping a little lower. 

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to break the tension that you’d created. “Yeah well it’s not exactly an easy thing to write about. I want to portray it with respect.” 

The redhead has now turned in her chair to face you completely head on, her head tilted as she rolls her lips together. “Maybe that’s because you’re overthinking it.” She pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Or maybe because you haven’t experienced it enough yourself.” 

Your breath catches in your throat at her suggestion and you can’t hold her stare anymore, quickly glancing away with a small cough. “I- Well I’ve written about it plenty.”

She chuckles gently at your answer, her tone life but her words heavy with meaning. “It’s not quite the same thing though is it?” Wanda’s fingers gently brush against yours as she reaches for the wine bottle to refill her glass. The touch is light, fleeting, but she doesn’t pull her hand away immediately. Instead her fingers linger just long enough to make you wonder if it was an accident or something more deliberate. 

You attempt to laugh it off, but your voice falters slightly. “I guess not.”

She meets your eyes again, her gaze almost daring, “You know, sometimes the best way to get through the writer's block is to immerse yourself in the subject matter.”

You swallow hard, praying that she didn’t hear the gulp that erupted in the back of your throat. The air between you had grown thicker than before. “Yeah I’ve heard that before.”

She smiles, leaning just a little closer, her arm brushing against yours as she picks up her glass. “So what’s tripping you up? The emotional stuff, or you know the physical details.”

The way she’s looking at you, so calm yet so confident. It’s like she’s pulling the words out of you without you even realising it. “Both. It’s hard to get the balance right, making the dynamic feel believable.”

Wanda nods thoughtfully, biting the tip of her finger as she indulges herself into your problem. “Have you thought about how you’re building the dynamic between them?” She shifts closer and in the process her knee scrapes past yours under the lip of the counter top. You’re hyper aware of every small movement now and it's impossible to be an accident. “Like what does submission look like to you? What does it feel like in the story?”

You blink, caught off guard by the directness of her question. “God, I don’t know, It's like surrender, like when you trust someone enough to give them complete control.” You pick up your glass again, taking a massive chug in order to keep your hands steady. “It’s like you know they won’t hurt you, even when you’re in your most vulnerable state.”

She nods understandingly, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. “Okay so what does that look like physically, how are you going to write that?”

Your pulse is going crazy now, you’re convinced that Wanda can hear your heartbeat quicken from just her words. “It’s about touch,” You say, your voice almost wobbling, “The way they respond to each other. The way a person can take control with just a look or a gesture.”

As you speak, Wanda’s lips turn up into a smirk, her gaze still unwavering. She’s so close to you now that the warmth of her body is radiating off of your skin. Her hand rests slightly above your knee, the touch intimate, sending a shockwave up the back of your spine. “Show me.” 

Your breath hitches, heart racing as her fingers begin to trace a small circle against your leg. The motion is almost absentminded, yet it feels nothing but deliberate. She maintains her eye contact, her expression open but charged with a spark of something playful and dangerously enticing. 

You freeze, caught in a whirlwind of sensations as the room feels smaller now, the air thick with unspoken tension. You know exactly what she’s suggesting without her having to say it.

You open your mouth to respond, but immediately close it, earning a small chuckle from the redhead. “If you can describe it so well, you shouldn’t be stuck here right.” The dangerousness in her tone makes the words evaporate and you become acutely aware of the heat radiating from her body, the way her thumb brushes softly against your skin, drawing you in deeper. 

Wanda pulls back just slightly, but her hand lingers where it is, a gentle weight that feels both reassuring and electric. Her eyes lock back with yours, searching, waiting for your answer. “It’s okay.” She whispers, her voice soft yet commanding, as if she's completely in control in this delicate moment, “I’m just trying to help you get… unstuck.”

You can’t look away from her, caught in her captivating gaze. Her confidence is wrapping itself around you, urging you to step closer to the edge of your own desires. The space between you is charged, the possibilities suddenly hanging thick in the air as you contemplate what she could do next.

“Have you thought about drawing from your own experiences?” Wanda questions, still attempting to find a solution to a problem you couldn’t tell whether she was actively helping or not. “You know, sometimes personal stories can ignite that spark of inspiration.”

You swallow hard, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. “I wish I could.” You admit, your pulse is still racing from her touch that she has now released, yet her body still remains just as close. “I’ve never really had anything that intimate.”

A playful glint flickered within the green of her eyes, her gaze sharpening. “Really? Nothing? Not even a fleeting moment that made your heart race?” She tilts her head slightly, studying your face as if searching for unspoken truths buried inside of you. 

You shake your head, feeling the embarrassment paint itself across your face. “Not like that, I mean I’ve had relationships, but nothing that’s ever made me feel like I was completely out of control, everythings always felt so safe.”

“Safe can be good, but isn’t there something thrilling about stepping outside of your comfort zone?” Her face leans closer to you once more, the feeling of her leg permanently resting against yours now. 

You nod, the thought resonating with you, but you’re still hesitant. “I just don’t know how to write something so raw and believable if I haven’t experienced it myself.”

Her expression softens, shifting her weight slightly. Her gaze drops to your lips for the briefest moment before locking back onto your eyes. “Kiss me,” She whispers, the command both shocking and exhilarating. 

Your heart races, a jolt of electricity coursing through you at her words. You can’t look away, caught in the depths of her stare. The space between you feels impossibly small, filled with a tension that pulses with possibility. “Just one kiss,” She adds, her voice a sultry invitation. “It might just unlock everything you’ve been trying to write.”

With her eyes gleaming into yours, the world around you fades into the background leaning only the two of you in this moment. You’re drawn to her, every instinct telling you to surrender to the rush of desire coursing through your veins. You lean in, heart racing as you connect your lips together. The kiss is soft at first, a small tentative exploration, but it quickly deepens, igniting something almost primal within you. Wanda’s hand slides from your knee to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if she wants to consume every part of you. You pull back, the softness of her lips still lingering against yours. You’re panting slightly, taking in the depths of what you just happened. 

Wanda’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, her finger touching her lip and you can’t help but smile widely at her. “See.” She murmurs, her tone low and teasing. “Just a taste of what it feels like to let go.”

[loveinhawkins]

Steve watches as Eddie drops the shield clumsily, just lets it fall into the grass. His hand—it’s not shaking, exactly, but there’s a delay to everything, to the way his fingers curl, like even the smallest movement takes so much effort.

Steve knows the feeling: when the whole world feels like wading through molasses.

Eddie comes to sit next to him, thunks the back of his head against the RV and winces. “Ow.”

Steve smiles. “We’ve got time, y’know.”

Eddie gives him a blank look. The shadows under his eyes are practically sunken in. “Time?”

Steve gestures out to the distance, where the kids are still playing, where Nancy and Robin are re-counting the supplies he’d noted down earlier. “Reckon you’ve got an hour or so, if you wanna get your head down.”

Eddie snorts. “Ah, sleep,” he says, with a wry smile. “What’s that?”

“Come on, man,” Steve says. “Gotta take any opportunity you can. Don’t want you collapsing before we flambé Vecna.”

Eddie mouths Vecna to himself a couple of times, blows out a breath. “God, my life… my life is fucking crazy.”

Steve chuckles slightly. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“You’re used to all of this shit, though. Lemme guess, you can sleep just like that?”

“Hmm, not always,” Steve says, which… well, Eddie doesn’t know enough, he reasons, to realise just what an understatement that is.

Eddie sighs again. He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the RV—doesn’t look comfortable at all.

Steve moves closer, gently nudges Eddie’s foot with his own. “Hey.”

Eddie’s eyes open with prolonged, heavy blinks. “Hmm?”

Steve pats his shoulder in invitation. Eddie lets out an exhausted laugh. “Oh, my life just got even crazier.”

“What? It’s a perfectly good shoulder, dude, I dunno what to tell you.” Steve grins when Eddie keeps laughing. “It’s not bony or anything.”

“That so?” Eddie says, rubs at his eyes with a lingering smile. “You got good reviews?”

“Glowing. Five stars.”

Steve thinks about all the times he’s been a pillow for Robin or Dustin—Max, too, on the seldom few times he’s wheedled until she just took a damn nap, even if it was only for ten minutes.

He taps his shoulder again, goes quiet, more serious. “You’re dog-tired, Eddie. Come on, just ten minutes. Then you can trash my stupid shoulder all you want.”

Eddie just looks at him, considering. Then he huffs, glances upwards as if to say Fine, you win. “You drive a hard bargain, Harrington.”

And with some hesitancy, he tips his head down to the side and settles on Steve’s shoulder.

He’s tense still; Steve can feel it.

“Y’know, one of the best naps I ever had was ‘cause of you,” Steve says conversationally.

Eddie makes a disbelieving noise.

“It’s true. Uh, Winter ‘84, the period just after lunch, I think? Damn, can’t even remember what class it… Anyway, you were giving the teacher shit ‘cause of some test result, you just kept going, it was incredible. No work got done; I just put my head on my desk and slept, and no-one even noticed.”

Eddie chuckles, slumps a little more. “That’s…” And he yawns. “That’s depressing, man. You saying me going on and on was relaxing?”

“Yeah, like one of those meditation tapes. Except, uh, more aggressive.”

Steve feels more than sees Eddie smile. “You’re so dumb.” He hums tiredly, his head resting heavier and heavier on Steve’s shoulder. Voice small, he says, “Keep talking?”

So Steve does.

He keeps up a constant, one-sided conversation, speaking softly. Talks about what they’ll all do after this—mostly nothing, because everyone deserves a goddamn extended Spring Break, he’s decided.

And Eddie sleeps. He doesn’t twitch like Robin, and his head doesn’t nod forward like Dustin—like he’s reached such a level of fatigue that he can only be still. His breathing is deep and heavy in a way that Steve knows only comes from a rare, utterly dreamless sleep.

Steve just sits there for way more than an hour, doesn’t care when his back begins to protest at how unmoving he is. It’s only as the sun begins to set, as the group just begins to head back to the RV, when he reluctantly nudges Eddie.

“Hey. Hey, Eddie. Sorry. Time to get up.”

Eddie mumbles something, barely lifts his head before returning it to Steve’s shoulder. “Hmm… five more minutes?”

Steve sighs through a little laugh. Feels suddenly emotional for reasons he can’t fully explain. God, I wanna give you forever.

“Sure, yeah. Five minutes.”

But Eddie rouses after just a minute or two. Sits up and stretches. His eyes look a little brighter, his face no longer quite as grey.

“You were right, man,” he says lightly, gives Steve’s shoulder an endearing little pat. “It’s a nice shoulder. Gotta take good care of that.”

And his hand lingers there, holds on like he did when they were huddled round the Lite Brite. Like he’s saying Take care of yourself, instead.

Steve feels the warmth of Eddie’s hand as he shrugs. “You get first dibs on it, when this is over,” he says.

And he means Come back.

[basset-babe]

five times: the fourth.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: emotinal distress, tears, vulnerability

word count: 6.1k+

a/n: can't believe i'm writing this to a t. swift song lol let's just say miss y/n is in her lover girl era (as she always has been duh!) apologies for the loooong delay, here is the fourth! enjoy! ciao raga!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

the fourth.

A gentle knock echoed at the door as Grandmama stood at the threshold of my study. "I shall be with you shortly, Your Grace. I merely need to finalize these accounts for our subjects," I replied softly my nose buried deep in papers, my voice perhaps subdued as I tallied the month's expenses.

"Y/N dear, I am merely here to check on your well-being," she remarked, gracefully lowering herself onto the velvet chair by my desk. The soft rustle of her gown accompanied the taps of her cane with her movement. "This laborious work should be left to our stewards. The task of accounting is their duty, after all. I have compensated them generously, for I can no longer endure the perplexity of these numbers," she continued waving her hand, and her tone a blend of authority and genteel exasperation. The flickering candles' light cast a warm glow across the room, highlighting the rich wood paneling and the intricate embroidery of her attire.

I chuckled softly at her remark and looked up from my work. "I understand, Grandmama. While we do employ capable estate managers, surely it is prudent to review our accounts ourselves from time to time," I responded, but gave her a quizzical look as she is dressed for the night. "But I see you are dressed quite elegantly. Is there an occasion I am unaware of? Am I amiss of something?"

Grandmama's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as she responded. "Ah, my dear, have you forgotten? The Bridgerton Masquerade Ball is tonight. I rather suspected you might need a reminder," she said, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she adjusted the folds of her gown. "It appears you have been quite forgetful of late, given how much you’ve been gallivanting about recently."

I scoffed as I placed my quill down. "Me? Gallivanting? Whatever gives you the idea that I have been gallivanting, Your Grace?"

"You may be the season's paragon, Y/N, but you are my blood, and I know you well," Grandmama replied, rising with a regal air, her cane tapping the wooden floor of the study with a soft but firm rhythm. "And you are under my roof. Best to remember that nothing escapes my notice in my own home."

I felt a flush of embarrassment rise to my cheeks. Her knowing gaze left me momentarily speechless as she stood to close the door.

"Dear, you may not consider me one to meddle or delve into the ton’s gossip sheet—Whistledone or whatever it is called, I do not pay mind—I am quite aware of the mention it made of you and your suitor, Mr. Bridgerton, on the past week." she said tinged with concern. She sat on the nearest couch and motioned I join her by sitting beside. "Amazingly, it has blown over. You know how the ton moves from one gossip to another but I couldn't not help but wonder how you are doing."

"Grandmama, how did you really know?" I moved towards her, the weight of last week's events pressing heavily upon me. Her calm demeanor offered a comforting invitation to discuss what I wished to forget but could not.

"Ah, Deborah told me. Our servants talk, you know."

"This is all part of the courting, isn't it? The season is not yet concluded, yet none of the other suitors compare to the connection I feel with Benedict, Grandmama." Some steamy connection by ivy tendrils we have then, I thought.

Her Grace regarded me with a gentle but concerned expression, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience and care. "My dear, courtship is a wondrous journey filled with emotions that can sweep one off their feet. Your connection with Benedict is undoubtedly special, and I can see the joy it brings you." She paused, a hint of sadness touching her eyes. "But remember, my darling, our world can be both beautiful and unforgiving. While love is a treasure, marriage brings not only joy but also stability and the assurance of a secure future."

Her hand gently rested on mine, a gesture of comfort and guidance. "The ton's expectations and the passing of time are relentless. I hope you find someone who cherishes you and our family's legacy as much as Benedict seems to do. Your happiness and our honor depend on it. Unfortunately, we both are all but women."

"Grandmama," I began, my voice almost amiss on what to say, "I know the importance of our family’s legacy, and I am grateful for your guidance. But I can't ignore the small voice within me that longs for something more than just duty."

"Benedict is… admirable, and perhaps he does see you for who you are," Grandmama says softly, her gaze piercing as ever. "But I wonder—can he truly grasp the dreams that live inside you, the ones that defy the walls society builds around us? Or would those dreams wither in a life governed solely by duty and honor?"

With that, she turns toward the door, her graceful movements echoing her own years of mastering the role she now urges me to consider. I watch her, words slipping from my grasp, feeling almost foolish as I stand there in silence. I know her intentions are good; she has always devoted herself to guiding me, preparing me to inherit our family legacy. After all, she is my Grandmama, a Viscountess—and a formidable one at that.

Pausing briefly at the doorway, she casts me one last knowing glance. "Well, then," she says, her voice light yet layered with meaning, "do make haste if you intend to be charmed by any particular prince at tonight’s ball. I daresay the heir to your heart might be waiting… if only you’re brave enough to seize him."

And with that, she sweeps out, leaving me alone with the delicate ache of her words—an ache that lingers as I consider just what I desire beyond the expectations of our world. Her departure stirs something restless within me, a longing that stretches beyond gilded halls and fine silk gowns, reaching for something I cannot quite name.

But I do know this: tonight, at the masquerade ball, I owe a certain prince charming at least one dance, or all the dances of the night.

The carriage rattled gently as it wound its way through the cobblestone streets, its lanterns casting flickering shadows on the elegant facades of London’s finest houses. I leaned back against the plush seat, my gloved hands clutching the sapphire-encrusted mask Grandmama had insisted I wear. Her words lingered in my mind, an intricate web of wisdom and caution.

