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Inkwells & Essence: The Beginning of a New Chapter

Ah, the best-laid plans. My dreamy weekend of serenity—bubble baths, tea, a book I'm woefully behind on—dissolved into chaos before I even had time to steep my first cuppa.

The phone call came Friday evening: my mum wasn't feeling well, and while she assured me it was "nothing serious," her tone carried just enough concern to send me into full panic mode. Cue me throwing clothes into a bag, leaving the cats with extra food (alongside an apology for my abrupt disappearance), and rushing out the door like I was auditioning for The Fast and the Furious: Family Emergency Edition.

When I arrived, I found her in the major waiting unit, looking a bit pale but still radiating her usual knack for micromanagement. She waved me off when I fussed over her, but then began the relentless commentary. "You're folding that towel wrong." "The soup needs more salt." "Why on earth are you putting the forks there?!" I thought about reminding her that she had summoned me, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. After all, who am I to argue with a woman who can deliver pointed critiques even while clutching a hot water bottle?

Thankfully, by Sunday, she was already on the mend, though she did insist on trying to teach me "the right way" to fluff her pillows. I mean, is there a secret Pillow-Fluffing Academy I've missed out on?

In between playing Florence Nightingale and defensive housekeeping, my saving grace has been Gotham Nights. Oh, what a story we're weaving! The gritty, shadowed streets of Gotham have become my second home, where every twist and turn keeps me on the edge of my seat. It's everything I love about storytelling: high stakes, complex characters, and a deliciously dark atmosphere. And don't even get me started on my writing partner, who embodies Batman with such effortless gravitas that I sometimes catch myself grinning like a fool as I read his replies.

He captures the essence of the Dark Knight so perfectly—the brooding intensity, the sharp wit, the layers of humanity beneath the cape—that I often feel like I'm writing alongside a professional scriptwriter. Honestly, his portrayal has made me fall even deeper into this tale, and the chemistry between our characters practically writes itself. It's rare to find someone so in tune with your creative rhythm, and I'm savouring every moment of it.

Now that I'm back in Paris, and my mum is on the road to recovery, I'm looking forward to reclaiming a bit of normalcy. The cats, of course, greeted me with their usual mix of indifference and judgment for daring to leave them, but I've placated them with extra treats.

This week, I plan to dive headfirst back into the studio, conjuring scents and chasing inspiration while stealing as many moments as I can for Gotham's unfolding drama. Life may have a way of derailing even the most well-laid plans, but it's these unexpected twists—whether in real life or in the vivid world of Gotham—that make the journey so endlessly fascinating.
 
Ah, finally—a weekend that unfolded exactly as I wanted it to. No frantic phone calls, no surprise obligations, just me, my cats, and my gloriously soft pyjamas, which have now moulded to my form like a second skin. If self-care had a uniform, this would be mine.

The plan was simple: do absolutely nothing productive. And I stuck to it like a warrior of leisure. I curled up under a blanket, one cat snoozing on my lap, the other glaring at me from a distance (her love language is judgment). Together, we embarked on the noble quest of finishing What We Do in the Shadows, a show so ridiculous and brilliant that I found myself laughing aloud, startling the aforementioned judgy cat. Her look suggested that she was seriously reconsidering her association with me.

All was perfect—until, in a moment of weakness, I let myself be convinced to leave my cosy cave and meet friends at a coffee shop. This, dear journal, was my mistake.

Now, I love my friends. Truly. But the moment my singlehood is brought up, it's like I've walked into a family intervention. "You're such a catch," one of them began, shaking her head like I was a lost puppy. "It's a crime you're single."

Ah, yes. The crime of enjoying my own company. Call the authorities.

"But don't you get lonely?" another chimed in, looking at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for abandoned Victorian orphans.

Before I could respond, the third delivered the classic: "You just haven't met the right person yet."

At this, I dramatically leaned back in my chair, sipped my hot chocolate like a brooding anti-hero, and replied, "Oh, I have met the right person. She's me. And she's fantastic."

Silence. A blink. A frown. "That's not what I meant."

"No, no, I get it," I said solemnly, "You want me to join you in the trenches of coupledom. But my friend, I thrive in solitude. I dance freely in my apartment, I eat the last slice of pizza without negotiations, and I never have to argue about how the toilet paper roll should be positioned."

They weren't convinced. In fact, they left with a plan to "find someone for me," which I find both adorable and horrifying but mostly horrifying. I fully expect an ambush in the coming months.

