The Kiddos!

Tis the ending i needed

Dastardly Plans

Summary: You plot revenge, Anthony finds it incredibly attractive.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

“Would you be so kind as to help me plot a murder,” You stated as soon as you stepped foot into Anthony’s study.

“I’m sorry but what did you just say my darling wife, I must of misheard you?”

“I need help with planning a murder, do keep up my love. Maybe you were the wrong choice, perhaps I shall approach Eloise instead, she seems a bit more quick witted”

“Don’t you dare. I was just making sure I heard correctly, I never said no. But just out of curiosity who are we killing and why?”

“That silly Miss Connors. Francesca just confided that she’s be coming up to her at every ball saying hurtful remarks. She even had the audacity to step on her gown causing a terrible rip. The wretch is clearly jealous of Franny, and I will have none of it. So I’ve been thinking the best way to get rid of the Miss Connors problem will be to never have to see her face again. Argo murder! Really it’s a two birds one stone situation because it will show the Ton the consequences of messing with the Bridgertons, especially while I’m Viscountess.”

Anthony started at you, his mouth wide open in awe and his eyes shining with desire. Your defence of his siblings was not only endearing but incredibly sexy.

“Honey, you still there. Yes or no to murder, I don’t have all day.”

“Absolutely yes. In fact I know Colin mentioned a substance he came across on the continent which was deadly yet odourless. One drop in the dreadful girls tea and mission accomplished”

“I knew I married you for a reason” you smirked, bringing Anthony in for a kiss.

————

Hope you all enjoyed. Feel free to send through any requests x

Its soooooooo goooooooooddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More Than Honour

Chapter 23: Threadbare Composure

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: They called it dinner. With candlelight and wine and the illusion of civility. But beneath the silver and silk sat something hungrier. A table of secrets. A room of witnesses. A game no one agreed to play— and everyone was losing anyway.

Anthony sat rigidly in his chair, hands folded too tightly over his napkin. Lucien was too quiet. Edwina too radiant. And you—too far away. Still laughing softly at something Hyacinth had said. Still occasionally turning toward Lucien like he was gravity.

Violet had nearly succeeded in shifting conversation toward something neutral—opera seasons, carriage redesigns, the weather in Bath—when Daphne, seated beside her husband, lifted her wine glass and gave her brother a look that could only be described as wicked.

“Well, since we’ve all touched on the subject of Anthony’s impressive... need for control,” she began, smooth as clotted cream, “did you know he once challenged Simon to a duel?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

Gregory gasped audibly.

Hyacinth knocked her spoon into her bowl.

Lady Mary made a startled noise into her wine glass.

Edwina blinked rapidly. “A duel?”

Colin groaned. “Not this story again.”

Colin dropped his spoon. Benedict leaned back, suddenly grinning.

“Oh, absolutely this story again,” Benedict said, leaning in with an almost reverent grin. “I had to physically stop him from marching Simon into the woods like a madman.”

Simon, calm as ever, lifted his glass with a small smile. “He was halfway through threatening my bloodline before Daphne even finished adjusting her hem.”

Anthony shot him a glare. “You laid your hands on my sister—”

“I kissed my fiancée,” Simon corrected, eyes twinkling. “You responded like an unhinged opera villain.”

Lucien, very casually cutting his meat, didn’t even look up. “That explains the dramatics. I did always sense you had a flair for duels, Bridgerton.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “At least I didn’t court my scandals publicly.”

“Oh no,” Lucien murmured, still not looking at him. “You just escorted yours into the woods and declared war.”

A collective snort erupted from Colin, Benedict, and Hyacinth.

You, despite yourself, let out a sharp laugh—and quickly masked it behind your wine.

Anthony’s gaze snapped to you.

You were already composed again. Almost.

“I do recall Daphne mentioning the incident,” you said mildly. “And something about you screaming something dramatic about honor while she was still smoothing her skirts?”

Eloise grinned. “He did. I heard about it from the butler before breakfast.”

Simon chuckled. “I believe his exact words were: ‘This family shall not be disgraced by a Duke with no intentions.’”