Was she right? Could Benedict truly grasp the essence of my dreams, the ones that extended far beyond the season’s fleeting amusements and whispered promises?

The thought clung to me like ivy as the carriage slowed, its wheels crunching softly over the gravel of the Bridgerton estate. From the windows, I could see the golden glow spilling from the ballroom’s tall windows, accompanied by the faint strains of music.

“You’ve arrived, milady,” the footman announced as he opened the door. I smoothed the folds of my gown, its deep sapphire fabric shimmering like a calm sea under moonlight, and took his offered hand to step down.

The scene was dazzling, even from the courtyard. Carriages lined the drive, and figures adorned in silks and masks ascended the grand staircase in pairs and clusters. Laughter mingled with anticipation in the crisp night air, and my heartbeat quickened.

I adjusted my mask as I reached the top of the steps, the intricate design both concealing and amplifying my identity. Tonight, I could be someone else, if only for a moment. Someone bold, someone unencumbered by the weight of my family’s legacy.

The footman at the entrance nodded, his white-gloved hand pulling open the door to reveal a world of light and color. The ballroom was alive with movement, the guests spinning like constellations against a backdrop of gilded grandeur. Chandelier crystals glittered like stars, and the scent of roses and honeyed wine lingered in the air.

I stepped inside, my entrance drawing a few curious glances that quickly melted into polite nods. My late arrival had not gone unnoticed, but the anonymity of the masquerade granted me a somewhat reprieve.

Across the room, I spotted Grandmama near the far wall, her crimson gown a beacon amidst the swirling crowd. Her discerning gaze met mine for a brief moment, and though she did not approach, her slight nod spoke volumes. It was a moonlit night, and the crisp air of London's season hummed with anticipation. The Bridgerton estate had outdone itself, hosting a grand masquerade ball to celebrate the close of yet another bustling social season. The manor glared with golden light, spilling from tall windows, and masked guests moved like wraiths of silk and jewels across the polished floors. The air buzzed with murmurs and laughter, and the melodic strains of a string quartet.

As I descended the marble steps into the heart of the ballroom, a hush seemed to ripple through the crowd. It was subtle, a shift in the air that only those attuned to the nuances of the ton would notice. The Season’s Paragon, as they so often called me, had arrived.

I felt the weight of their gazes—curious, admiring, envious—all fixed upon me. The soft rustle of my gown against the polished floor was the only sound I registered amidst the symphony of murmurs and the faint strains of the orchestra. The sapphire hue of my dress, paired with the glittering mask, seemed to catch the light in just the right way, casting a glow that matched the chandeliers above.

Whispers followed me like shadows.

"Is that Lady Y/N?"

"She always knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t she?"

"Late, but worth the wait," another murmured, their voice tinged with awe.

I held my head high, my mask granting me the confidence to ignore the flutter of nerves in my chest. Tonight, I was not just the dutiful granddaughter or the heiress to a noble title—I was a mystery, a dream wrapped in silk and jewels.

At the base of the stairs, a figure stepped forward. His tall frame was unmistakable, his presence commanding despite the anonymity of his own mask. Benedict Bridgerton. His gaze locked onto mine, and I swore the air between us grew warmer, charged with an electricity neither of us could deny.

"Lady Y/N," he greeted, his voice a low timbre that sent a shiver down my spine. He bowed slightly, the movement elegant and deliberate. "Fashionably late, as always. You have the uncanny ability to steal the room’s attention, even when you try not to."

"And yet, Mr. Bridgerton, I find myself wondering if you waited just long enough to see it," I replied, a playful lilt to my tone.

His lips curved into a smile, one that reached his eyes. "You wound me, my lady. Would you deny me the pleasure of the first dance after such a dramatic entrance?"

The orchestra struck up a waltz, the perfect cue for his outstretched hand. I hesitated for only a moment before placing my gloved hand in his. His grip was firm yet gentle, and as he led me to the center of the floor, the crowd parted like waves for us, their murmurs fading into the background.

The music swelled, and we began to move. Benedict’s hand rested lightly at my waist, guiding me effortlessly through the steps. The world around us blurred, the other dancers mere apparitions as our movements synchronized in perfect harmony.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he said softly, his voice low enough for only me to hear.

"I’ve been busy," I replied, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Busy," Benedict repeated, a bitter edge creeping into his tone, though his lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. "I suppose that’s one way to phrase it. But tell me, Lady Y/N, is it the kind of busy that fills your day… or the kind that keeps your heart at bay?"

His words hung in the air between us, the waltz carrying us effortlessly across the floor. His hand on my waist tightened just enough for me to notice, a silent plea he couldn’t quite mask.

"You presume too much," I replied, keeping my voice light and measured, though I refused to meet his gaze directly. The truth there—his yearning, his ache—was too much, and I dared not confront it here, under the eyes of the entire ton.

"You think me a fool," he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek as he leaned in closer under the guise of guiding our dance. "But I see it in your eyes, Lady Y/N. You feel it too. What we shared that night—after the party—it wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t nothing."

The memory of that night rushed back unbidden: the laughter and daring beneath ivy-covered arches, the sharp taste of wine and sweeter whispers in the shadows, his hand brushing mine in a way that left my skin alight with a thrill I hadn’t felt before—or since.

"And what would you have me do, Mr. Bridgerton?" I asked, my voice laced with feigned indifference. "Shout my secrets to the rafters? Proclaim to all that I—," I caught myself, pulling back from the edge of an admission I wasn’t ready to make. Instead, I tilted my head, my lips curving into a soft, disarming smile. "You misunderstand me, sir. Whatever you think you know of me… you do not."

He faltered for a beat, his step out of sync with the music, but quickly recovered. His jaw clenched, and I felt his frustration simmering beneath his otherwise composed exterior.

"You’re wrong," he said after a moment, his voice strained with an emotion I could not name. "I know you better than you think. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself."

The final strains of the waltz swelled, and with it, the tension between us reached its breaking point. As the applause of the crowd erupted, I curtsied, the movement graceful and deliberate, before he could press me further.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Bridgerton," I said, my tone polite but distant, an unspoken barrier erected between us.

"Lady Y/N, wait," he said, reaching out as if to stop me, his voice now raw and almost pleading. "There’s something I must ask you—something I’ve carried since that night…"

But I didn’t give him the chance. "Another time, perhaps," I interjected smoothly, retreating a step with a faint smile. "I find I am in need of some air."

Before he could protest, I turned on my heel and glided toward the terrace doors, the cool promise of the garden beckoning me away from his questions, his gaze, his unrelenting presence.

The night air was crisp against my skin as I stepped into the garden, the distant murmur of the ballroom fading into a hushed symphony of rustling leaves and the gentle trickle of a fountain. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my gloved hands gripping the stone balustrade as I gazed into the moonlit expanse.

The wisterias surrounded me like cascading waves of lavender, their delicate blooms swaying in the cool breeze. I sank onto the bench at the center of the hedge maze, my chest tightening with each unsteady breath. My gloves, damp from the heat of my frustration, slipped from my fingers onto the ground. I didn’t bother picking them up. Instead, I reached for my mask, undoing its clasp with trembling hands, and set it beside me as tears finally spilled over.

I tried to steady myself, inhaling deeply and exhaling shakily, but the ache inside me only seemed to grow stronger. My thoughts swirled, tangled like the vines above me. I couldn’t ignore the pull Benedict had on me any longer, no matter how hard I had tried. It was maddening. Every time I pushed him away, every time I told myself I could avoid him, the universe conspired to prove me wrong.

My heart felt like it might burst from my chest, the weight of it all pressing down on me. How could he stir something in me that I didn’t even understand? It wasn’t fair.

“Y/N.”

I froze, my name a soft plea carried on the night air.

I looked up, startled. Through blurry eyes, I saw him standing there, framed by the moonlight and the wisterias. His expression twisted something deep inside me—concern, longing, and something I couldn’t quite place.

Before I could gather my words, he was in front of me. He knelt down, his hands reaching for mine, but then he did something that undid me completely—he pulled me into his arms.

His warmth enveloped me, and the tears I had fought so hard to control came pouring out. My sobs shook me, muffled against his shoulder, and his arms only tightened around me as if to shield me from the world.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice gentle, yet filled with a quiet strength that seemed to wrap around me like a comforting embrace. “I’m here with you, and I won’t leave you, I promise.”

I clung to him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. For a moment, I allowed myself to rest in his embrace, to feel the steadiness of his heartbeat against mine. But the storm inside me refused to quiet.

I pulled back slightly, enough to look at him. “Could you truly grasp the essence of my dreams, Benedict?” My voice trembled as I spoke. “The ones that extend far beyond the season’s fleeting amusements and whispered promises?”

His brows furrowed, and he looked at me with a tenderness that made my breath hitch. “Tell me,” he said softly. “Let me understand.”

I hesitated, searching his face for any sign of ridicule or dismissal, but all I found was a quiet intensity. Taking a shuddering breath, I let the words spill out.

“I can’t live a life bound by society’s expectations,” I admitted. “I don’t want to be confined to the role of a dutiful wife, expected only to bear heirs and keep a perfect household. That can’t be all there is for me. I need more, Benedict. I want more. I want to be more.”

Tears welled in my eyes again, and I turned my head away, ashamed of the vulnerability I’d just laid bare. “I don’t know if you could ever understand that,” I whispered.

To my surprise, he gently cupped my face, his touch warm and steady as he turned me back to him. His thumb brushed away a tear, and he leaned closer, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my heart stutter.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and sure, “I would never ask you to give up your dreams. Whatever it is you desire, whatever you want to become, I want to be the one who stands beside you, not the one who holds you back.”

I stared at him, his words sinking into the cracks of my guarded heart.

“You are so much more than what society expects,” he continued. “And if that means defying every rule to let the world see you for who you truly are, then I’ll defy them with you. Every step of the way.”

A soft sob escaped me, this one born of something other than despair. I reached up, my hand resting against his cheek, feeling the warmth of him under my touch. “Benedict…” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“I mean it,” he said, leaning into my hand. “Whatever it takes. You’re not alone in this.”

His words hung in the air like a charged current, his eyes never leaving mine as I absorbed the weight of what he was offering. The moonlight bathed him in a soft glow, making him look almost ethereal—yet it was his sincerity that struck me with full force.

“Marry me,” Benedict’s voice was quiet but filled with an urgency that left me breathless. He cupped my face more firmly, his touch tender yet desperate, as if the words had been long buried in his heart, waiting for the right moment.

I blinked, unable to process what I had just heard. "Marry you?" My voice was a whisper, torn between disbelief and an ache I hadn’t known how to name until now.

He nodded, his expression unwavering. “Yes. Marry me, Y/N.”

I took a shaky breath, my chest tightening. "But... Benedict, you don't understand. I—"

He interrupted, his gaze deepening, searching mine for the truth behind my hesitation. "I do understand. More than you think. You are not just a duty, or a responsibility, or a future mother of heirs. You're more than that, and I will show you a life beyond the confines of this society. A life where we are not defined by titles or traditions but by the love we choose to share."

I looked at him, still stunned by his words, his declaration. How could he, the second son of the Bridgerton family, one of the most influential houses in London, be asking me to step away from all that? I was nothing more than a girl with dreams too vast for the world to contain. I couldn't fathom a future where I wasn't bound by duty—duty to my family, to society, to expectations.

“You—You’re not the perfect cut of the ton either,” I whispered, my voice trembling with confusion. “Why would you choose this life? To be tied to someone like me, someone who defies the very order of things?”

Benedict’s lips curled into a small, understanding smile. “Because I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice full of warmth and certainty. “And neither are you, Y/N. But I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I love you, truly. Not because you fit some mold or role society has set for you. I love you for the woman you are—brave, passionate, and unapologetically yourself. More than duty, more than heirs, more than any expectation of this world.”

I stood frozen, my heart thundering in my chest. Could I believe him? Could I step into a world that was not constrained by the suffocating rules of society? A world where Benedict was willing to offer me his love—freely, unconditionally?

He reached out and gently took my hand in his, his thumb tracing over the delicate skin of my wrist as he looked into my eyes, unwavering. “Y/N, marry me. And let me show you a life where we are free to live as we choose. A life where you are more than just a dutiful wife. You are the woman I love. The woman I will fight for.”

Tears welled up in my eyes again, but this time, they were different. They weren’t born of fear or confusion, but of hope, of a possibility I had never dared to imagine. Could I really leave behind everything I had known, everything I had been taught to accept, and walk beside him into a future of our own making?

“Benedict…” I whispered again, my voice trembling with something deeper now—emotion, desire, and the pull of a future that seemed too perfect to be true.

His fingers gently cupped my chin, bringing me closer to him as his lips hovered just above mine. "Marry me, Y/N. I promise you, it will be a life beyond your wildest dreams. A life we build together, without the restrictions of duty, of society’s gaze. I will give you everything I have."

I looked up at him, my heart in my throat. Could I take this leap? Could I trust him with my dreams, with my heart?

For the first time in my life, I felt the weight of all the impossible choices fade, replaced by the pull of a love that felt like freedom.

“Yes,” I whispered, the word slipping from my lips like a prayer. “Yes, I will marry you.”

The moment the words left my mouth, he smiled, his face lighting up with a joy that mirrored my own. He leaned in, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was soft, yet full of promises too vast for words. In that kiss, I felt everything—the weight of the world lifting, the chains of expectation falling away, and the undeniable truth that no matter what the future held, we would face it together, free.

Benedict pulled away slightly, his smile softening as he looked down at me. His thumb brushed against my cheek, wiping away the last of the tears that had slipped from my eyes, leaving a gentle warmth in its wake. I felt as if I had just woken from some long, foggy dream, but his presence anchored me firmly in reality.

“You know,” he said, his voice teasing but still filled with that underlying warmth, “as much as I would love to stay here with you, I’m afraid someone might notice we’ve been gone a little too long.”

I blinked, the seriousness of the moment dissipating like fog in the morning sun. “Oh, goodness. You’re right,” I replied, suddenly feeling aware of the late hour, the whispered chatter inside the ballroom that I knew must be continuing without us. A small laugh escaped my lips, light and almost a bit incredulous. “What would they think of us? Disappearing into the maze in the middle of the night?”

Benedict grinned, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection. “They’d think we were off having some forbidden tryst, of course.” He winked. “And I’m sure some of the older chaperones would have a lot to say about that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it carrying through the night air, easing away the tension that had lingered in my chest. The weight of everything—of dreams, of responsibilities—seemed lighter now, like a distant memory. Benedict had a way of grounding me, of bringing me back to the moment, and this was one of those rare moments when the chaos of the world outside felt far removed from us.

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want to give anyone any ideas,” I said, my lips curving into a playful smile.

Benedict's eyes softened again, his hand brushing against mine. “Of course not,” he said with mock seriousness. “But, truly, before anyone thinks we’ve become completely lost in here, I think it’s time to rejoin the festivities.” He looked around, almost as though the garden itself was a labyrinth of endless possibility, and then returned his gaze to me, his voice low and full of affection. “Though, I’d much rather stay here with you. But duty calls, doesn’t it?”

“Always,” I replied with a mock sigh, suddenly feeling a little lighter. His easy way of handling everything, his ability to turn the most serious of moments into something that didn’t feel so heavy, was something I found myself increasingly drawn to.

He took my hand, guiding me gently to my feet. “Come now, before someone notices we’ve been gone for too long. Let’s slip back inside before anyone becomes too suspicious.”

I nodded, allowing him to pull me along as we made our way out of the maze, the soft scent of wisteria still lingering in the cool night air. As we neared the garden’s edge, the lights from the ballroom grew brighter, and the sounds of laughter and music filled the air once again.

We paused for a moment, standing just beyond the hedge, our hands still intertwined. Benedict turned to me, his smile warm and full of promise.

“You know, the moment we step back in there, I’ll have to return to being that dashing, perfect gentleman everyone expects me to be,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “But right now, in this moment, it’s just us. And that’s all that matters.”

I chuckled softly, squeezing his hand. “Let’s keep it our little secret, shall we? The world inside can wait.”