With that mild social blip behind me, I have learned my lesson: Do not engage with the outside world unless absolutely necessary. Tomorrow, I will do what I should have done all along—stay in my kingdom of solitude, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by my feline overlords, and bask in the quiet joy of my own company.

Tuesday can wait.
 
Some weeks, I exude effortless Parisian grace—the kind of woman who floats through life with unshakable poise and a perfectly curated wardrobe. This was not one of those weeks.

It all started with coffee. Or, more specifically, with my own tragic inability to exist near coffee without catastrophe. I had just arrived at the office, juggling my bag, my phone, and a folder of documents, when I made the fatal mistake of attempting to take a sip while walking. Predictably, I lost the battle against balance and momentum. One misstep, one unfortunate slip of my heel on the polished floor, and suddenly, my world was tilting.

And then, I wasn't falling anymore.

Because my new boss—my very handsome, very American new boss—was there, catching me before I could make an even bigger spectacle of myself. One strong arm braced around my waist, steadying me as effortlessly as if I weighed nothing at all, while the other plucked my coffee cup right out of my flailing grasp before it could meet an untimely demise.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement but also something softer, something almost… indulgent. "We wouldn't want to lose another coffee this week, would we?"

It took me an embarrassingly long moment to find my voice. "I—uh—thank you."

"Anytime," he said, but he didn't let go right away. Not until he was sure I was steady. Not until his gaze, sharp and warm all at once, flickered over me in a way that made my pulse do something inconvenient. And when he finally did step back, he handed me a fresh coffee—a new one, as if he had somehow predicted this moment. "I had a feeling you might need this."

I am not a woman who flusters easily. I work with the rarest ingredients in perfumery, crafting scents that evoke memories, desires, entire lifetimes. And yet, faced with that knowing half-smile and the way his fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary when he passed me the cup, I found myself uncharacteristically short on words.

I have a truly remarkable talent for embarrassing myself—an art, really. Whether it's tripping over my own feet, spilling coffee in the most spectacular ways, or saying something just awkward enough to haunt me at 2 AM, I am nothing if not consistent. So, naturally, it took me a full minute to remember that I have sworn myself—indefinitely—to the joys of singlehood. No fluttering heartbeats, no stolen glances, no foolish distractions. Just me, my work, my cats, and the blissful knowledge that I will never have to share my blankets or justify my excessive candle collection to anyone.

And it was especially important to remember this while being held upright by my devastatingly handsome, annoyingly charming boss, who smelled unfairly good—like cedarwood, leather, and just a hint of something I couldn't quite place. My brain, traitorous thing that it is, had the audacity to short-circuit for a second, as if this was some swoon-worthy scene out of a novel rather than just me being a walking hazard yet again. But no. Absolutely not. I have chosen the path of peaceful solitude, free from the perils of romantic entanglements and the need to feign interest in someone else's favourite obscure jazz musician. And I was not about to let one moment of well-timed heroics make me forget that.

The rest of the week so far has been a blur of meetings, paperwork, and far too much time spent away from my true love—my perfumer's lab. The one place where the world makes perfect sense, where the only thing that matters is how notes of amber and cedarwood melt into something divine. But the business of beauty is, ironically, often quite unglamorous.

Talking of things glamorous, I forgot to mention an event from a few weeks past. I had been invited to an elite soirée in one of Paris's grandest hôtels particuliers, where champagne flowed endlessly, and conversation was a delicate game of wit and influence. I spent the evening drifting between old acquaintances and new admirers, enjoying the dance of social intrigue. A particularly insistent gentleman cornered me for half an hour, eager to discuss the complexities of vetiver and sandalwood—though I suspect he was far more interested in me than in fragrance composition. It was flattering. If also ever so slightly tedious.

But the best moment? Stepping out onto the balcony, escaping the noise for just a breath, and finding Paris laid out before me. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, a golden beacon in the night, and for just a moment, I felt like the city and I were sharing a secret.

This weekend, I plan to do absolutely nothing. A full day in my softest robe, curled up with my cats, avoiding humanity until the workweek drags me back into its clutches. If I have my way, the only person I'll talk to is the barista who makes my morning espresso. Though, if fate decides to throw my handsome, boss into my path again… I suppose I won't complain. But being an expert on myself, I probably will.
 
Some weeks feel like a puzzle missing half its pieces—confusing, chaotic, and impossible to assemble no matter how hard I try. This was one of those weeks, so far. The kind where I threw myself into work, into conversations, into anything that kept my mind occupied. It helped that my colleagues are also my friends, which means I had no shortage of distractions. Every free second was filled with meetings, impromptu coffee breaks (that hopefully didn't involve me spilling anything this time), and debates over...well over nothing sfw.