Benedict added helpfully, “And then he tripped over a tree root and tried to duel anyway.”

Hyacinth, delighted, leaned forward. “Did you use swords or pistols?”

Anthony, visibly exhausted, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Pistols.”

Lady Danbury, who had been silently sipping her wine through the entire affair, spoke for the first time. “I remember that morning. The ton nearly combusted. You know, if you’d fired a moment earlier, half the gossip circles would have had to rename the Bridgertons entirely.”

Colin mock-gasped. “The Bleedgertons.”

Lucien, shaking with silent laughter, raised his glass. “To duels poorly thought out, and reputations narrowly saved.”

Anthony ignored him, turning to Daphne with something that looked suspiciously like pleading. “You couldn’t have picked any other story?”

Daphne’s smile was sweet. “You chose to escalate. I chose to educate.”

Gregory, still wide-eyed, turned to Simon. “Would you have shot him?”

Simon looked contemplative. “Possibly in the leg. Nothing fatal.”

Lucien finally looked up, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “And would you have apologized, afterward?”

Simon met his gaze evenly. “Depends which leg.”

Even Kate cracked a reluctant laugh at that.

Anthony, thoroughly outnumbered and glaring daggers at everyone, turned to you—his last possible source of dignity.

But you only tilted your head with faux sweetness. “Well. I suppose this means you won’t be proposing a garden stroll tonight.”

Benedict choked on his wine.

Edwina blinked between the two of you, utterly baffled by the dynamic she could not name.

Anthony said nothing.

And Simon—ever the quiet disruptor—leaned back, swirling his drink.

“I’m beginning to enjoy family dinners,” he said.

Lucien, with barely veiled amusement, leaned forward. “So just to be clear…you threatened bodily harm because a man fell for your sister?” His gaze flicked to Anthony, eyes glinting. “Are we sure you have not scheduled my duel yet?”

Anthony stiffened.

You, ever so sweetly, patted Lucien’s arm. “If he has, I will stand between you and the bullet.”

Lucien turned to you with a grin. “Ah, my angel. Always dramatic.”

Colin snorted. “You are one to talk.”

And for the first time since soup had been served, you found yourself laughing out loud—with Lucien beside you, Anthony smoldering across the table, and the entire house two anecdotes away from burning to the ground.

The laughter from Daphne’s duel anecdote still lingered in the air like smoke — sharp, stinging, leaving behind the burnt edge of revelation. Anthony had gone quiet again. Simon had leaned back into his chair, smug and satisfied, while Benedict and Colin wore identical grins that said we’ve waited years to say this out loud.

You had barely touched your wine, fingers tracing the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere past the flickering candlelight in front of you. You weren’t retreating. Not exactly. Just… breathing. Carefully.

Which is why you missed the glint in Eloise’s eye before she spoke.

“So, Lord Blackbourne,” she said, far too casually for anyone to believe she hadn’t planned it. “Why do you call Y/N angel, anyway?”

The fork you were holding paused mid-air.

Eloise continued, elbows unapologetically on the table as she leaned in toward him with narrowed curiosity. “You don’t use her name. Not even in passing. Just… angel. Repeatedly. Sounds intimate.”

Gregory immediately turned, alert. Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled. Colin snorted into his wine. Kate tilted her head.

Anthony… didn’t move.

You felt every eye shift to you—but you didn’t flinch.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

Instead, he set down his glass with a quiet ease, his gaze finding you immediately. Not with a smirk or a laugh. But with something quieter. Something that slowed the beat of your heart.

“When I first said it,” Lucien murmured, his voice like velvet brushing against the grain of the room’s tension, “it was meant as mischief.”

Your breath caught.

“The kind of name you give someone when you’re trying to disarm them,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “Because they’re looking at you like they know your game and won’t play it. Because their smile is lovely, but not soft. Because you say it once and expect it to land lightly.”

He leaned back slightly, almost contemplative now. The room around him faded — for you, and seemingly for him as well.

“But she didn’t flinch when I said it,” he added, softer now. “She didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t fall for the bait. She just… smiled. This quiet, maddening little smile. Like I had no idea how deep I’d just sunk.”