“Agreed,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now, let’s go before your Grandmama sends someone to find you. I believe she has a particular fondness for making sure you never miss the next waltz.”

I laughed again, a full, genuine sound that felt like music in my own chest. “You know, I think you may be right,” I said. “Let’s not give her any reason to worry about her wayward granddaughter.”

Together, we emerged from the maze, our laughter still echoing softly through the night, as the path ahead opened up into the grand, glittering ballroom. For a moment, it felt as though the world had paused—just for us.

But as we entered the ballroom, the illusion of time caught up with us, and with a final, lingering glance, Benedict let go of my hand, the flickering lights and polished floors once again drawing us back into the well-practiced dance of the ton.

Yet, something had changed. A shift, subtle yet undeniable. For the first time in a long while, I felt as though the masks we wore were no longer just a way to hide our true selves, but perhaps the first step toward revealing something far more real, far more powerful than any of us had known before.

The ballroom was in full swing, the grand chandeliers casting a warm glow over the guests as the music swelled and twirled, just like the dancers on the floor. The air was thick with conversation and laughter, the weight of the evening’s festivities almost palpable. My Grandmama was engaged in lively conversation with the Dowager Viscountess, Lady Violet Bridgerton, as we stood near the drinks table, offering polite nods and smiles to various acquaintances who came and went.

“Lady Y/N, my dear,” Grandmama’s voice broke through the chatter, drawing my attention. “The last dance of the season is fast approaching. You simply must accept a few more dances tonight to close out the evening, and, of course, the season.”

I stifled a sigh, but I knew better than to argue. It was tradition, after all. And though I wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of dancing with every eligible bachelor in the room, I knew it was expected. I gave Grandmama a reassuring smile, nodding in agreement.

“Of course, Grandmama,” I replied, my voice a touch too bright, as though I hadn’t just spent the evening contemplating everything that had transpired between me and Benedict in the hedge maze. “I’ll be sure to take part in the dances. It wouldn’t do to disappoint anyone, would it?”

She chuckled softly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the ballroom as if already measuring the gentlemen who would soon approach. “Good girl. You’re much too proper for your own good, but I do hope you’ll choose a dance partner wisely.” Her eyes flickered briefly over the room, as if weighing her options.

I, however, had already begun to scan my own dance card in my hand, taking it out and glancing at the names already written across the night’s list. As I scanned the page, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, my heart fluttering slightly at the sight.

Benedict. Benedict. Benedict. His name was written on every single line. My gaze lingered on the flowing script, feeling an odd sense of warmth bubble up in my chest. It was both absurd and endearing that he had taken the liberty of filling out my entire card. A few quiet chuckles escaped me as I lifted my gaze to meet his across the ballroom.

As if on cue, Benedict’s eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the entire room seemed to fade away. The crowded dance floor, the lively chatter, the twinkling lights—all of it dissolved, leaving just the two of us locked in a gaze that spoke volumes without a single word being exchanged.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before nodding to me in acknowledgment. I could feel my pulse quicken, and for a moment, the absurdity of the situation—a card entirely filled with his name—seemed to wrap itself around me like a cocoon, softening the edges of everything else.

After a moment, Benedict began to make his way across the room, cutting through the sea of people with an easy confidence that somehow drew every eye. I couldn’t help but smile softly to myself as I watched him approach, his stride purposeful yet somehow still casual.

The ladies, including Grandmama and the Dowager Viscountess, watched him with a certain knowing air, no doubt having seen many a flirtation and polite request for a dance in their time. I could sense their amusement, though they said nothing aloud.

When Benedict reached us, he stopped just in front of me, his eyes flickering down to my dance card before meeting my gaze once more.

“I do believe I’ve taken the liberty of filling in every line of your card for the evening, my lady,” he said, his voice soft but teasing, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was rather hoping you might allow me the honor of the last dance of the night.”

I raised an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching into a smile. “You seem to have been rather ambitious in your choices, Mr. Bridgerton,” I replied, my voice light, though I felt my heart flutter at the prospect of a final dance with him. “But I suppose it’s only fitting, isn’t it? You’ve already danced your way across my card without even asking.”

Benedict laughed softly, a rich sound that filled the space between us. “Well, I couldn’t very well leave it to chance, could I?” he said, his grin widening as he glanced at the amused looks of the other ladies in the group. “So, will you grant me the last dance of the night, Lady Y/N?”

My gaze flickered down to my card again, then back to him. There was no escaping it now, not that I wanted to. His presence, his warmth, had become an undeniable part of the evening, as though fate itself had decided we belonged in each other’s orbit for just a little longer.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, I gave in. “I suppose it’s already been decided,” I said with a teasing smile. “You may have the last dance, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His smile widened at my acceptance, and without missing a beat, he offered me his arm. “Then, it’s a promise.”

I accepted his arm, the weight of the evening and all its emotions fading away in that simple gesture. The music swelled again, the air light and filled with promise. The moment I had been dreading—the end of the season—suddenly didn’t seem so dreadful after all.

The last dance of the night arrived with a soft swell of music, the orchestra’s strings and woodwinds weaving a melody that seemed to capture the very spirit of the evening. Benedict’s hand found mine, steady and warm, as he led me onto the floor, the crowd parting just enough to allow us a space among the final few dancers.

The soft glow of the chandelier above bathed us in golden light, the flickering shadows from the flames reflecting in his eyes. Our steps were fluid, effortless, as though we had danced this same dance a hundred times before, though it was only the second time our bodies had moved together like this. Benedict’s hand rested at the small of my back, his touch gentle but certain, guiding me with a confidence that made me feel as though the world outside the ballroom no longer existed.

I could feel the subtle sway of his movements, the rhythm of his heart beating in time with mine. He didn’t speak, not yet, but there was a quiet understanding between us, a connection that seemed to transcend the formality of the dance and go deeper—into something more personal, more fragile, than anything I had ever known.

As we glided across the floor, I found my breath in rhythm with his, each step carrying me further into the moment, away from the expectations of society, away from the responsibilities of my family, away from the constraints I had long believed I must carry. The dance had become a metaphor for everything I had feared and hoped for—freedom and belonging, duty and desire, all wrapped into a single movement, a single step.

For the briefest moment, I forgot about the future, about the weight of family legacy and expectations. I forgot about the mask I had worn all evening, the one I had placed so carefully on my face. In his presence, there was no need for pretense. It was just him and me, two souls caught in the fleeting moment of something pure.

And yet, even as we danced, my heart fluttered with the memory of the words Benedict had spoken not long before, his proposal hanging between us like an unspoken vow. “Marry me,” he had said, his voice steady but full of emotion. And I, without hesitation, had said yes. It wasn’t a decision made out of duty, but out of something deeper, something undeniable that had been growing between us since that first secret meeting at the party. I knew then that I didn’t just want him—I needed him, just as he seemed to need me.

As the final notes of the music echoed through the room, Benedict pulled me closer, his arms strong and secure around me. We finished the dance with a slow, graceful spin, our eyes locking in a silent promise. The crowd clapped, but the applause felt distant, almost irrelevant. All that mattered in that moment was the quiet between us, the shared understanding, the knowledge that the season had come to an end, but perhaps, this was only the beginning of something far more significant.

When the music stopped, Benedict didn’t immediately release me. Instead, he held me for just a moment longer, his face a mix of affection and determination.

"Until next time," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, my heart racing, but my smile soft, certain. "Until next time."

As the crowd resumed its chatter and the last notes of the orchestra faded, we walked together off the dance floor, our steps in sync, neither of us yet ready to face what lay ahead—but knowing, with the smallest flicker of hope, that whatever the future held, we would meet it side by side.

And so, the evening closed, the final dance of the season over, but the possibilities of what came next lingering in the air like a soft, sweet promise.

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[kirain]

Rook/Emmerich fic Rook/Emmerich fic ROOK/EMMERICH FIC!

Lmfao! Here you go, anon.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the scratching of Emmrich's quill against parchment. His study was dimly lit, the warm glow of candlelight dancing across his cluttered desk, laden with books, maps, and papers detailing plans too dangerous to speak of. Though nothing was more dangerous than the journey he was about to embark on, the reality of death pervading his mind.

With a dejected sigh, he dipped his quill one last time, the ink glistening as he signed his name with a flourish.

"Darling!" he called as Vae entered, her cerulean eyes grabbed his attention. "I'm just finishing reviewing my bequeathments. It made me consider… a topic I must broach." He stood to face her, nervously rubbing his hands. "The eve before we kill a god, my thoughts turn to mortality. And what we are to each other."

Vae tilted her head, her smile laced with curiosity. "All right."

Emmrich paused, his expression uncertain, as though balancing on the edge of a precipice. "Even under the best circumstances, you will outlive me, Rook. You've… grown to mean much to me and… I care for you, Rook! Deeply. But there are such years between us, I shouldn't heap you with that burden."

Her smile faded, replaced by something softer, more sincere. "I get it. You're scared because you love me."

"What?" His voice faltered, betraying his usual composure. He could sense she was teasing him, despite the gravity of his insinuation.

"It's fine to say it," she pushed, searching for something he wasn't ready to give.

"I can't… at my—"

"You're older than me. I get it." Her words were firm but devoid of judgment, though Emmrich still thought she was joking.

"I'm perfectly serious," he replied, his tone heavy with exasperation.

"So am I!" she snapped back, her patience slipping. "Why are you making this such a big deal?"

"One of us has to pay attention to these things," he countered, his words coming out sharper than intended.

"One of us needs the guts to say how he feels!" Vae's voice rang out, rousing and raw. There was no anger in it—just frustration born from longing.

Emmrich froze, his eyes widening, a flicker of shock breaking through his unflappable facade. For a moment, it seemed as though he had something to add; some rehearsed reply teetering on the edge of his lips. But then, as if overwhelmed by Vae's very presence, he looked away, his shoulders sinking.

The silence that followed stretched on for far too long, thick and uncomfortable. Vae stared at him, willing him to speak, to mend the gap he'd suddenly torn between them. She could feel her pulse quicken, her anger rising with every second that passed without a response, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

His refusal to meet her gaze, to give her the acknowledgment she so desperately craved, stung more than the words he hadn't said. But soon her anger crumbled into something worse—disappointment. She could feel it welling up inside her, making her chest clench against her ribs as the realisation settled: he wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to do anything.

A sharp ache pierced her wounded heart, but she couldn't force him to speak, and she didn't want to. Slowly, she let her arms drop to her sides. "Look, I... let's pack. Eve before we face a god, right?"

The older man straightened up. He wanted to apologise, but amidst his creeping guilt all he could muster was, "As you say."

The look on Vae's face mounted his guilt tenfold. He could see the hurt in her eyes, much to his dismay. He caused it, and for that he'd never forgive himself.

As she turned away, he lowered his head in shame, every nerve ablaze. He knew he should say something, but for once his extensive vocabulary failed. So many words, so many meanings, and yet none seemed sufficient. Fear, degradation, the weight of his deepest insecurities, and the thought that Vae would one day have to mourn him, alone and heartbroken, chipped away at his sensitive soul.

He kept quiet, even as his inner voice screamed for her to stay. Only Manfred's inquisitive hiss jolted him from his stupor, earning him a rare look of reproach.

"Don't start," he grumbled, his eyes drifting back to Vae.

The further she moved, the more every instinct screeched at him to call out, to bring her back, to make things right. But the words stuck in his throat, his feet rooted to the spot. He could taste the cowardice in his hesitation, and the helplessness of watching her saunter away, but he convinced himself it was better. For her, it was better. His desires didn't matter.

"Actually... no," she whispered, stopping just shy of the door. "No, we're not leaving it like this."

He flinched as she marched back to him, her expression indomitable. "Rook?"

She raised a respectful hand. "Emmrich, do you really think I never considered your age?"

His fingers twitched. "I..."

"Because I did. Of course I did."

"Darling—"

"My parents were murdered, Emmrich. Right in front of me", she said quickly, causing him to wince. "My poor, sweet baby brother, too." She looked away, her brow arching. "I watched them die. I watched..." Tears prickled at the back of her eyes, but she swallowed loudly, forcing them down.

"Oh, Vaelyn..." Emmrich struggled. He reached out to comfort her, but thought better of it, worried she'd recoil in disgust. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you relive that awful memory."

She shook her head, meeting his gaze once more. "I know what it's like to love someone and lose them long before you should. But I've chosen to face that pain again... because it's worth it. You're worth it, Emmrich." Her words were like a physical blow, but she wasn't finished. "Not having you in my life, not because of the inevitable, but because you're too scared to share the time you have... hurts more than I can bear. Worse than losing you naturally."

Emmrich stood speechless, struck by the depth of her confession. He knew there was nothing he could say to undo the pain he'd caused her, but Vae wasn't looking for an apology. She was telling him what she needed, what she wanted. The truth.

"If you think you're the only one tortured by the concept of time," she added, her voice faint, "you're wrong. I think about my brother every day. About the time he lost. He was so much younger than me, Emmrich. So full of life he deserved to live." She took a breath, a brief respite. "But I also think about the time we had together, and that makes me smile. I'm glad I had him, for however short or long it was." Her eyes softened, and she reached out to touch his arm. "If you care about me, then stop hiding behind your age. Because you're right—we don't have forever. We only have the here and now, but that's enough for me."

Emmrich remained silent, his heart pounding like a drum. His thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions, more wild and unpredictable than he'd ever allowed. He hadn't known the full weight of what she carried—the profound, unstoppable pain. Yet there she was, choosing him despite it all.

The guilt he felt for holding back, for trying to reject her in the coldest way, washed over him like a ruinous flood. And in the quiet aftermath of her words, there was a part of him that felt something shift; a crack in the armour he'd built for himself.

Suddenly, before Vae could react, he pulled her into a tight, penitent hug. His arms wrapped around her with a force that conveyed everything he hadn't been able to say, his face burying itself in her lush, floral-scented hair.

"I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I've been such a fool. I never wanted to hurt you. Never." He squeezed tighter, as if trying to make up for the rift he'd thrust between them.

At first, Vae didn't respond, her body stiff in his embrace, but being held with such genuine remorse, his arms trembling with self-condemnation, shattered her resolve. The fight swiftly left her mind, her hands riding up his back as she melted against him.

"Emmrich..."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice hoarse. "You were right, I was scared. Unfathomably scared."

Vae shook her head, clinging to his shirt in an attempt to soothe him. "Don't apologise for being scared. Just... don't shut me out. Please."

"I won't," he said, his bare hand moving to cradle her head. "I won't shut you out. Not again. I promise."

[criminally-chill]

In good hands

——————————

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x reader

Category: Fluff

Trigger: Talks about an injury and needles

Chapter One: The First Stitch

The fluorescent lights of the ER cast a harsh, clinical glow over the bustling scene, but Emily Prentiss barely noticed. Years in the BAU had made her accustomed to hospital settings; an ER visit every so often was practically part of the job. Tonight, a suspect’s wild swing had left her with a cut on her forehead. It wasn’t serious, but her head was starting to throb, and she was hoping to get stitched up quickly so she could go home and decompress.

“Agent Prentiss?” a nurse called from the hallway.

Emily looked up, hand still pressed to her forehead, and followed the nurse to a curtained-off bay in the back. She perched on the edge of the exam table, legs dangling, waiting for the doctor. A few moments later, the curtain swept back, and in stepped someone unexpected.

The doctor before her was tall and muscular, with tattooed arms visible even under the loose fit of her scrubs. Her eyes held a quiet intensity, softened by a slight smirk as she reviewed Emily’s chart.

“You’re Emily Prentiss?” she asked, glancing up with a glint of curiosity.

“That’s me,” Emily replied, tilting her head slightly. “And you are?”

“Y/N L/N. Trauma surgeon.” Y/N raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter as she took in the chart details. “So, the BAU, huh?”

Emily gave a short nod. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile. “Behavioral Analysis? That sounds intense. I’m just here to stitch you up, but… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get profiled while we’re at it?”

Emily chuckled, picking up on the doctor’s playful tone. “Consider it a free perk.” She leaned in slightly, half in jest. “If you’re not careful, I might have you all figured out by the end of this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Y/N replied, grabbing antiseptic from the counter. She moved closer, tilting Emily’s chin slightly as she examined the cut. “Looks like a straightforward job,” she murmured, preparing to clean the area. “But it’s on your forehead, so I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t scar.”

Emily barely felt the sting of the antiseptic. Her focus had shifted to the steady, practiced way Y/N moved—her hands careful, her eyes alert. Close up, Emily noticed faint scars beneath Y/N’s collar, one particularly prominent scar peeking just above the neckline of her scrubs. Instinctively, Emily’s gaze softened, sensing a story hidden in those scars.

“Hold still,” Y/N said gently, meeting her eyes for a moment before lifting a syringe. “This will numb the area. Just a small pinch.”

Emily barely flinched as Y/N worked with quick precision, injecting the anesthetic in small increments. Her fingers brushed lightly along the edges of Emily’s cut, and Emily couldn’t help but notice the quiet strength in her hands—hands that spoke of experience, both in the ER and beyond.

“So,” Y/N began as she threaded the suture needle, her voice light. “Rough night?”

Emily chuckled, feeling the slight pull of her skin as Y/N started her first stitch. “You could say that. Just your average takedown.”

Y/N nodded, eyes fixed on her work. “The things people get up to these days…” She glanced up briefly, meeting Emily’s gaze with a wry smile. “Guess that’s why we’re both here at midnight, doing what we do.”

A beat of silence passed between them, charged with a quiet understanding. Y/N’s focus returned to the wound, her hands steady, her brow furrowed slightly as she worked with meticulous care. Her closeness, her calm, drew Emily in, and for a moment, the chaos of her day faded.

Y/N’s fingers gently tilted Emily’s chin to catch the right angle. “Almost done,” she murmured. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah,” Emily replied, her voice softer than usual. “Better than expected.”

Y/N glanced up, eyebrows raised, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “High praise.”

They shared a small laugh before Y/N finished the last stitch, tying it off with a practiced hand. She reached for a bandage, gently pressing it over the stitches with a tenderness that surprised Emily.

“There we go,” Y/N said, leaning back slightly to admire her work. “You’re all set.”

Emily touched the edge of the bandage with a wry grin. “It’s a good look.”

“Oh, definitely,” Y/N replied, her voice low, playful. She set her supplies aside, and their eyes met again, lingering just a little too long for it to be merely professional.

Y/N started to close Emily’s chart but seemed to hesitate. “Look, I don’t know if this is too forward, but… I’d like to know more about what you do. The cases, the team you work with. It sounds like a life few people would understand.”

Emily’s lips curved into a grin. “Are you saying you might be interested in a little after-hours profiling session?”

“Maybe,” Y/N replied, meeting her gaze with a mischievous glint. “Or maybe something less work-related. You know… if you’d want to go out sometime.”

Emily’s heart skipped, but she masked it quickly. “I’d like that.”

Y/N hesitated, smiling with a rueful glance. “Except there’s this little hospital policy about dating patients. Something about ethics, boundaries—all that fun stuff.”

Emily’s face fell, but Y/N’s smile only widened as she wrote a few final notes in Emily’s file.

“But once I discharge you,” Y/N said, closing the chart with a wink, “feel free to ask again.”

Emily’s pulse quickened, and she gave Y/N a lingering look as she stood. “Noted, Dr. L/N.”

Y/N smirked, not missing a beat. “See you around, Agent Prentiss.” She gestured to the door, pausing just long enough to catch Emily’s eye one last time.

A few minutes later, as she was officially discharged, Emily made her way out of the ER. But just before she left, she heard a voice call her name from down the hall.

Turning, she saw Y/N leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, the smallest smirk on her face.

“So,” Y/N said, cocking her head. “Feel free to ask again now.”

Emily couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across her face. “Dr. L/N, would you like to go out with me?”

Y/N’s smile softened, her eyes sparkling. “I’d love to.”

They exchanged numbers, and as Emily left the hospital, she felt a strange, unexpected warmth settling over her. She didn’t know what to expect from this mysterious, tattooed surgeon with the quick wit and quiet strength, but she knew she was looking forward to finding out.

As she drove through the quiet streets, Emily’s thoughts circled back to Y/N. There was an unusual excitement coursing through her, a feeling she hadn’t expected from such a simple encounter. It wasn’t just the attraction, though that was certainly there. It was the comfort, the ease she’d felt with Y/N—a rare thing in Emily’s world.

She parked her car and took a moment to sit in the silence, her mind drifting back to the feel of Y/N’s hands as she stitched up her forehead. The gentle confidence, the way she’d looked at Emily, not with caution or curiosity but with a kind of familiarity, like she’d already understood the scars that ran deeper than skin.

As she climbed out of her car, her phone buzzed.

“Hey, Agent Prentiss, don’t forget to take it easy tonight. Can’t have you back here so soon. – Y/N”

Emily chuckled, typing back before she even knew what she wanted to say. “No promises, but I’ll do my best. Looking forward to that drink.”

After she sent it, she pocketed her phone, feeling a rare lightness in her chest. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

title: in a feud with her neighbor

bonus scenes now available

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 5621

summary:

Five times you think Joel Miller is the worst neighbor ever, and the one time he isn’t.

author’s note: this is so self-indulgent. i hope you guys enjoy it! if you like this work, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment because they make my day 💕

special thanks to the angels who helped with ideas: @dreamingofdaddydin @jksprincess10 @mydailyhyperfixations @funnygirlthatgab

additional warnings/tags: explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), explicit language, no use of y/n, story contains visual graphics, everyone pretend the 12 ft skeleton was available in 2003 and you could stream TV shows, no sarah, no outbreak, neighbor feuds, enemies to lovers, oral (explicit f receiving, non-explicit m receiving), semi-public sex, making out in a pool, reader is a menace and arguably the bad neighbor here, unprotected p in v, use of sex toys, praise kink, pet names, dirty talk. let me know if any are missing!

Joel Miller is the worst neighbor ever. 

Your issues with him started on your first Halloween in the neighborhood. You had moved into your new home a few months prior, thrilled that you finally managed to escape the horrors of apartment living. You were now the proud owner of a little single story two bedroom craftsman style home, complete with fenced in backyard and a pool. 

You loved your little house and the neighborhood was ideal, quiet but tight knit. The neighbor to your left, an elderly woman named Betty, had invited you over for tea and cookies and given you the lowdown on the neighborhood gossip.

The neighbor to your right, Joel Miller, she said, was a wonderful man. Polite, kind, and not too hard on the eyes either. You hadn’t met him yet, but with a glowing review like that, you couldn’t wait until you did.

She had also mentioned that the neighborhood goes all out for Halloween. They even hosted a contest for the best decorated house. Your mind already raced with the possibilities.

You loved Halloween. In Texas, the stifling heat finally eased around that time, dropping to a slightly more tolerable range in the 80s with cooler nights. You loved seeing all the displays in the stores and how abandoned storefronts would be overtaken by whole companies dedicated to Halloween. You watched all the horror movies you could and on the weekends you’d seek out local fall festivals because you’re a sucker for candy apples and funnel cake.

No one ever decorated at the apartment complex you previously lived in, so you were extra excited to decorate your house and yard. You bought fake tombstones and plastic skeletons for the yard, spider webs and little ghosts to hang in the trees. You carved two pumpkins to set on either side of the steps leading up to your front door and made little ghost statues out of tomato cages, foam balls, and white fabric. You even strung purple lights through your hedges. 

You were totally going to win the decorating contest. You were confident that you would.

Until you woke up Halloween morning and Joel Miller had somehow decorated his entire home in the time that you had been sleeping, blissfully unaware.

The man had somehow managed to set up an entire army of skeletons, including a handmade wooden jail stuffed with ones trying to escape. There were some posed on the house itself, climbing up the sides and the roof. He had some coming out of the ground, red spotlights fixed on them for an eerie glow. But perhaps most impressive of all was the twelve foot skeleton with glowing red eyes that was posed near the makeshift jail, holding the door open like it was releasing the trapped undead soldiers.

Joel Miller had the motherfucking twelve foot skeleton. You wanted one of those so bad but it was always sold out. You checked every nearby Home Depot for months trying to find one and here Joel Miller has one, taunting you.

He won the decorating contest, sweeping the victory from right under your feet.

It may seem silly, but that was the moment you decided Joel Miller was the worst neighbor ever.

When you were buying your first home, you had been meticulous in calculating your finances in order to comfortably afford the purchase. You did not, however, account for having to repair your air conditioning system within less than a year of moving in. This made a significant dent in your savings, which led you to cut your expenses elsewhere.

One such expense was your internet. Why? Because it turns out Joel Miller, asshole neighbor, doesn’t password protect his router and you can just use his.

It’s not like he would notice.

_________________

Joel stares at his internet bill in confusion. This is the third month in a row that he’s been charged for going over his data allowance. That doesn’t even make sense. He’s the only person in his house and he only uses the internet on his phone to check the news and sometimes play Candy Crush. It’s why he got the lowest data plan in the first place.

He tries to think of what he could be doing differently, but comes up short. Hell, he’s not even home most of the day. He works long hours at different contracting jobs, so his free time is spent watching TV (cable, not connected to the internet), and sleeping.

But then it hits him. The overage charges never happened until you moved in. 

Joel powers up his ancient laptop and has to Google search what a router is. Turns out, he doesn’t have a password set on his. Which means, if his hunch is correct, you’ve just had free access to his internet this whole time.

He learns how to set a password and, more importantly, he learns how to change the name of his router. 

He needs to send a message, after all.

_________________

You’re about to start another episode of Grey’s Anatomy, courtesy of your friend generously sharing her Netflix password, when you receive an error message. 

No internet connectivity. Try again?

The little WiFi connection icon is missing from your toolbar. You investigate further, opening the list of options and scanning them for Joel’s, conveniently titled Miller.

But instead you find a new name.

GetYourOwnWiFi. And it’s password protected.

“Son of a bitch,” you hiss.

Joel Miller’s tree is always dropping debris in your yard. The limbs have grown over your shared fence line and on windy days you have to deal with extra pool clean up on top of the usual mess it makes of your yard, twigs and leaves ruining your perfectly manicured backyard oasis. 

You’ve asked him to trim the branches. Left him notes on his door and in his mailbox, but he still hasn’t done it.

Today you’re sending a new kind of message.

He’s going to wish he’d listened when you asked nicely. 

_________________

“What the fuck,” Joel growls when he gets home just after sunset. There’s piles of leaves and twigs littering his front porch, almost to the point that he can’t see the concrete slab beneath. 

There’s no way this just happened through the force of nature. It’s been a perfectly clear day in Austin and besides, there’s no trees at the front of his house for this kind of mess to fall from.

Which can only mean…

His eyes spot the bright pink Post-It note stuck to his door and he curses under his breath as he stomps up the porch steps and rips it down.

Here. Clean your own mess up for once. 

xoxo

Joel crumbles the note in his fist, taking deep breaths as he heads for the garage to grab a broom and a trash bag.

He’ll get you back.

He always does. 

You love animals, especially cats. Unfortunately, being allergic, you don’t have the option to have one of your own all the time. 

When you spot the first neighborhood stray, your heart lights up with excitement. It’s a little black and white cat with bright green eyes that walks right up to you while you’re getting your mail, winding its lithe body between your legs and purring against you. You stoop to pet it, mentally reminding yourself to wash your hands before you touch your face, otherwise your eyes would be itchy for hours.

“Hello, little baby,” you murmur, rubbing a hand down the length of its back. “How are you?” The cat gives a strong meow in response. “Oh, are you hungry? Let’s go see if I have anything I can give you as a treat.”

Back inside your house, you locate a can of tuna and dump it into a small plastic bowl. The cat sits patiently on the porch, tail flicking in anticipation. It hops down and shoves its little face into the bowl as soon as it’s within reach. 

“So cute,” you say, giving it one last pat on its back before returning inside.

_________________

There’s a cat sitting on Joel’s porch, watching him as he parks his truck. It’s the second time this week there’s been a cat lurking around his property. The first one he found out in the backyard, tearing up his flower beds.

The neighborhood had never had an issue with cats before, so he has a sneaking suspicion that you’re, once again, the root cause of his suffering. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he sees you on the porch one day, laying out a row of plastic bowls filled with what he assumes is cat food. At first he’s annoyed that he’s right, it is you feeding the cats, which is why they’ve been terrorizing his yard, but then you turn around and he’s struck by how utterly gorgeous you are. 

This is the first time Joel’s ever actually seen you. He’s usually out of the house before dawn and back after sunset, which must not coincide with your schedule since you’ve never run into each other. He remembers Betty, the older woman who lives to your left, telling him about meeting you.

“Gorgeous girl, that one. You two would probably hit it off,” she said as he hung a picture frame for her.

“Don’t go playin’ matchmaker, Betty,” he replied. 

But damn, seeing you now in a pair of little shorts that hug your hips and ass just right and a tight white t-shirt that shows off the tiniest bit of skin above the waist of your shorts is making him think he should have taken Betty up on her word.

Joel’s so distracted that he almost misses the way the cat on his porch hits one of his planters with his paw, knocking the ceramic over and spilling dirt all over the ground.

“Fuck!”

_________________

There’s a note on your door the next morning, a torn piece of paper with a familiar scrawl of messy handwriting that could only belong to one person.

Stop feeding the cats or you owe me new plants.

-Joel

The note actually makes you giggle. Betty sees you on your porch and beckons you over to hers.

“What’s got you gigglin’ like a schoolgirl?” The older woman asks.

“What? Nothing,” you reply too quickly.

“Wouldn’t happen to be a note from a certain tall, strong, and handsome young neighbor of yours?”

“No, definitely not.” 

She smirks at you. “You better quit terrorizin’ that poor man, honey.”

“Now, Betty, where would the fun be in that?” You say brightly as you head back to your house, the sound of her laughter following you through the door. 

There’s a package on Joel’s porch when he gets home from work. He doesn’t remember ordering anything, but he wouldn’t put it past himself.

He brings it inside without thinking twice or checking the label, chucking it on the counter with the rest of his mail as he searches for a box cutter in his junk drawer.

Joel cuts through the packing tape, lifting the flaps and rifling through the packing paper to pull out the contents.

It’s another box, light pink with the image of a hot pink u-shaped device on the top. The text across the top reads REMOTE VIBRATOR in black script.

He nearly drops the box in surprise, fumbling it in his hands. He’s certain he didn’t order this. 

Joel pulls the shipping box back towards him, keeping an eye on the vibrator like it might grow legs and run away. He flips the lid over to inspect the shipping label, his eyebrows rising as he reads your name and home address instead of his.

He looks at the toy again, mind whirling with images of you on your back, remote in hand as you bring yourself pleasure. He coughs, clearing his head and adjusts himself in his jeans.

He searches the junk drawer for a sheet of paper and a pen.

_________________

You’re staring at the delivery confirmation email from Lovelies, panic creeping down your spine. It says that your new toy has been delivered but there’s no package in your mailbox or on your porch. You’ve checked everywhere.

Which means it was either delivered to one of your neighbors or someone stole it.

If you’re being honest, you’d rather someone stole it than to have to go knock on Betty or, god forbid, Joel’s door to ask if they accidentally received your sex toy delivery. Your cheeks heat at even the thought of Joel knowing what you ordered. You head back inside empty handed.

Later, when you open your door to feed the cats, you’re surprised to find a box on your welcome mat. You set the bowls of food down and carry it inside, your excitement mounting. 

But when you open the box, you’re mortified to find a torn piece of paper on top of the packing material, Joel Miller’s familiar handwriting on the sheet.

Interesting choice

-Joel

“Fucking asshole,” you mumble, crumbling the note and tossing it to the side. You pull your new toy from its box and turn it on. “Huh. Fully charged.”

Your jerk of a neighbor won’t ruin your night if this little gadget has anything to say about it.

It’s Joel’s one day to sleep in and you’ve been blasting your music all fucking morning. He’s already got his head shoved under his pillow but the sound still filters through, ruining his chances of any extra hours of sleep to make up for his lack of it during the week.

He rolls out of bed with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand across his beard. He heads downstairs to make coffee, the heavy beat of your music chasing him through the house. He can feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes.