Your throat went tight.

Lucien’s fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, once, before stilling.

“And from that moment on, nothing else fit,” he finished simply. “Not her name. Not miss. Not any title. Just angel. Because she’s never been anything less than my undoing in disguise.”

Silence wrapped around the table, taut and humming.

Hyacinth let out a breathy “oh my God.”

Colin blinked rapidly. “Did anyone else feel that in their spine?”

Daphne pressed a hand over her heart. “Honestly, that might’ve been the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Simon raised a brow at Anthony, who hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white against the silver of his fork, and the muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack.

You still hadn’t said anything.

Lucien turned to you now — just you — and, with the gentlest edge of a grin, added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I stop.”

It wasn’t cocky.

It wasn’t for show.

It was a question. A quiet one.

You didn’t look at anyone else. Just met his gaze and shook your head once, slow. “No. I don’t mind it.”

Lucien smiled.

Across the table, Anthony reached for his glass, slower this time. Measured. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a moment.

The tension still shimmered in the air like heat off stone, delicate and dangerous.

Lucien’s gaze hadn’t left yours. You held it, steady, a breath from something… more.

But Hyacinth, ever the chaos elemental in curls and silk, broke the moment with a sing-song curiosity that cut through the silence like a ribbon:

“But wait—when was the first time you said it?”

You blinked, startled. Across the table, Lucien’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Oh, I remember that,” Colin chimed in, already grinning. “It was that dinner. The one where I lost a bet to Benedict about whether or not Anthony would snap a butter knife in half.”

“I believe the final tally was… two,” Benedict added helpfully. “One bent beyond recognition. One thrown in the general direction of the fireplace.”

“I knew something was missing from the cutlery drawer the next morning,” Violet murmured, sipping her wine with the serene composure of a woman who has seen the apocalypse in cravat form.

Hyacinth leaned across Simon like a spy at court. “It was the night Lord Blackbourne flirted like the house was on fire and Y/N was the only woman worth saving.”

Lady Danbury arched a brow. “Sounds theatrical.”

Daphne chuckled. “It was art.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Simon said, “and I’ve heard the story at least three times. From three different sources. None of which included the same number of wine bottles or swooning incidents.”

“Oh, there was no swooning,” Colin said cheerfully. “Just Anthony pouring enough wine to drown a scandal.”

Anthony, seated across from Lucien and very much present, set down his glass with care. “I do hope the entertainment value outweighs the embellishments.”

“Funny,” Eloise said, swirling her wine, “I don’t remember needing to embellish. Lord Blackbourne served the tension. You roasted in it.”

Hyacinth squealed. “Yes! You were seething, Anthony. You tried so hard to look composed, but your fork nearly pierced the duck.”

Lucien, ever composed, didn’t gloat. Not quite. But the glint in his eye as he turned to you was unmistakable. “If memory serves,” he said softly, “you were the one who started the real fire.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “I might’ve poured the oil. You struck the match.”

Colin snorted. “And the rest of us? Roasted marshmallows.”

Gregory, wide-eyed, stage-whispered, “Didn’t someone say ‘turn about the garden’ and it was basically a marriage proposal in disguise?”

“I asked if she wanted to walk,” Lucien said innocently. “I never said how far.”

Eloise nearly fell off her chair laughing. “And she replied ‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ Like she hadn’t just murdered him in cold blood.”

Hyacinth pointed a dramatic finger across the table. “And then he smirked. Said he never has trouble keeping up. I nearly fainted.”

Daphne’s smile was knowing. “And Anthony—”

“I remember perfectly well,” Anthony cut in, voice low.

Silence descended, taut and immediate.

All eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just looked down at his plate, then up at Lucien. Then—you.

Kate, seated beside Edwina, watched it all. Closely. Like someone reading between lines only a few others could see. Her gaze lingered on Anthony’s tightened jaw. On your hand as it rested a little too still near your wine glass. On Lucien, who—despite all the revelry—wasn’t looking at anyone else but you.

Anthony exhaled, sharp and slow, then turned his attention to Edwina beside him, reaching for the wine to refill her glass.