Joel tries to tune it out. Really. He does. As much as the two of you butt heads, he doesn’t mean anything by it, not really. He doesn’t want to be an asshole, nor is he trying to be one. 

But if you don’t turn your music down soon he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

He gives you another hour. He’s feeling generous. But when the music just keeps playing, he finally snaps. 

Joel shoves his feet into the work boots beside the door, paying little mind to the fact that he’s not wearing socks. In fact, he’s still in his sleep pants and ratty old t-shirt but he’s too far gone to care.

Once he’s in front of your door, he bangs on the wood with his fists. He waits for a response and when he doesn’t get one, probably since you can’t fucking hear him, he bangs again. There’s movement from the corner of his eye and he turns his head to find Betty watching him, lips tilted in a smirk.

“You okay with this?” Joel asks, gesturing vaguely to your house to indicate the noise level inside. 

“Don’t be such a party pooper,” she replies before shuffling inside. He turns back to the door to pummel it with his fists again but he’s surprised to find it open.

“Howdy, neighbor,” you say, eyebrow raised and arms crossed beneath your breasts.

Which were currently covered by the tiniest bikini top he’s ever seen. His eyes trail lower, over the expanse of your stomach to the matching bikini bottoms that peek out past the folded waist of your denim shorts.

“Uh,” he says, followed by a strained cough. “Hi.”

_________________

Joel Miller is standing on your porch dressed in a threadbare t-shirt and gray pajama bottoms that sit low on his hips, a strip of soft tan belly peeking out from above the waistband when he stretches an arm up to run his fingers through his dark, messy curls.

Christ, you think. The man is prettier than Betty gave him credit for.

“Can I help you?” You ask. His eyes snap from where they’d been lingering on your chest and you straighten your back just the slightest bit at the knowledge he’d been checking you out. 

Joel clears his throat. “Your music is way too loud.”

You roll your eyes. “Does it hurt?”

“Does…what hurt?”

“Always having a stick up your ass.” 

Betty barks a laugh from her porch and Joel’s head turns so fast you have whiplash just watching him. He throws his hands up.

“Who’s side are you on, Betty?!” He shouts. 

You’re bent over, laughing so hard your stomach hurts and tears form at the corners of your eyes. When you finally catch your breath and return your attention to Joel, he’s got his hands on his hips and an impressive furrow between his brows.

“Listen, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I’m about to go out by the pool and have a drink. Wanna join?” You ask. 

“I don’t have my suit with me.”

“Well good thing you’re just right next door, huh? Go get it. I’ll leave the door unlocked,” you tell him before shutting the door in his face.

_________________

Joel returns to your house thirty minutes later, showered and wearing his swim trunks and a new t-shirt. He wipes his sweaty hands against his chest, not entirely sure why he’s nervous. He’s just having a drink with his annoying neighbor to hash out all the issues. No big deal.

Your music is still playing when he enters your house, giving the door a courtesy knock before letting himself in. The front door opens directly into the main living space, a large sectional couch facing a TV mounted between two windows to his right and a dining nook to his left. Your kitchen is nestled in the corner, just past an opening to a hallway that he assumes leads to the bedrooms. Your place is bursting with colors and textures and patterns, from the floral blanket draped over your velvet couch to the leaf patterned wallpaper and natural stone backsplash in your kitchen. You have tea towels hanging from your stove that say “ANOTHER ONE BITES THE CRUST” with a picture of a pizza, and an impressive looking bar cart that houses a variety of liquor bottles and glassware.

There’s a splash from outside and Joel sees that the sliding glass door to your patio is open. He steps onto the concrete deck, surveying the backyard oasis you’ve created for yourself. The pool is on the smaller side but still, it’s a pool, and Joel’s a little jealous of it. You’ve got chaise loungers lined near the edge and matching chairs that surround a little fire pit further out in the yard. There’s string lights hung from the shade canopy that extends from your house. 

You pop up from beneath the surface, your hair slicked back from your face and little droplets of water clinging to your skin. Joel stands there, unsure of what to do, until you swim to the ledge closest to him and drape your arms over it, regarding him with keen eyes.

“Hi,” you say. He swallows, the nerves returning as he tries desperately to not let his gaze fall below your neck.

“Hey,” he replies. 

“There’s beer in the cooler. Grab me one?” You ask before ducking back beneath the surface. He can see you swim towards the edge of the pool that the loungers face. He grabs two beers as instructed, popping the tops with the bottle opener fixed to the lid of the cooler. You break the surface once more, swimming over to where he sits on the end of one loungers.

Joel passes you the beer and you tip it towards him in thanks before taking a deep pull, your lips wrapped around the lip of the bottle and distracting him monumentally. 

“So, you’re the Joel Miller, huh?” You ask. “Tell me about yourself.”

The two of you talk for what feels like ages. He learns that you’re a software engineer and you work a typical 9-5 schedule, which is why he’s never caught you around the neighborhood before. You don’t like to be outdoors much, preferring reading and catching up on your Netflix shows. You have two brothers, both of whom are older than you and live on the opposite side of the country, but you visit them around Christmas. You love animals, but have major allergies so you settle for fleeting moments with the neighborhood strays and occasionally watching your best friend’s dog when she goes out of town. 

He tells you about his work as a contractor, which he’s been doing since he was fresh out of high school and had no idea what to do with his life. He talks about his brother Tommy, how they work together on most projects and they want to start their own contracting business, but that’s a dream for another day. He mentions he’s more of a dog person than a cat person, especially because he has a grudge against the orange neighborhood cat that is still tearing up his flowerbeds. 

Joel loves the way you laugh, bright and full bodied as you toss your head back and bring a hand to your chest each time. You talk with your hands a lot, which is funny because you keep letting go of the pool ledge and scrambling to grab it again when gravity pulls you down in the water. If he doesn’t give enough detail in an answer, you’re not shy about asking him for more information, like when he said his favorite color was blue.

“Okay, but what shade of blue?” You asked.

“Just…blue?” Joel asked, clearly not understanding your question.

You rolled your eyes. “Men. I like lavender. Not just purple. Purple is a range of shades.”

“I guess…navy?”

“Now you’re getting somewhere, big guy!”

The conversation lulls as you share your drinks in companionable silence. The Texas sun bears down on his back, his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his sweat slick skin. He bites the bullet and reaches behind his head to tug the damp fabric off, leaving him in just his swim trunks. He doesn’t miss the appreciative once-over you give him.

You extend a hand to him. “Help me out?””

Joel grasps your hand in his, marveling for a moment how small it is in his broad palm. He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t notice the michievous look on your face, or the way you plant your feet to the pool wall for leverage.

You give a sharp tug with both hands and he goes toppling into the pool with a surprised shout.

_________________

You’re laughing so hard you can barely catch your breath. The look on Joel’s face as you tugged him into the pool will be burned into your memory for years to come. You’d been waiting all afternoon for the man to take his shirt off, not only because you were admittedly dying to see what was hiding beneath the fabric, but also because you wanted exact a little neighborly revenge for stomping over to your house to tell you your music was too loud.

You’re feeling mighty accomplished, right up until you feel a hand wrap around your ankle and you get pulled beneath the surface with no warning. 

You open your eyes, chlorine stinging them as you see Joel torpedo towards the shallow end of the pool. You give chase, breaking the surface with a gasp.

“You asshole–”

Joel cuts you off by wrapping an arm around your waist, tugging you close and tipping his head down to capture your lips with his. He kisses like a man starved and he tastes like sunshine and chlorine and the beer he’d been drinking as his tongue slides hungrily against yours. He uses his arm to press your body to his, but it’s not close enough.

You wrap your arms around his neck and lift your legs to circle his waist, your center grinding against his rapidly hardening length. Joel trails his hands up and down your back, stopping to grab rough handfuls of your ass as he groans against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he curses. “This little fuckin’ bikini has been torturin’ me all day.”

“Why don’t you just take it off then?” You offer. He pulls back to watch your face as his fingers find the strings of your bottoms beneath the water, giving both sides a quick tug until you feel the material fall away. His hand creeps up your back, pulling at the strings holding your top together around your back and neck until they, too, fall away.

Joel walks the two of you forward until your back collides with the rough stone of the pool wall.  He presses a muscular thigh between your legs, boxing you in with his body. Your hips jerk at the sudden pressure and friction against your bare pussy, a moan slipping from your lips as Joel presses kisses to your jaw and neck, nipping the delicate skin with his teeth.

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin, the deep timbre of his voice making a shiver dance down your spine despite the Texas heat. “Those sounds are just for me, isn’t that right?”

You nod your head quickly and he rewards you with another toe curling kiss. Your hips rock against his thigh and he swallows every little whimper as his hands explore your body.

“Joel,” you whine. His fingers pinch and pull your nipples before he soothes them with sweet circles of his calloused thumb.

“What’s the matter, baby?” He asks. One of his hands slides across your thigh and your breath hitches as he brings it dangerously close to your pussy before trailing it back down. “You need somethin’?”

“Need you to touch me.”

“That right? You want me to take care of that pretty little pussy?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “Please.”

“So polite. Where’s all that attitude from earlier, hm?” Joel asks, sarcasm dripping from every word. You narrow your eyes at him.

“I can be rude, Miller. You want that instead?”

“Trust me, I know, but I think I like you better when you’re beggin’ for me,” he replies with a grin. 

Joel’s hands grab onto your waist and he hoists you up onto the ledge. His broad shoulders press against the back of your thighs and his arms drape across your hips. He smiles at you, mouth tauntingly close to where you’re desperate for relief. You lean back on your elbows, the concrete warm against your bare skin and the sun washing over you.

“How about you show me those nice manners one more time?” He asks. 

You grit your teeth. “Joel, I swear to god I will go inside and lock you out–”

Your threats are cut off by your startled moan as he licks through your folds, broad swipes of his tongue from your fluttering entrance to your aching clit. His sweet brown eyes are sinful as he looks up at you from between your thighs, devouring your pussy like his last meal. His nose rubs against your clit each time his tongue dips inside of you and you’re quickly reduced to a writhing mess.

You shift your weight to one arm and reach down with the other to tangle your fingers into his hair. He moans appreciatively against your cunt, the vibrations making you keen. When your hips start to fight against his hold, his lips wrap around your clit, sucking and rolling it with his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, just like that,” you babble, trying to keep your voice down as you balance right on the edge of your orgasm. He hums again, tongue swirling over your clit until that final thread snaps and you free fall into oblivion, fingers curling tightly against his scalp and making him groan as he works you through your release.

Your limbs go boneless in the aftermath and you collapse against the ground, an arm over your eyes to block out the sun. You hear the sound of water sloshing before Joel lays beside you on his back, arms beneath his head. He turns to look at you, his bright smile making your heart flutter in your chest. 

And when he extends an arm out for you to snuggle up against him, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Joel Miller isn’t such a bad neighbor after all.

“What do you mean you thought I was the asshole?!” Joel asks indignantly as he leaves your bathroom. He’s got a towel held up around his waist and you’re finding it hard to concentrate on his words at this exact moment.

You’ve just finished showering together after your outdoor activities, where you returned his poolside favor with some attention of your own. Now, you’re laying on the bed in your own towel, tired from the sun and the sex. 

You’ve also just admitted that you thought he was the worst neighbor. An asshole even. And now he’s looking at you like you’re insane.

“You stole my internet!” He exclaims. 

“You can’t prove that,” you reply, maybe a bit too quickly. He raises an eyebrow at you, but you refuse to back down.

“Fine, but you put all those twigs and shit on my porch.”

“They were from your tree, I was simply…returning your property.”

“And the cats?” He crosses his arms. “Because of you, my flowerbeds look like shit and I’ve lost two planters.”

“Not my fault they can sense you’re the weak link. They’re asserting their dominance. Hiss at them or something,” you say with a shrug.

Joel gapes at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Look, it’s water under the bridge now, right? What can I do to make it up to you?”

He’s silent for a moment before a mischievous grin spreads across his face.

“Where’s that toy you bought, sweetheart?”

_________________

Joel’s got you on your back, your wireless vibrator placed snugly inside of your and against your clit. You’re glaring at him because he’s stopped you from another orgasm. He’s quickly becoming obsessed with that fire in your eyes and the curl of your lip when you’re mad at him.

He presses a trail of kisses from your ankle to the inside of your thighs, nipping the sensitive skin close to your pussy just to hear you gasp. He continues across your abdomen and your breasts, stopping to lavish attention to each sensitive nipple, your back arching against him for more.

“Joel,” you whine, squirming beneath him. He stretches up to capture your lips in a kiss, your lips dragging across his in the most addicting way. His cock slides against the smooth skin of your hip, making him groan. With a flick of his thumb, he turns the toy back on. “Oh, fuck!”

“Want you to come for me this time, baby,” Joel tells you. “Then I want you to come all over my cock, okay?”

You nod, back bowing and muscles straining as your writhe against the vibrations. Joel sits back on his heels to watch you, the way your mouth is dropped open in a silent shout and how your eyes find his at the exact moment you start to come undone.

“Oh my god,” you pant as Joel swiftly removes the toy, the pink silicone shiny with your release. He tosses it to the side and presses his cock to your fluttering hole, sinking inside of you with a deep groan. Your walls are still clenching with the aftershocks of your orgasm as he begins to thrust, slow and deep.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he growls. He uses a hand to press one of your knees closer to your chest, his fingers wrapped tightly beneath your knee. 

The change in angle gets him deeper and his pace grows faster in response to your moans. He can feel you start to pulse around him, each drag of his cock out of your cunt getting harder as your walls squeeze, desperately trying to keep him inside. 

“Touch yourself,” Joel commands. “Wanna see you come for me again, pretty girl, come on.”

Your fingers find your clit, swirling through the mess of slick coating your folds. Your eyes are glued to him as you work yourself to the same rhythm of his thrusts. He knows you’re close when your eyes start to flutter, your head dropping back against the mattress and your thighs going tight against his hips.

“That’s it, good fuckin’ girl, just like that,” he growls as you come with a shout of his name. “Christ, you look so damn good.”

You blink at him, your eyes hazy and your smile languid as he chases his own release, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. When it gets to be too much, too close, he withdraws, fisting his cock with rough strokes until he comes in thick splashes against your belly.

He collapses on the bed beside you, both of your chests heaving with deep breaths. After a moment, he uses one of the towels to wipe you clean, tossing it to the floor. You glare at him. 

“You better put that in the hamper later,” you admonish. He pulls you into his side. 

“So, why exactly did you think I was an asshole neighbor?” He asks. To his surprise, you blush, mumbling something he can’t make out. “What?”

“I said because you beat me at the Halloween decorating contest.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. You have the twelve foot skeleton and I’m jealous.”

“I’ll get you as many skeletons as you want,” Joel laughs. You smile at him.

“Sounds good to me, big guy.”

_________________

The following Halloween, there are two twelve foot skeletons in the neighborhood, and they live right next door to each other.

Joel Miller taglist: 

@huffle-punk @johnwatsn @hopelessromantic727  @whereasport @pedr0swh0r3 @yellingloudly @dragon-of-winterfelll @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @mydailyhyperfixations @liati2000 @ghostofjoharvelle @cutesyscreenname @morgaussy @letsgroovetonighttt @endlessthxxghts @fake-bleach @brilliantopposite187 @mattmurdock1021 @str84pedro @justsomeoneovertherainbow @loquaciousferret @milly-louise @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @kirsteng42 @caatheeriinee07 @eternallyvenus @midnightswithdearkatytspb @evyiione @leeeesahhh @tloubarbie @afterglowsb-tch13 @loveliestofthoughts @theviewfromtheritz @brittmb115 @uncassettodiricordi @pedritosgfreal @adriennemichelle98 @mxtokko @gingersince97 @switchbladedreamz @casa-boiardi @tonysterco @rvjaa @ladymunson @sexpoisoned @trisaratops-mcgee @decemberdolly @spookyemorockbabe @reader-without-a-story @katmoonz @simping-soldat @mswarriorbabe80 @orphanbird95 @shatteredbaby @tusk89 @gingersince97 @mssbridgerton @internetobsessed1234-blog @sloanexx @manazo @bigboiseason123 @bean-is-reading @darlingpedro @silkiers @pascals-cat @bbyanarchist @therealcap @pedrosgrogu @dreamingofdaddydin

Want more Joel Miller? Check out my masterlist.

[artsninspo]

Richmond Inc.

♠ summary: Terry Richmond is your boss, and the illustrious CEO of the worlds best and most elusive private security firm. Only he didn't get to where he is now by being nice. As attractive as your boss is, you find it difficult to swoon for the green eyes giant when he is perpetually unpleasant and demanding.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Black Reader

♠ word-count: ~1.1 K

You look away from the light eyed adonis not wanting to get glamoured by his green eyes. Your coworkers swoon and you wonder how it’s possible for them to forget his chronic dissatisfaction and scathing temper. Running a tight ship is the understatement of the century. The former military man sure acts like he’s still on assignment. If it was up to you the last place you’d be is under his smug gaze as he details what's gone both wrong and right about the last assignment. He has no business being as mean as he is. His size alone is grounds for him to be more cautious and gentle with his employees. with. Anyone who’s as tall as he is with a body built for combat should always be careful to be considerate.

“Y/N” his baritone voice calls drawing you from your thoughts.. Looking up your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments. You consider quitting in an instant bracing for him to rip you apart for some infraction.

“Sir?” You respond.

“Great work, the logistics were perfect” he says and it’s high praise coming from someone who rarely acknowledges great work with praise”. Eyes dart away from him to you and you force a casual smile.

“Just doing my job” you nod hoping he moves on. The debrief continues and you recognize the clamouring to impress him and for his attention. It’s not in you to placate anyone least of all a man that’s so stern all the time. Looking at the clock your body settles knowing relief is soon. For all the boss’ faults punctuality and timeliness isn’t one of them. His phone alarm sounds signalling the end of the meeting and you stand first. Your male colleagues stand too but a couple of your female colleagues take their time. 

“Y/N I’d like to see you in my office in five” he says.

“Ok” you respond heading to the bathroom first. When you’ve relieved yourself of your nerves you look in the mirror and practice a detached but engaged expression. When you fail to convince yourself of the contrived demeanour you sigh silencing your phone and making a mental note to find a new job. Grabbing your tablet for work you enter his state of the art office with seconds to spare. His eyes shift rom the clock to you and he holds out his arm signalling for you to take a seat. You oblige.

“How are you?” He asks.

“Fine and you?” You ask not missing a beat.

He nods, smiling slightly. “Good” Impatience flares in your expression and his smile deepens as he looks down at the paper on his desk. It’s an odd sight to see him smile for anyone other than clients.

“Your reviews are stellar. Both your team and directors have glowing reviews for you. Your end of year compensation will reflect that” he says and your excitement flares.

“I do my best” you respond in acknowledgement.

“There will be a vacancy in the director slot and everyone tells me you’re good with people. Are you interested in being on the ground?” He asks.

“No” you don’t even have to think about it. It’s most of your colleagues' dreams. To rub elbows with the who’s who of the world in need of private security. A few of your former female director colleagues are now kept women to filthy rich businessmen.

“No?” He seems surprised.

“No thank you.” You correct, not wanting to draw his ire. His thick brows furrow as he looks at you confused. You only manage it seconds before looking away. He sits back in his chair and you look anywhere but his eyes.

“Would you prefer another position?” He asks but all directors work closely with him. Even from your office you’ve heard him ripping into them on several occasions for mistakes. Director means his personal pawn. It means two am pick up times and calls at all hours of the day and night. Family strain and inconsistency for everyone who isn’t the job. It means he has full control over you, your decisions, company, medical history, romantic partners and every other significantly private thing.

“I’m quite content where I am now” you respond honestly.

“Is it the compensation? If it’s unsatisfactory there is room for negotiations” He explains but  you don’t think there could ever be a number to justify what that position would do to your nerves.

“I can do my job well enough now. My confidence in my abilities isn’t the same for a director position. I can’t commit to more hours or the sporadic demands. Nor am I interested in the travel aspect. My hours now with occasional overtime is what I can manage. I don’t ever want to underdeliver and I know I would as a director” you lie and his skepticism is proof he’s not buying it, at least not fully. 

“I can think of few things more compelling for a young woman than international travel with every luxury” he says.

“You’re the furthest thing from a young woman” you mutter, speaking out of turn. Thankfully his eyes light and he seems more amused than annoyed. He reaches for his glasses taking a file from the folder organizer on his desk. He swipes his clearance fob over it and light flashes into his eye before the file opens. The way his muscles contract for the simplest gestures is sinful. He studies the papers flipping through them and then looks back up at you.

“Is it the dog?” He asks, revealing he’s looking into your file.

“Pardon me?”

“Your dog, is that why you don’t want to travel or take on the promotion?” He asks. You’re the reason. You think to yourself, but it's hardly an appropriate response. “Or has something changed in your personal life?” He pries acting like it’s within his authority. 

“I have nothing I want to flag or discuss” you respond succinctly. Mr. Richmond nods and removes his glasses before putting the paper back into its folder, locking it and setting it back into the organizer. His notifications sound and he checks his luxury watch. He’s so fucking fine. You swallow knowing he’s probably the worst with women.

“You’re free to go” he says dismissively, back to his asshole ways. 

“Good day” you respond but it seems to make him flinch slightly.

“Good day” he responds and you leave.

Author's note: i'm trying to be better about hoarding drafts. So here's a little Aaron fic for the girls 🖤 how do we feel about mean terry? don't forget to ❣ Like, ❝ Comment, ↺ Reblog ☑vote on the polls

tags: @meadows5 @wnbweasley @becauseimher @ariiaeltheedonn @woahthatshitfat @miniaturehideoutmentality @kokobells @ffenthusiastt @sowhatariyana @1xtral1983 @theegoddessofmelanin @fictionalreads @roxytheimmortal @fairytale07 @rampsen @rosey1981 @lauraaan182 @lynaye1993

[luxthestrange]

WHB Incorrect quotes#70 Greatest's Dad in all the realms-

What I truly want to happen...It's a Batlle Royale Between Solomon...Vs Mr.Kim...On the one hand, we got our...Ances-terror who is really into the idea of Mc/You having a Father-Daughter relationship...and then there is Mr.Kim who took care of Mc/You since day one of the orphanage...and totally doesn't already consider Mc his daughter, cuz he ships it M&M(McXMinhyeok)...Wow, Mc you got two dads-

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mc*Is in need of help...from dealing with demons,Angels and needs guidence*...

Solomon:

Haha

Looks like you could use some help From the big king of kings himself Check out daddy's glowing reviews on Yelp~ (Five stars! Flawless! Greater than great!) Oh, with the punch of a pentagram I wap-bam-boom, alakazam Usually, I charge a sacrificial lamb But you get the family rate (thanks dad!)

Mc*Smiles awkwardly and nods*Thanks Solomon!...

Solomon:

Who needs a busboy, now that you've got the chef? (wow) Michelin-tasting menu, free à la carte I'll rig the game for you because I'm the ref Champagne fountains, caviar mountains, that's just a start!-

Mr.Kim*Pushes Solomon away and twirls You around in a silly dance*

Who's been here since day one? Who's been faithful as a nun? Who makes you chuckle with an old-timey pun? Your responible guardian?

Mc*Smiles wider and nods*That's true!

Mr.Kim:

I'm your guy, your day-to-day Your chum, your steadfast Guardian Remember when I fixed that clog today?

Ppyong*Sniffles and hugs Mr.Kim*I was stuck, thank you sir!

Mc*Looks at him with chuckle*Oh you!

Mr.Kim:

I'm truly honored that we've built such a bond~

Mc: aww

Mr.Kim:

You're like the daughter that I wish that I had~

Solomon*Looking at the two, sweat dropping*...uh, what?

Mr.Kim*Brings you in for a hug and pats your head fatherly like,smirking at Solomon*

I care for you, just like a daughter I spawned~

Solo:hold on now!

Mr.Kim

It's a little funny, you could almost call me dad!~

The two face one another with different facts they know about you: your first tooth lost,your favorite food, baby pictures. The Demon Kings just stare back and forth to the madness as you stand between the two men.

Mr.Kim

They say, when you're looking for assistance It's smart to pick the path of least resistance

Solomon: Others say, that in your needy hour There's no substitute for pure summoner power! Who just happens to also be your blood!

Mr.Kim Sadly, there are times a birth family member is a dud They say the family you choose is better~

Solo: what a bunch of losers...

Mr.Kim: Can you butt out of my song?

Solo: Your song? I started this!

Mr.Kim: I'm singing it, I'll finish it!

Solo*Veins popping and grabs the man by his collar* Oh, you tacky piece of–

Before the two men can get into a fistfight, the door opens, and...a strange man with a bird mask, top hat, and a cane appears

Crowley:

It's me, yes, it's me I know you were all waiting for me I'm here, what a gas Took a while, but I'm present at last It's me, it's me CROWLEEEEEEEEEEY!

Mr:Kim:....Who?

Crowley*Looks around,back away out the door*...Whoopsie wrong fandom and wrong mc~...pardon me~

[myfairstarlight]

An Ode to Friends to Lovers - Colin and Penelope's story

Fine, I give in.

As someone who considers themself more of a casual viewer (as in, I've never engaged in the fandom before), I went into this new season with mild interest. And then I fell down the rabbit hole. I should have suspected it though, Friends to Lovers is a trope I affectionate particularly when it comes to romance, unfortunately one I very rarely think is done well. So I was still skeptical going in.

But by God, did they deliver on that front and I need to break it down and talk about it. So I guess this is my review of Bridgerton s3, part 1.

Under the cut though, because this is gonna be a long one (seriously, this is a warning).

I don't particularly think Bridgerton is a complex show, and one can argue all day about whether it is even good (in my eyes, as long as it's entertaining, I don't care if a show is "good"), however, the number of takes I've seen online not understanding basic story-telling worries me a bit.

Don't get me wrong, I agree this first half has pacing issues but I do not think Penelope's and Colin's love story suffered that much, it did not feel rushed to me since we already knew these characters for two whole seasons (and I maintain Colin has always had more depths than what people pretend he does, it seems like, just like the ton, viewers like to overlook him and just characterise him as naive).

And I guess this long ass post was born in the process. So:

Part One: Penelope's glow up

Yes I'm starting by looking at them individually first. I think this post on reddit sums it up so perfectly. I get we're all joking about how unrealistic it is that no man was ever interested in Penelope despite how she looks like an absolute goddess (and I maintain she was the cutest in both previous seasons as well!) - unfortunately it is realistic. That's the reality of bullying, it doesn't get solved by a glow up. Even her association with the Bridgertons through Eloise and Colin did not lessen the bullying, so without them? Even the prettiest dresses would not have changed the ton's perception of her, and she's still the awkward, anxious girl she's always been, and unfortunately, most of these men are not attracted to that. It's not satisfying, she doesn't get her triumphant revenge on a society that always ostracised her - and I think it's important that she does not. That she accepts it. She should not have to change for a ton that will not change for the better either. And it's a lesson she learns quickly - someone will love her for who she is, pretending will only lead to misery. And, it is when she's being herself that she successfully gets the interest of some gentlemen (shout out to Lord Remington! I was so hoping we would be seeing more of him on top of Debling. He's such a Whistledown fan I thought that even after the whole lesson reveal scandal he would have stuck to call on Penelope the next day to gossip together, it would have been cute but I guess he too wanted to avoid being written about) (also I'm just saying in fics he should be the one considered as a proper other suitor for Pen since they seemed to have a genuine connection, meanwhile Debling was really searching for practicality).

The thing I wanna add to that post is this: despite all that, she decided to change her looks for herself. When I first learned of the plot of this season, Colin helping her find a husband, I was scared it would mean Colin would be the one to tell her to have a makeover. It doesn't happen. Sure, Penelope subconsciously requests for a more Parisian style for her new dresses because it is the last place Colin went to, but by that point she has already given up on him. She wants something new, and to feel good in herself. That's how she blooms, by finding a style that she feels comfortable in, finally free from her mother's horrendous tastes. That's what allows her to be more confident as well, the new looks and her motivation to move on from her "unrequited fantasy". As for Colin? He never comments on her change, he compliments her dress (and mind you, that is when he's trying to play up the charm because he knows she's upset with him and he gets humbled, hard) but he never says it looks better on her than what she wore before, he never has a "I never realised how beautiful you were" moment we see a bit too often in friends to lovers stories, because to him she's still his Pen, new dresses, new hairstyles, but the same Pen he's always loved, even if he didn't realise to what extent yet.

But Penelope's confidence... is not quite there yet. Difficult to be, when she's grown up in a loveless home, with horrible sisters, a father who barely cared and a mother who constantly puts her down. Whenever she gets a compliment, her first reaction is "ah, it must be a joke" - that isn't even exclusive to Colin, in the brief interaction between Edwina and Penelope, when Edwina compliments her dress, Penelope also dismisses it. And then, there's Colin, who is always oh so honest with her and does not shy away from praising her. But I'll touch more on that later.

Part Two: Colin's new self.

And then we have the opposite: Colin showing up with a new attitude, and succeeding at it (well, on the surface). Something I haven't seen people bring up a lot though is that he's already tried a new look in s2, and he got mocked for it. The only one who didn't? Penelope. Why didn't he try to emulate being a rake back then? Because Penelope's letters grounded him, he admits it himself. It's seeing himself through Penelope's letters that gave him confidence. But that kind of confidence was not enough in the ton's eyes, and on top of that, between s2 and s3, this time Penelope doesn't write back, and neither do his family. He grows insecure, he's lost the one person who kept him grounded, he thinks his family is annoyed with him, and he still is in search of a purpose, so what does he do? He clings to Anthony's words in s1 after the disaster that was his engagement with Marina: he's too green, time to "fix" that and be more like his big brothers. They got it together, they know their purpose (well, Benedict lost his again but that's a story for another day), so surely, if he acts more like them, and not like the sensitive and naive boy he was, then surely everything will be alright! Right? Note that as opposed to s2, where he kept talking about his travels and it annoyed everyone, in s3 he doesn't go into details about them anymore, even when he's asked. They're only interested in the company he kept during the travels rather than the sights he saw. And honestly, it was heartbreaking to see right away how much of himself he was holding back, even with his own family. Penelope, however, gets the details without even asking because he already knows she likes hearing him talk about them and she makes him comfortable, and he's fully aware of that when he apologises in s3e1.

(I also want to note that, even if this new persona is fake, his new style genuinely fits him better. Just like Penelope, this season Colin found the style that makes him feel good and confident.)

And here's where I need to praise Luke's acting for a bit, because he absolutely nailed the subtle way Colin behaves differently with Penelope vs everyone else. His voice is softer, he is effortlessly charming (I was kicking my feet when he recalled how they met), his smile is bigger, even his whole face looks more relaxed whenever Penelope is around, meanwhile he always appears stiff and like he's calculating his every move when around his "friends". In fact, it is in the carriage scene we finally truly see s1&2's Colin back. When he has that look on his face, as he decides right there and then he's gonna marry her, and then a second later when he asks the question, his face. By God, his eyes are sparkling, he's so happy, and he looks as youthful and carefree as he did in previous seasons, far are the thoughts of trying to fit in a society that he hates.

Because above all, these two know and understand each other in a way no one else in their lives does. And that is a fact that remains despite the outward changes. So yes, I liked that their dynamic did not shift to romance because of their "glow ups", but because they are spending even more time together now. Speaking of which:

Part Three: Authenticity and Vulnerability

One big theme this season is being true to oneself. It's no coincidence mirrors are such a big part of it (even outside of the yet to be seen spicy scene), because looking at a mirror means looking at oneself, and be vulnerable. If s2 was about duty vs heart, eldest siblings trying to do right by their family to the point of self-sabotage, s3 is a battle between the head and the heart. It is not even exclusive to Polin - Eloise is learning and growing by trying to take genuine part in society but struggling to fit in. Cressida wants to become a better person, torn between the pressure put on her shoulders by her parents and this new friendship with Eloise. Benedict is looking for his purpose after learning Anthony paid his way to art school, and feeling like a fraud as an artist. Anthony and Kate are unashamedly in love, as they deserve to be after the struggles they went through last season. Francesca has no care for the suitors the Queen and her mother parade in front of her as the "sparkler" of the season (sidenote but I hated that, stupid name, should have stuck to diamond or select another gem) as her heart seeks out the handsome and quiet John Sterling instead. And this will continue in part 2, as Penelope will have to be honest about Lady Whistledown (because she's always her most authentic self around Colin, there is still this big secret she is so determined to keep to herself, when she should not).