“I’m afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “my family takes great pleasure in exaggerating past events.”

Edwina smiled, slightly confused. “I don’t remember it being so… theatrical.”

Kate’s brows twitched faintly.

“Exaggerated?” Colin laughed. “Anthony, you were seething. Daphne tried to change the subject and you looked at her like she’d insulted your lineage.”

Benedict grinned. “You were about to quote something dramatic. Then Blackbourne beat you to it. Poetry, wasn’t it?”

Lucien didn’t confirm or deny. But he turned to you, and with that quiet cadence of his, murmured just loud enough:

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”

Your lips parted. Your breath caught.

“…there is a rapture on the lonely shore…”

Hyacinth gasped. “He’s doing it again.”

Anthony reached for his wine.

Kate leaned in, eyes narrowed—sharp, calculating. “That was Byron, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.

Lucien nodded. “Indeed. Quite a favorite of Lord Bridgerton’s, I hear.”

The corners of Kate’s mouth didn’t move, but something shifted behind her gaze. Slowly, she turned toward Anthony.

“Is it?” she asked.

Anthony said nothing.

Daphne leaned into the chaos like it was a chaise lounge. “To be fair, it’s one of the most romantic recitations I’ve ever heard. From either of them.”

Anthony’s fingers gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly.

You felt it.

The pressure.

The attention.

The way Lucien hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even as he dropped words like embers.

The way Kate watched Anthony with rising suspicion.

The way Anthony looked at you like memory was a weight he couldn’t put down.

It was Colin who broke the tension.

“Well,” he said brightly, “if that dinner was a fire, then this one’s at least a slow roast.”

“And dessert hasn’t even arrived,” Eloise added gleefully.

Violet raised a brow at no one in particular. “Then heaven help us when it does.”

Across the table, Lady Danbury spoke again, her voice dry as brandy and twice as strong.

“I cannot believe I missed that dinner.”

Lucien smiled. “I’m sure this one will make up for it.”

He looked at you again. Not with amusement. Not with victory.

But with something quieter.

Like he saw all the cracks in the room—and only wanted to know if he could hold them together.

Anthony, from across the table, saw that look too.

And for now?

He said nothing.

Dessert hadn’t even been announced, yet Violet’s napkin already looked suspiciously like it had been squeezed within an inch of its life.

Which is when Benedict, with the kind of grin only a man too comfortable with fire could wear, leaned into the quiet.

“So,” he said, casually tearing a piece of bread in half. “Now that we’ve revisited the dinner that shall not be named… what say we play a game?”

Colin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh no. Is it time?”

Hyacinth sat up straighter. “I knew I wore the right earrings for scandal.”

Gregory whispered, “This better be the game with secrets.”

“It is,” Eloise said brightly. “And the adults haven’t ruined it yet.”

Lucien raised a brow. “What kind of game are we playing?”

Hyacinth clapped once, delighted. “It’s simple. We take turns going around the table and ask each person to describe the last scandalous thought they had during this meal.”

You blinked. “That’s not simple. That’s social warfare.”

“It’s Bridgerton dinner,” Eloise said. “Same thing.”

Violet opened her mouth—perhaps to object—but paused. Then sighed. “I am going to need a stronger wine.”

Simon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “Shall I begin, or will you, Lord Blackbourne?”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Ladies first.”

Eloise jumped in. “Perfect. I’ll start.” She turned to Simon. “What was the last improper thought you had at this table?”

Simon smirked. “I imagined throwing a bread roll at Anthony when he said ‘embroidered cushion’ with such confidence. Miss Sharma deserves better metaphors.”

The table erupted.

Anthony looked personally wounded.

Edwina blinked in confusion.

Kate nearly snorted her wine.

Lady Danbury murmured, “So do I. Heavens, it was dull.”

Benedict was wheezing. “Throw the whole metaphor out. Start again.”

Simon sat back, sipping his wine with the elegance of a man entirely unbothered.

Lucien grinned. “Well played.”

Colin leaned in next. “My turn.” He turned to you. “Tell us — what were you thinking when Lord Blackbourne quoted poetry to you a few minutes ago?”

You paused — dramatically. Eyes sweeping the table. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous.

“I was wondering,” you said slowly, “whether it’s possible to melt silverware from sheer eye contact alone.”

Hyacinth gasped. “That’s the quote of the evening!”

Lucien leaned in. “You’re welcome to test that theory. Privately.”

Eloise groaned, “God, I hate how good that was.”

Anthony didn’t move. But you saw it.

The shift.

The flex in his jaw. The tight grip around his spoon. The flicker of heat that bloomed in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Kate saw it too. Her gaze narrowed.

You caught Kate watching you again—not with hostility, but precision. Like a seamstress deciding where the thread frays.

You looked away first. That unsettled you more than it should’ve.

“Alright,” Benedict said cheerfully, “my turn. Blackbourne. What scandalous thought crossed your mind during the soup course?”

Lucien, unhurried, locked eyes with you. “That if I were born less decent,” he said quietly, “I would have kissed her, right there, in front of every person here.”

Silence.

Not gasping silence.

Gutted silence.

The kind that trembled on the edge of danger.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smirk.

You reached slowly for your wine glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence stretch long enough to be felt.

Then you smiled.

And the table tilted.

Hyacinth whispered, “I think I forgot how breathing works.”

Daphne, blinking hard, muttered, “Remind me to steal that line.”

Anthony…

Anthony looked like he was about to stand. His knuckles turned white against the table.

And Lucien — the devil wrapped in velvet and candlelight — finally glanced at him.

And smiled.

It was not a taunt. It was a challenge.

Simon leaned in toward Hyacinth. “Did you get that sketch?”

Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Lucien with devil wings. Anthony with smoke coming out of his ears. I’ll add flames.”

Lady Danbury cackled. “I like him.”

Kate, meanwhile, was looking at Anthony.

“Anthony,” Benedict said brightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a room filled with gas, “your turn.”

The words landed like thunder.

Every head turned.

Even Edwina blinked, gently surprised. “Oh, yes—Lord Bridgerton, what has been your most scandalous thought this evening?”

Anthony didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t blink.

Just… stared at the wine in his glass like it had betrayed him for the final time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice calm but low, “about restraint.”

Lucien let out the softest laugh, just enough to draw attention.

Anthony continued, tone measured. “How it’s a virtue. How it separates men from boys.”

Colin raised a brow. “So… nothing scandalous, then?”

Anthony glanced at him. “You’d be surprised what a man has to restrain when people won’t stop provoking him.”

A beat.

Lucien, swirling his wine, looked entirely relaxed. “Some of us provoke without meaning to, Bridgerton. It’s just the hazard of having charm.”

Anthony looked up, sharply.

Lucien didn’t even flinch. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh,” Gregory whispered. “Oh, he’s going to die.”

Eloise leaned forward like she was front row at a play. “Do it again.”

But Kate—Kate—cut across the table like a knife.

“What exactly are we restraining, my lord?”

Everyone turned.

Anthony blinked.

Kate was watching him—not accusing, not angry.

Curious.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Decorum. Diplomacy.”

“Desire?” Lucien offered, oh-so-softly.

The word sliced through the air.

Hyacinth actually whooped.

Daphne’s hand went over her mouth.

Edwina let out a quiet, confused laugh.

“Lord Blackbourne,” she said, still trying, bless her, “you really do enjoy dramatics.”

Lucien didn’t answer.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was still watching you.

Anthony finally turned back to his glass. “Restraint,” he repeated. “It’s useful. Especially when others forget theirs.”

You shifted in your seat, the weight of all their eyes grazing your skin like fingertips. Your breath felt heavier now—like the air had started playing tricks.

Lucien leaned closer, voice just for you.

“Are we talking about my restraint, darling?” he asked, tone velvet and velvet thorns.

 You turned slowly, your lashes low. “I think everyone’s restraint is hanging by a thread.”

“You seem fine,” he murmured.

“I’m not the one being fought over in metaphors.”

He grinned, and whispered—just loud enough for only the very worst people to hear—

“Oh, I’m not fighting for you in metaphors, angel. I’m fighting with teeth.”