The beauty about friends to lovers stories to me is the small declarations of love sprinkled throughout the relationship. It's about the trust already built in with no expectations and the vulnerability we'd never allow anyone but our closest friends to see, something even our family can be ignorant to. I mentioned earlier that Colin never shies away from praising Penelope, way before their dynamic shifts to lovers. He tells her she's good, constant, loyal, special, warm. All of these are declarations of love, even if not with romantic intent, it's about showing his appreciation for her, for the role she holds in his life. And Penelope responds in kind as well. That is why I believe people who think the romance was rushed in s3 either did not watch the past two seasons or see friendship and romantic love as two distinct things rather than a cohesive continuation of each other. In s1, people focus so much on the Marina stuff, as if that cancels out Colin's friendship with Penelope. We still do see Colin actively seek out Penelope at balls, and defending her against Cressida, he compliments her and tells her she's the one who inspired him to travel. Then s2 rolls in, and they're exchanging letters, which will become the cataclysm for their dynamic changing later on. And then there's one of my favourite scenes with them: them talking about their purpose. They both open up here, Colin about his insecurity, Penelope about her dream, it is so intimate. And then, there's of course Colin protecting the Featheringtons from ruins. I'm mostly emphasising Colin's actions, because Penelope's crush on him was always in your face, and while Colin may not have realised it yet, he's always cared about Penelope in a special way, as manifested by his actions and how vulnerable he allows himself to be around her, when even his own family has no idea about what's going on inside his head.

There's a misconception that Colin calling her his friend was him rejecting her, and yet we see in s3 he had no idea whatsoever that she has a crush on him, so he could not lead her on (unlike his book counterpart, who was aware of Penelope's infatuation and was careful never to toe the line until he realised his feelings. Show Colin though? Completely oblivious. And it makes sense, he's still young.) He asks Violet "how do you know it was reciprocated" and not "how do you know you're in love with your best friend". As of right now at the end of part 1, he genuinely thinks he's the one who fell in love first, or at least realised it first. His "You're Pen, you do not count, you're my friend" in s2, was not a rejection in his eyes, but a declaration of love; he's forsaken love and women but not his Penelope, never her, she's his exception And it's not like Penelope resented him for that friendship he so readily gave her, yes she had a crush, but she was proud to call him her friend! He was, with Eloise, her solace away from her family. At the end of the day, this is a friends to lovers story, it is silly to get upset that they considered themselves friends first before there is a click as they realise they are now on the same page to shift their relationship.

Side note but I've never liked the term "friendzoned" because it makes it sound like being friends is a bad thing. I've had unrequited feelings before but I've always felt grateful that being friends with them allowed me to stay close to them even if I knew nothing else could happen. I was still very much happy and content. But maybe I'm projecting on Penelope and that's another debate.

See, what I ended up loving about the lesson plot, which I was so wary of at first, is that Colin barely teaches Penelope anything. At first, he goes for the "do what society expects women to do" (since it worked for him) but then she acts awkwardly, she can't fake it, and it surprises him for a moment. That's when it clicks for him, she just needs to be comfortable because with him, she's always smart, witty and charming, she's herself. He's always seen her that way, and he did not quite realise he had that privilege in the first place. And I love how we see him slowly realise it is no longer a privilege thanks to his help. We see it in e2. When she talks to the guy with the dead horse (forgot his name, oops), Penelope forces the flirt and Colin is amused by it. Fast forward Penelope approaching Lord Remington by herself, without Colin's initiative, and she's being more authentic, and suddenly Jealous by Nick Jonas plays in the background and Colin doesn't look proud, but apprehensive, or dare I say jealous. The shift in Colin's head happens long before Debling is in the picture. I'd argue it already shifted earlier in that episode, in his study, which he flashbacks to in e4.

His journals detail how unfulfilled he feels when he lays with random women in his travels. He longs for emotional intimacy. And guess with who he finally finds that, when a certain red-head asks the one question that allows them to break the physical barrier they had to keep between them for the sake of propriety?

Ah yes, that first kiss. To Colin, everything has been building up to this, this is his true Oh moment. A favour turned into a revelation. For Penelope, this is quite literally the end of her fantasies. This is Penelope's most vulnerable moment. She bares her heart, she's sad, she's desperate. And some people have been calling that moment pathetic, interpreting it as her being weak and giving in to her crush again, saying that she should not have to beg for that man's affection. I concur that she is brave, and bold. I also concur that some of you all are a bit too attached to the girlboss archetype forgetting that allowing oneself to be vulnerable is also a strength. She's never had to beg for Colin's attention anyway because he readily gives it to her, but in this one instance, for once in her life, she is truly being honest. In her head, she has nothing else to lose, and she wants to experience the one thing she thinks she can never have so of course she's gonna turn to the one person she's always trusted and feels the most comfortable with, because before her crush, Colin is her friend. She's asking a favour from a friend. And then she can move on, whatever "moving on" will turn out to be. In this instance, she has the power in her hands.

And it is her bravery that is the true cataclysm for things to change properly. Of course, things have already started to change the moment she stopped replying to the letters, but that moment really expedited their relationship.

Part Four: Lovers, but in a best friends way

The thing with Bridgerton, in the books or in the show, is that each couple has their trope. This is not news to anyone, I think. We've had fake dating, and enemies to lovers, and one characteristic that these two tropes share is a growing tension between the characters before it snaps. There is a reason the early marketing for s3 focused on Penelope being cold towards Colin, tension and conflict are more appealing on the surface. And then the first half of the season comes out and that conflict between our main couple? Solved after one episode because they did one thing that is severely missing in most romance dramas: communicated healthily. Penelope laid out why she was upset (although she does not stay to let Colin explain and then vents out her feelings in Whistledown... she still has some learning to do), Colin immediately went to apologise and make up for it. All of this by talking. And yet I'd argue friends to lovers still has its own tension, just not to the same intensity as the other two, and more difficult to market. The tension comes from the brewing feelings, the way you start seeing every touch, every interaction, in a whole new light, and wondering if it's only in your head or if it's reciprocated. But now combine that with Colin who's always been so earnest about his feelings with Penelope? And Penelope who's always quietly wanted their relationship to evolve that way? Of course they figured it out quickly and got together in half a season. And I'm delighted that we will see them handle the whole Whistledown mess as a couple, as two people aware they love each other deeply, which gives a whole new meaning to the conflict compared to the book where I felt like it was brushed over a bit too quickly (because they got distracted in that carriage). It is the last secret between them, their last obstacle.

I also do not like the "Colin should have grovelled and pined more" argument, when he is the one who insisted on the lessons to help her find a husband in the first place, and then has to face the fact that actually, he doesn't like the idea of another man taking Penelope away, and oh, isn't that the consequences of his own actions? He is grovelling, you just don't see Penelope holding it over his head, because that's not the person she is, this is not a revenge fantasy story, in fact she does not realise the power she has on him because she is used to Colin seeking her out. I like that he didn't stew on his feelings and decided to act on them right away. I also don't like how this whole grovelling thing makes it sound like love is a competition, that just because Penelope has known she's been in love for longer and "suffered" longer, that means Colin needs to do the same to even the planes. Because in my eyes love isn't exactly something to be earned — it is given. Now, are you worthy to keep it? To nurture it and make it bloom and last? That is the real question.

Admittedly, since this is only the first half of the season, we do not see them in a romantic setting a lot. That first half is focused on them rekindling their friendship lost during the summer when Penelope stopped responding to the letters, and Colin having the realisation he cannot live without his best friend, not just because she is his best friend, but also because he loves her. But we do have two important, and obvious instances.

So let's talk about that first kiss again. It is, in my opinion, one of the most gentle and romantic moments in the show so far and also showcased their friendship really well. Colin trying to joke to lighten the mood as Penelope spirals down (peak best friend behaviour actually), the gentle, swelling music, the light of the moon, Colin's deep exhale of realisation as he holds her face when he goes back in for the second kiss, with the furrowed brows of a man on a mission. This is Penelope's most vulnerable moment and Colin's big realisation. And I felt like I was intruding.

And same goes for that carriage scene, but even before they go at it; now this is Colin's most vulnerable moment, and Penelope's realisation that they can be more. He chases the carriage by foot, then goes on his knees to confess his feelings to his best friend in the softest and most determined voice we've ever heard him use this whole season, eyes wide, tears threatening to fall as it is his turn to bare his heart and ask for a chance. Meanwhile Penelope takes it all in, running her hand through his hair because she can finally touch him, melting under him. Things get steamy. And then... and then... The carriage stops, they get startled, Colin jokes that the driver should have kept on driving and then... they laugh. They just made out, and went to second base together, and yet here they are now, laughing. It is such a genuine and lovely moment. And it's then that Colin has that look in his eyes, that "I'm gonna marry her" look. That is when he realises he cannot live his life without her. That his purpose is now right in front of him: making Penelope Featherington, soon to be Bridgerton, laugh until the end of their lives.

Conclusion

There's no conclusion, I just love them so dearly. Yes, there still is the whole Whistledown mess to deal with and sure, the argument with Eloise may make you think great angst is ahead but if there is one big difference between Colin and Eloise, it is this: Colin has always listened to Penelope, and this is not a diss on Eloise. Eloise, bless her heart, can be pretty self-centred, she's loud and a bit immature, something she is growing from in s3, and you cannot ignore that she did not really listen to Penelope (she has no idea Penelope wishes to marry when Penelope tells her she does in s1, we can blame the writing, but I do think it fits with Eloise's journey to realising how privileged and dismissive she is. Penelope was too polite to call her out until their falling out. Meanwhile Cressida is exactly the type of honesty she needs for a wake up call). Colin, on the other hand, is very sensitive and a good listener. Furthermore, this season, Penelope is learning to be more confident, to voice what she wants, and I like to think it is leading to her finding her own voice and not needing Whistledown to hide behind anymore. If there's someone with whom she has no filters, it is Colin, so I have faith that when the reveal happens and an argument breaks out, this new Penelope will not back down and will lay out all her reasons and all her regrets, and Colin may be stubborn, but he loves that woman and he always listens.

A part of me also wishes they keep the jealousy he felt about her writing in the book, and that they don't focus just on the whole "you lied to me" aspect (we've already had that with Eloise). How he, himself, is insecure about his writing, and here Penelope is, less fortunate than he is, and yet who did have the courage to get her writing out there, even if publishing under another name. Because that is also a reality in relationships, when your partner is at a different stage in their career, and how they can communicate to support one another.

Anyway, I'm just rambling now (as if that isn't what I've been doing this whole time). I like them. A little. Just a bit. I'm very normal about them <3

[spreadyovrwings]

Honey, I Can Feel Your Pain

A late night heart-to-heart before the end of the world. Or, two idiots try to talk about their feelings but they’re both demons and not very good at it.

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: my writing/me trying to navigate a complicated character, i cringe therefore i am

A/N: literally just ignore me lol i wanted to see if i could write Alastor well so this is something of a personal challenge and a warm up for me (and i’m obsessed with him) so hopefully i’ve done him justice. there’ll be a part two if anyone wants one!

//

Chapter One

The door to Alastor’s studio was always locked to everyone but you. You weren’t sure how he did it. He was a complete technophobe, so a hidden camera was out of the question. Perhaps he’d cast some sort of spell or could sense you coming. You weren’t sure. All you knew was that if you needed to see him, and Alastor permitted it, his door was always open.

That night, the radio tower was dark and still, the only sound a slow, jazzy number sent oozing over the city and into people’s homes.

You found Alastor at his sound desk, one long finger poised idly on a bakelite dial, as if debating whether to alter the sound his tower produced. His ever-present smile was fixed in place but his lips were closed, his deep red eyes focused.

You tapped your foot against the floor, once, twice, three times, announcing your presence as gently as you could so as not to disturb him too abruptly. It didn’t matter that Alastor had to let you in in the first place, it always seemed impolite to come barging in.

He didn’t look up as you approached but you could tell you had his attention, and when you put your hand on the back of the chair next to his, a question, he answered with a short nod.

“Are you alright?”

Alastor barely moved, his eyes fixed on the glowing buttons and dials in front of him.

“Fine, fine.”

He spoke faintly, airily, with no hint of static, as if he were lost in thought. You couldn’t help feeling like you’d interrupted a private moment.

“It’s just you’ve been locked away in your room for days now.”

“Hard at work! Nothing more.”

As if to prove a point, Alastor wrapped his long fingers around the dial and adjusted the volume, then slid his fingers along the desk to conjure up the next song.

This tune was a lot more uptempo. It wasn’t like Alastor to be so sloppy, you must really have caught him off-guard.

Alastor seemed to realise his mistake too. He turned to you, leaning back in his chair, exuding a confidence and poise that many envied and few saw through.

“Is there something I can help you with, my dear?”

His attention was yours. Too late to go back now.

“You’ve been quiet ever since Charlie came back from Heaven.”

“Well, I-”

“And you don’t go quiet,” you pressed on, refusing to let him chart the course of your conversion. “So what’s wrong?”

The two halves of his face told two different stories. Alastor’s eyes were fiery and guarded, he didn’t like being questioned but you’d cornered him. Below, his smile stretched his skin. You wondered if it hurt.

“I’ve been reviewing the situation,” he said after a thoughtful pause, every word considered and weighed.

“You’ve missed dinner four nights in a row for that? I made all your favourites to try and entice you down, you know.”

Alastor hummed. He wasn’t listening.

“Do you know, for almost one hundred years, I have lived here quite happily. I’ve carved out a nice little niche for myself. And then the princess started getting bright ideas…”

Alastor’s long fingers danced over the faders again but he didn’t move any of them. It seemed to be the habit of a lifetime. Two lifetimes.

“The angels… Unsettled me. And you’re quite right, I don’t get unsettled. It required meditation.”

“The angels unnerved you?”

“Unsettled. But I suppose there’s not much point arguing over semantics. Either way, the result n’est pas bon, cher.”

“What did they say that unsettled you?”

One of Alastor’s ears flicked in irritation. It was a rare thing for him to give away even that much. It was a particular kind of personal hell, for him to have a body that could betray him so visibly. He could rattle everyone with his big grin, he could even hide pain behind walled eyes, but the attributes given to him, gifted to him, shackled to him, when he fell, weren't so easy to control.

“It’s not quite that simple, my dear. The angels are all bluster and hollow virtues. I care very little about what they have to say, the self-righteous...”

He took a breath.

“But then they halved the time till the next Extermination. It’s of little consequence to me. They’re clever enough to leave me alone most of the time and if any angels do try their luck, well, they’re quietly done away with. Plus, it’s just plain old good sport to watch the show.”

You smiled.

“Might have to disagree with you there, handsome.”

Alastor laughed humourlessly, a dry, sharp sound like a bow pulled roughly against violin strings.

“That’s just it, I might too. The issue is… Now it’s only a few weeks away…”

The song changed. Low, smooth, like sand through an hourglass, a single trumpet groaned into life, filling the room before disintegrating and travelling along the airwaves. Was it a distraction? Was Alastor struggling to hold his focus? Who knew? Maybe not even him.

“Alastor,” You leaned forward in your chair, undeterred by his hesitancy. “What’s wrong?”

His gaze slowly slid to you. The close-mouthed smile was back. It was the closest he ever came, or ever could come, to relaxing his expression completely.

“It usually doesn’t bother me,” Alastor murmured, his words barely audible over crackling static.

You frowned.

“But this time it did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Alastor’s nose wrinkled.

“Because before, I didn’t have you. It was easier. I’ve never relied on anyone or had anyone relying on me. Now there’s the hotel, its inhabitants…”

You remedied the sting with a vacant smile of your own.

“When you say ‘you’, you mean all our friends?”

Alastor shook his head.

“No. No, I was attempting to obfuscate.”