Anthony stood.

No warning.

No sound but the scrape of chair legs and the unmistakable heat that poured off of him like a thunderstorm with too much pride.

“I believe I need air,” he said tightly.

Edwina startled, half-rising. “Oh—but the next course—”

 “I’ll return.”

But his eyes weren’t on Edwina.

They were on you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to say everything he wasn’t allowed to speak.

Then he was gone.

The room froze.

And then, finally—

Colin muttered, “Well. There goes the thread.”

Hyacinth threw her arms up. “Best dinner ever!”

Lady Danbury toasted the candlelight. “About bloody time.”

Kate, silent until now, lifted her wine and murmured—half to herself—“That wasn’t restraint. That was retreat.”

You didn’t move.

Lucien’s hand was still resting near yours, his posture utterly unshaken. His smile was soft now. Sharpness tucked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at you. “Did I… overstep?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Then you leaned in—close enough to make him hold his breath—and said quietly, sweetly:

“If this is your version of restraint, I’d love to see what losing control looks like.”

Lucien let out a breathless laugh, low and dark.

“Oh angel,” he whispered, “so would I.”

Across the table, Simon raised his wine glass toward Hyacinth.

She clinked her goblet with his and grinned.

There was a beat of stunned, simmering silence after Anthony exited.

The flicker of candlelight danced in the absence he left behind, a space at the table filled only by the tension he abandoned—and the heat of every gaze that followed.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

Contagiously Human.

[Brian Moser x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Killing was always the easiest part for him, but this… you… well, as fate would have it, that created a new problem for him. {GIF Creds: brothermoser}

WC: 1881

Category: Plot-Driven, Maybe Some Fluff/Angst…?

Someone asked me if I’d ever thought about writing Biney… and well, I decided to put my thought into actual words 🤷‍♀️

Just for some minor clarification, this is pretty much a “what if” fic in which Dexter does not end his life. This being said, I picture this taking place around season 5-6 ish.

『••✎••』

Hesitation.

The thing that makes or breaks a killer. The line that separates predator from prey. It's the pause between life and death, the time a man takes to make the decision, and whether he'll live to regret it or not.

He’s never had hesitation. Not once. In fact, he relishes in it; he finds peace in knowing that he can decide one way or another and be content with either outcome. It makes him a dangerous man, unpredictable, a ticking time bomb.

His baby brother, his blood, had the disease. The disease of being too much of a good person, feeling guilt, having morals, a sense of what's right and wrong. He was weak, he hesitated, and he wasn’t even aware of how much the disease was eating him alive until that Trinity Killer came around.

He was supposed to protect his brother, save him from himself, and show him the proper way of things. The way of survival. Of the hunt. But no, Brian wasn’t there to catch him. To stop him.

So, as all good brothers do, he’s here to fix him. To set him straight and rid him of the disease. Forever.

It's an easy task, really. His little brother is so trusting and caring that he'd do anything for the ones he loved. Why not start by showing him why he shouldn't?

Because clearly, the loss of his apparent wife wasn’t enough. He needed to understand, truly and absolutely, that the world would only disappoint him. It's a harsh lesson but a necessary one.

So, that led him to you. His brother’s friend from school. The woman, aside from Dexter’s poor excuse for a sister, that his brother actually cared about.

Just like him, you were naive. Trusting, too. Friendly to everyone, completely unaware of the monsters that hid in the shadows. His brother included.

You might’ve never killed someone, but with everything else, it was clear why his brother was so interested in you. He always loved the innocent ones.

So, the question was, how would he go about it? He could take you somewhere, but the element of surprise was an important factor. You had to believe you were safe and comfortable before he could make his move.

A Debra repeat? Or a more... Unique approach. He'd think about it, plan it out, and strike at the perfect moment.

He wouldn’t hesitate, after all.

When the day presented itself, the stars had aligned, and everything was just right; he made his move. It was noon, a warm Sunday.

You were in your little bookshop, reading one of the books in your free time. Business had been slow today, as most people were enjoying the weather.