“Oh.”

Alastor stared at you. You stared back. Then, with a clang, the penny dropped.

“Oh!”

“Mm.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Quite.”

You smiled at his sour expression. Your own face was burning but you bravely ignored it.

Your relationship with Alastor had been a nebulous, vague sort of a thing. He was a terrifying colleague to have at the hotel, and at first, you couldn’t be sure why in Hell he was there. He liked to watch others struggle, suffer, and fail miserably, it was all just good entertainment for him. But that couldn’t be all there was behind his sudden interest.

As soon as you figured out that Alastor served himself and himself only, things became a lot clearer, and it was a lot easier to like him. You didn’t have to worry about trusting him, because you couldn’t. You didn’t have to question his motives, you knew they were ill-intentioned and that you were better off not knowing. He liked to pretend he was oh so mysterious, but Alastor was perhaps the most honest person in the hotel.

Mutual respect grew into friendship, into something more. You often went out with Alastor when he required assistance or just wanted some company, and you were always the first person he came to when he got home.

Slowly, incrementally, that trust bloomed. Alastor began to ask for your opinion. You would sit together in companionable silence, reading by the fire long into the night. He didn’t need to ensnare and trick and manipulate you, because you did things for him happily and without question, though within reason.

He was always honest with you, or at least, as honest as he could be without it endangering his own self-preservation. And you respected that. It was a harsh world, you had to look out for yourself, but slowly, so slowly that neither you nor your friends had noticed until it was too late, Alastor had bound his life to yours.

You hadn’t appreciated the depths of that connection. You’d always known you had a soft spot for him, ill-advised as it was, but never in all that remained of your afterlife could you have anticipated a requited affection.

Alastor interlocked his fingers and rested them in his lap, keeping his composure well considering the situation.

“It pains me to think of you in danger.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed quietly.

“Steady now, Alastor. You sure know how to sweep someone off their feet.”

He’d never rolled his eyes at you, he was far too refined for that, but Alastor gave his equivalent, waving an airy hand at you and soldiering on.

“We have always been close, you and I. Right from the start.”

“That’s not how I remember it but…” You smiled. “I like to think of us as a little team.”

He brightened, his pained smile morphing into something a little more authentic.

“Exactly! A team! But what was once companionship and, admittedly, amusement-”

“Do you mean we have fun together or do you mean amusement at my expense?”

Alastor waved his hand again.

“A little of column A, a little of column B.”

“Wonderful.”

“What I mean to say is… My feelings have evolved somewhat.”

In all the time you’d spent with him, you’d never known Alastor to be so hesitant. In fact, you couldn’t remember a time when you’d seen him show any sign of apprehension. His stitched-on smile was still intact but his clawed fingers drummed against the sound desk and his gaze had been lost in safer ground, somewhere over your shoulder.

“Evolved into what?”

Though your heart was thudding in your ears, you didn’t hesitate to push him. You thought one of the reasons Alastor had grown to enjoy your company so much was that you liked to talk, as well as listen. He got bored so easily and he’d always been a chatterbox; you were one of the few people in his life who could match him in that without any sign of fear or an ulterior motive.

Alastor’s ear flicked again. This was a hard conversation for him.

“The Extermination meant nothing to me before. But now, the thought of it…”

You watched his eyes grow unfocused as his imagination consumed him. His fingers stopped drumming. The song on the radio rose by a few decibels.

“Alastor, it’s okay-”

“It frightens me. And it’s not about self-preservation this time. When I consider how our companions may fare…”

“They’ll be okay.”

“What if I can’t protect you?”

Sensing you might need to ease off, take a breath, anything, you leaned in closer, reaching out for him but never, ever touching him without asking first. Instead, you rested your hand beside his on the desk.

“I don’t need protection, Alastor.”

“Still, I want to keep you safe, my darling. There’s a… A sharp tug here…”

He pressed one clawed hand against his empty chest.

“And here…”

He dragged the same hand down to the pit of his lean stomach.

“When I think about you in any kind of danger.”

How did he always manage to be so charming, even when he didn’t mean to be?

You barely held back a pleased smile. Like Alastor’s, it tugged at the corners of your mouth, threatening to spill over into a stupid, happy grin.

He didn’t have the language for what he felt, that was fine. You and Alastor had always found a way to communicate, even without words. He’d told you more with one gesture than you ever could have expected him to say aloud.

But it wasn't just unexpected, it was completely astonishing. You couldn’t let him sense that though, it might make him retreat into himself. So instead, you turned it back around on him, letting Alastor choose how much he wanted to give away.

“What do you think that could be?”

“I have an idea. But I dread to think.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly, and you knew you were on the same page.

It would be difficult for him, far more than it had been for you, to pin down and explore and accept the feelings you had for each other. You hadn’t been able to figure out a better word for whatever it was that fizzled between you, though, like Alastor, you had a sneaking suspicion and it terrified you.

Nothing sounded right. Logically, you knew there were some words that ought to fit, but acknowledging them felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.

You couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be for Alastor to come to terms with it all. So it surprised you when he slid his hand over yours.

It wasn’t the first time you’d touched, he was always holding out his arm for you, patting the top of your head, often even lifting your hand to his lips when he greeted you in the mornings or bade you goodnight. But this wasn’t a fleeting brush of his hand against yours, this was sustained, purposeful contact, and it meant something, to both of you.

Alastor’s gaze still couldn’t meet yours, so he stared at your hands, his close-mouthed smile back in place.

“I’ve grown quite fond of you,” he said quietly, and it was just his voice you could hear, no static, no sound effects, just Alastor.

You smiled.

“I’ve grown quite fond of you too, handsome. I get the same feeling.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

“Oh, well, that’s reassuring, at least.” Alastor finally met your eyes, his head tilted quizzically to one side. “Have you told anyone?”

“What, and admit I’m in love with the Radio Demon? No thanks, I’d never live it down.”

Feedback shot through the room, a grating, warped sound, like someone had held a microphone too close to a speaker. It was hard to tell if the sound emanated from the mixing desk or from Alastor himself, but his scarlet eyes were wide.

His hand tightened over yours, though it was more likely out of surprise than him trying to give you comfort. The tips and edges of his sharp claws dug into your skin, not enough to hurt, but it still made your jaw clench.

Alastor, to his credit, didn’t seem as put off by the admission than you might’ve expected. Maybe he wasn’t surprised by the actual sentiment, just that you’d finally said the words out loud.

You smiled.

With just a week or so left until an Extermination that would surely kill you all, there wasn’t much room left in your damned soul for shyness. It wasn’t an all-out ‘if this is my last chance to say it’ confession. You and Alastor had always appreciated candour, and with so little time left, why not say what you were both thinking?

“Have you spoken about it with anyone?”

Alastor shrugged.

“Well, yes, I’m doing it now.”

“No, I meant someone you can trust. Someone you can talk about your feelings with.”

Alastor watched you blankly.

A second penny dropped.

“Oh.”

You had to resist the urge to shiver under his heavy stare.

“You couldn’t talk to Rosie?”

“I considered it but, bless her heart, my old friend can be a sentimentalist. No, best just to get to the source of the problem.”

“Alastor…”

You huffed, pretending to be insulted, and Alastor’s smile once again looked a little more real. It met his eyes, open, unguarded and calm.

“So, what would you like to do about it?”

“Hmm,” Alastor raised the hand that had covered yours to tap one long finger against his chin. “Any chance you’d let me lock you away in a secret, impenetrable bunker?”

Your smile grew.

“Sorry, honey.”

Alastor tutted.

“I thought as much.”

“Do you have one of those?”

“Hm?”

“A secret, impenetrable bunker.”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out, my dear. You’ll just have to be particularly careful. And perhaps this… Feeling will go away with time.”

You smiled, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“Perhaps it will.”

“When I’m right, I’m right, my darling.”

”That’s not the expression and you know it.”

//

Master List

[hyperfixatedcatlover]

Sunday x Reincarnated Aeon of Beauty! Reader

a one shot to be considered non canon as I still have yet to reach the Penacony quest (that stupid ape in the Loufu is going to drive me insane) so this is all a shot in the dark but I pulled Sunday in my first ten pull and I’m happy!!

The night in Penacony was glittering as always. The city lights below glow as the people indulge themselves with pleasures of the flesh, liquor, gambling, and anything else they can possibly dream of. But you are not looking at the view of your home world.

You look into golden eyes as you sway to a song from the record player in Sunday’s office. There’s paperwork he needs to finish, reports he needs to review but he couldn’t possibly imagine doing those and letting go of you. You are finally safe and warm in his arms, just where you were meant to be.

The atmosphere in the office feels intimate as the childhood friends get what they were robbed of by the authority figures in their life. She had to remain pure and he had to be focused on The Family. But none of that matters now, not when you can hear his heart beat with your ear on his chest and not when he can finally feel your warmth on his body.

The song ends and the record needs to be changed, but you don’t hear it or you don’t care. This moment is too precious to end just yet. So maybe he’ll sing the music to sway to.

[feasibilities]

Office Hours - Dr. Oppenheimer x Graduate Student!Reader (Part 1)

Synopsis: Dr. Oppenheimer begins a torrid affair with his star pupil.

Warnings: Teacher/Student Relationship, Smut, Cheating, Sexism, Dub-Con

Author's Note: I'm writing a lengthy 2nd part to this so enjoy!

On the first day of his graduate quantum physics course, Dr. Oppenheimer was surprised to see a beautiful young woman waiting at the door of his classroom. He was even more surprised by your contributions during class. The dismissals of your all-male classmates when did little to discourage you when you were clearly the apple of his eye. You always made sure to pick the seat closest to the chalkboard. His TA noticed his forlorn disposition on the day you missed class. As a married man, he felt guilty about the giddy way you made him feel. Feeling explorative, you decided to visit his office hours.

“Good afternoon.” You piped, interrupting his grading.

“Hi, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Students aren’t interested in meeting on Friday afternoons.” He said inquisitively.

“Well, I have nothing planned.” You replied, sitting in the chair in front of his desk. He made a quick glance at your cleavage before retrieving your folder from the file cabinet. A perplexed expression formed on his face as he reviewed your assignments.

“You have an A in this course. What do you need help with exactly?” He inquired.

“Can I complete extra credit and make it an A+?” You quipped.

“I don’t give out extra credit.” He said plainly. Growing annoyed with his contrived naïveté, you stood up and kissed him earnestly. You pulled away and scribbled your address on a blank sheet of paper. A dumbfounded Robert was left to watch you walk out of his classroom. 

—

Robert considered trashing the bottle of wine he bought and bolting to his car when he knocked on your front door. Before he could react, you opened the door to reveal your sheer baby pink négligée. The lacy material did little to cover the beauty he daydreamed about. Robert cleared his throat and waited for you to invite him inside. Huffing to yourself, you pulled him inside. 

“You made the time to come here so stop being so damn polite.” You reprimanded.  He handed you the bottle and hung his jacket on the rack.  

“Sit.” You ordered. You poured wine for yourself and patted the couch seat next to you. He followed your direction with a skittish look on his face. 

“What are you so nervous about?” You asked.

“I’ve never met a woman as…forward as you.” He faltered. 

“Mhm.” You hummed, downing the wine in one go. His heartbeat spiked when your hand moved up his thigh. He was embarrassingly hard by this point so there was no reason to deprive himself of a good time. His slender fingers tugged the silk bow of your négligée loose. He planted a gentle kiss right above your collarbone. You undid some of the buttons on his shirt and slid your hand underneath. The warmth of his skin stoked the flames burning in your lower abdomen. You climbed onto his lap and kissed him harshly.

In a daze, you managed to undo his belt. He could barely get his pants down his thighs before you were sheathed on his length. Your breathing synchronized with his as you tried to control yourself. Cradling his head, you bounced slowly and occasionally let out soft mewls. Robert’s arms snaked around you while he buried his face in your bosom. His eyes flickered closed as he took in the redolent scent of your perfume. Speeding up, your skin began to stick to his. You mixed in a rocking motion that stimulated your g-spot.

“Look at me, Robert…” You cooed. His prepossessing blue eyes opened to a similarly enchanting sight. Your hair had become disheveled and a thin layer of sweat made you glow in the soft light of the living room. Your lips were puffy from constant stimulation. Approaching your peak, you pressed your forehead against his as your moans grew louder. His hands found your hips when he felt that he was close as well. You sang his praises as you finished together. 

[auggieblogs]

"I hate Economics"

Charles Leclerc x reader

Author's note: For my beloved @flippingmyshit 🦕💗(sorry it took me so long). The concept is similar to the Max fic I did earlier and now I'm genuinely considering doing this for all the drivers because it's so damn cute shgsbshs. Also a fair warning, I might have projected way too much. Yet again.

Also checkout my other works💌

The room was awash with the soft glow of desk lamps, casting dancing shadows on the scattered economics textbooks and notes. Your brows were furrowed in frustration as you flipped through yet another page, trying to make sense of the seemingly endless stream of concepts and formulas. The upcoming economics exam had you on the edge, your nerves frayed from weeks of studying. You couldn't help but regret choosing this subject, feeling like it was swallowing you whole.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the weight of your anxiety pressed down on you, and you crumbled, sinking to the floor amidst the sea of books. It was at this very moment that the door swung open, and Charles walked in, fresh from the gym, his t-shirt clinging to his lean physique.

He froze in his tracks, concern etching across his face as he saw you in distress. "Amor, what's wrong?" He rushed to your side, kneeling beside you, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek.

The sight of Charles, his eyes filled with worry, was the final straw. You couldn't contain your emotions any longer. Your voice quivered as you confessed, "I'm not smart enough for this, Charles. I can't do it. I hate economics. I regret ever studying it."

Charles enveloped you in his warm embrace, cradling your head against his chest. He let you cry, your tears soaking into his shirt, as he gently stroked your hair. "Shh, it's okay. You're not alone in this. I'm here to help you."

After a few moments, he released you slightly, holding your face in his hands. His eyes locked onto yours, filled with determination. "You can do this, baby. Stop stressing out. I will help you study, and you're going to ace this exam."

With a tender smile, Charles lifted you to your feet and led you to the bathroom, his arms never leaving your side. He filled the bathtub with warm water, adding a few drops of your favourite lavender essential oil for relaxation. You slipped into the bath, the warm water embracing your body like a comforting cocoon. Charles joined you, his strong arms wrapping around you as you leaned back against his chest. The tension in your body began to melt away as he peppered your face with soft kisses, reminding you that you weren't alone in this.

After the bath, you felt rejuvenated, both physically and emotionally. Charles wrapped you in a fluffy towel and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed. He sat beside you, running his fingers through your damp hair.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his eyes filled with concern.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Thanks to you, Charles."

He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips warm and comforting. "That's what I'm here for, mon amour."

You spent the evening studying with Charles by your side. He joined you at your study table, flipping open your textbook and reviewing notes with you. Between explanations, he peppered your face with sweet kisses, making you giggle despite your stress. He even pulled out a set of flashcards, quizzing you on key concepts.

When both of you started to feel hungry, Charles decided to cook pasta, but as you knew all too well, he wasn't the best chef. You both burst into laughter as he managed to burn the pasta, his pouty expression making him even more funny.

"It's okay, Charlie," you chuckled, shaking your head. "Let's just have something else." You settled for sour patch candies and leftover veggie rolls from the previous night, munching on them while you continued to study.

As the hours passed, you felt the exhaustion creeping up on you like a heavy fog. Your eyelids grew heavy, and despite your best efforts to stay awake, your head began to droop. The weight of the textbooks and the stress of the day finally took their toll, and with a gentle thud, your head came to rest on the study table.

Charles, who had been reviewing notes with you, immediately noticed your peaceful slumber. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of you, your face illuminated by the soft glow of the desk lamp. Gently, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch as light as a feather.

He knew you had been working tirelessly, and he admired your dedication. With utmost care, he placed a bookmark in your textbooks, making a mental note of where you left off. He didn't want to disturb your well-deserved rest.

Quietly, he turned off the desk lamp and dimmed the room, leaving only a soft nightlight to illuminate the space. Charles took a moment to watch you sleep, his heart swelling with affection. He couldn't resist leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.