You never saw him coming. He was the type to blend into the crowd, the type that you'd see once and forget about. The type you'd pass on the street without a second thought.

He had his ways, of course, and his way was simple. A simple, kind greeting. One that had your eyes lighting up as if you'd never seen another person before.

He was charming, handsome, the perfect man to lure you in. You didn’t stand a chance.

That's what led him here, picking up your fallen book and handing it to you, watching the smile that graced your lips.

A romance novel, of course. How ironic.

"Oh, uh, thank you. That’s very kind."

You smiled, a hint of blush dusting your cheeks. Far more tame than that Debra woman, thankfully. He didn’t have to fight back the urge to roll his eyes.

"Tea and romance? Can’t say I blame you." He pulled a gentle grin, one that had you blushing further, more so of embarrassment this time.

"It's the first of a series. A favorite, actually, I’ve been rereading it." You explained, holding the book to your chest. He didn’t miss the way your thumb rubbed over the spine, fond and gentle.

Just from that, he knew. He was going to have fun with you. “Believe it or not, I read the first one too. A few months ago, actually. It was quite the page-turner. The ending had me on the edge of my seat, I swear."

You laughed, soft and airy, and for a moment, he found himself smiling genuinely. His lie was working, and he couldn’t believe it was that easy.

"I've only heard mixed reviews on it.” You spoke, moving to place the book back on the shelf. "I'm glad to hear you liked it. Marienne’s death was hard, wasn't it?"

"Very." He agreed though it was a lie. He had to pretend he cared. "It was a shame; I really enjoyed the character."

"You did?" You raised a brow, surprised. “Most people didn’t. Given that she doesn’t even exist.”

Shit.

He cleared his throat, a slight pause. He was so blinded by the idea of finally getting to his brother that he'd forgotten.

You were a reader, an author; of course, you would know the ins and outs of the story. The characters, the plot, and every little detail. Why would you not?

First rule of hunting. Don’t get cocky.

"Alright, I admit. I've been caught." He gave a small shrug, his voice holding a hint of sheepishness. Maybe you’d fall for it. “I couldn’t help myself; I figured you wouldn’t appreciate my love for fantasy books."

"Fantasy?" You tilted your head, and he knew. You bought it. You were a sucker for fantasy; you didn't like it when others looked down on them.

"I'm a bit of a nerd. Guilty pleasure."

"I didn’t peg you for the fantasy type…” You raised your eyebrow, though a smile still rested on your lips—a look of amusement.

"Really? Most people can't seem to look past the collared shirt.

"No, it's not that. It's your aura." You shook your head, and now, it was his turn to raise his brow. What the hell did that mean?

"My aura?"

"Those books in your hands..” You nodded towards his bag, a small smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. "You're definitely not a casual reader. My guess is everything in there is a throwaway.”

"And that means...?"

"You're bullshit through and through. You don't like romance or fantasy. In fact, I think you absolutely hate it."

Oh. Oh, you clever thing. Now, he truly understood why his brother connected with you so much. You'd figured him out, and yet, you had no clue. You were clever, smarter than you let on.

"Alright,” He held his hands up in mock surrender. He was enjoying this; for once, someone could see through his façade. See his true self. It was a rush.

“If you’re so smart, what do I like then?"

"Hmm, let's see...” And just like that, you were off with him in tow. You were taking him along on a trip through the shelves, looking through the genres, searching and searching.

He was intrigued, his eyes locked on you, his ears drinking in the sound of your hums and contemplation. Your mind was running, spinning, thinking. You were truly in your element.

"Well, let's start with what I know. You like horror." You said, turning towards the horror section and picking up a book. "You seem like the type who enjoys the dark side of humanity and likes to see the bad guy win."

Damn.

He was almost impressed. Almost.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Eyes. They tell the most about a person. You’ve seen a lot, and it shows. I could tell just by looking at you. Your eyes are... Cold. Empty." You said, and it was then that he realized you were more observant than you appeared. Naivety might’ve not been a part of your personality, but trust was. You trusted a lot. Too much. “Are you a cop, by chance? You've got the whole detective thing going on."

"Prosthetist, actually." He answered, his hand reaching out and picking up a book at random. He wasn't a fan of fiction, not really. He preferred nonfiction; it was more realistic—less pointless details.

"Oh, wow, I was completely off. I didn’t expect that." You mused, looking up at him with those eyes. You had such an expressive face; it was amazing how easy you were to read. He could practically see the gears turning. How could he use this?

"Expected an axe murderer, did you?" He joked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Maybe. Wouldn’t that be a twist?" You grinned a glint of amusement in your eye. “Speaking of, that’s probably what you like. Thrillers. Those kinds of stories are full of twists and turns. No one is who they appear to be. Kinda like you, hm?"

"Ouch."

"Sorry, am I being too honest?"

"No, I like it. Keep going." He was having fun. With Debra, it was exhausting. She was so stubborn, so headstrong, she never listened. It took him about three coffees just to have enough patience to deal with her sob story.

But with you, you were a breath of fresh air. He didn’t have to force himself awake or hide his boredom. He could just enjoy it, relish in the moment, and the fact that you were so easy to play with.

You pulled out three books: two thrillers and one horror. A classic and a new one. "These are what I recommend. Start with Primal Fear; that’s the one I believe you'll like the most. The first one might take you a while, but if you stick with it, the sequel will be worth it.

He reached forward, his hand brushing over yours, his touch lingering as he took the book. He purposely brushed his thumb against the back of your hand, just enough for a spark to go through your veins.

He saw the way your breath hitched, and he smirked. This was too easy.

"Thank you, you've been a great help."

"One more thing before you go." You spoke, stopping him. His eyes moved up from the book to your own, and there he saw something that made him falter.

Something that made him freeze longer than he should have.

You had a fire behind those eyes. A flame that burned with a passion, a curiosity that threatened to eat him alive. A want, a need, to get into his head. To peel him open and look inside.

Your eyes weren't cold or empty like his. They were alive. Full of life.

"Books don’t impress women,” Your voice was low, a secret, something meant only for him to hear. “It’s the passion that opens their hearts. You have nothing if you can't show it."

"I think I've misjudged you." He spoke, his hand resting on the shelf above your head. He had no choice but to lean closer, and he felt the way your breath fanned across his skin.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You're a lot more than you appear, aren’t you?"

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

The question was left unanswered. He didn't give a response because, in truth, he didn't know.

He left that day not with his brother’s cure or even the thought of him. He left with three books.

Three books and the disease he believed to be immune to…

Hesitation.

[@numetalnerd2007] Since you asked, I figured this would automatically mean you were interested. At least I hope you were 💀

That being said, please be nice to me for this one since it’s my first time writing for Biney here (and I haven’t rewatched season 1 in forever), so his character probably isn’t 100% solid. It’s a work in progress 🙏✨

Also, for all my Joe Goldberg fans out there, did you catch the reference I made? I see a slight resemblance between Brian and Joe, so I wanted to sneak it in a little something. I think it’s the hair, honestly.

#PERFECTLY MATCHED FREAK

y'all, I'm sorry, he's so bad but he's so fine. like I can't even defend him

The fact that someone like JK Rowling created a character like Harry Potter completely baffles me

Harry Potter who was outraged when the magical community wouldn't accept a werewolf at Hogwarts

Harry Potter who regularly had tea with the half giant groundskeeper

Harry Potter who at 12 years old freed a house elf from his abusive master and then five years later insisted on giving that same house elf a proper burial

Harry has his flaws, but what always stood out to me about him was how tolerant and accepting he was. There were plenty of people he didn't like, but that was always because of who they were as a person. It's even made a point in the series that he maintained relationships with groups who were not usually friendly with wizards (probably because of past mistreatment) like ghosts and centaurs. So, how such a bigoted and close-minded person created him is beyond me.

I love post canon fics where Snape survives, and then he finally meets up with Harry again and it’s like

Harry: I finally respect you as a person, and I am grateful for everything you have done. We could not have won without you and your sacrifices, so thank you.

Snape: …

Snape: Ew

i just remembered that brian moser and rita are DEAD and are NEVER coming back EVER.

i need a moment