And then, of course, there was him.

My new boss, who has already developed a reputation for being bossy as hell. Which, fair enough, is in the job description. But did they also slip 'maddeningly charming' into the contract fine print? Because I swear, it's his life's mission to get a laugh out of me, to break through the layers of my very carefully constructed aloofness. Oh no, sir. Not today. Or any day, really. He can direct that charm elsewhere—perhaps to someone who hasn't spent years perfecting the art of resistance. My walls are high, my gates are locked, and my moat is filled with metaphorical alligators. I am a fortress. And, if I have any say in it, not a particularly welcoming one.

Besides, no one is trustworthy. Or trustable. Or whatever word applies when you know better than to let your guard down. I didn't build myself into this fortress because I enjoy solitude (well, maybe a little). I did it because I've seen what happens when you don't. And I have no plans to let a well-timed smirk or a heroic coffee-saving moment change that.

So, I've been filling my time with other, more predictable joys. My writing roster is suddenly full, and I'm absolutely loving every moment of it. There's something exhilarating about crafting stories, shaping worlds, letting characters run wild in my imagination. And now? I've got a brand-new roleplay based on Sons of Anarchy, an old favourite of mine. It's all leather, loyalty, and morally grey decisions wrapped up in the best kind of storytelling. And, as if the universe knew I needed the creative rush, I somehow landed a writing partner who's just as obsessed as I am. There's nothing quite like the spark of writing with someone who just gets it.

Now that the workday is behind me, I plan to put my feet up, revel in the silence (or at least the sound of my cats causing trouble in the next room), and finally catch up on Monday Night Raw. Because, after a week of dodging charm and surviving chaos, nothing soothes the soul quite like watching people beat each other up in a wrestling ring. Cheers to that.
 
The world belongs to me at 5 o’clock in the morning. Not in a grand, empire-building way—no, no. I don’t seek dominion over kingdoms. I seek the hush before the first bird dares to chirp, the weightlessness of a life not yet claimed by duty.

This is my time, my secret hour, where the world has not yet remembered me. Where I am neither a worker nor a friend, neither a writer nor a daughter, neither a name nor a face. I am just a breath, a thought, a wisp of something unbound, cradling a warm cup between my palms like an offering to the gods of silence.

The tea is perfect. It always is at this hour. Perhaps the universe brews it differently before dawn—steeping it in the last whispers of the night rather than in boiling water. Or perhaps my taste buds, still unburdened by the thousand other things I’ll consume today, are simply more willing to believe in a little magic.

And oh, the words. They come easier now, don’t they? They slide from my mind to the page like silken ribbons, as if they, too, know this is the only time they won’t be wrestled into duty, edited into submission, or questioned for their worth. I let them flow as they please, stretching like cats in the sunless quiet, unhurried, unbothered.

Soon, the world will remember me. Soon, I will be found. I will become solid, nameable, required. But for now, I sip my tea. I let the universe pretend it is empty except for me. And I think, just for a moment, that perhaps I am a secret too lovely to be known.

But the day will find me. It always does.
 
I know I complain about my colleagues. I really do. But I have to admit—begrudgingly, dramatically, and with great reluctance—they might actually be the best.

I've been morose this week. Not just a little off, but the kind of down where even my usual dramatic sighs have lost their flair.

There’s this ache creeping in, familiar and unwelcome. Like muscle memory, I feel myself being pulled into old ways again, the ones I swore I had left behind. The ones that made me reckless and unguarded, left me hollow. I know where this road leads, I’ve walked it too many times before. I fight it because I know better now—I know the cost of losing myself in fleeting moments, in the illusion that I can outrun the feelings I never wanted to feel again. This hurt, this ache, it’s why I stopped. And yet, here it is, knocking at the door like an old friend I’d rather pretend I didn’t see...

And somehow, these nosy, noisy, meddlesome, absolutely wonderful people have made it their mission to cheer me up. That mission, evidently, has culminated in a full-blown night out this weekend.

Now, let me tell you something. I have not had a proper night out in nearly two years. That life? The one that used to end at 5 AM with me stumbling home as the sun rose, my phone vibrating with messages from people whose names I had forgotten? Yeah, I retired from that. Every Friday and Saturday for years, and let me tell you, it takes its toll. The recovery time is longer, the existential dread stronger. But somehow, my colleagues—with their persistence and unrelenting charm—have coaxed me back into it.

And here’s the kicker: my boss is paying for the whole thing.

Now, I’ve let a man buy me a drink before, but covering an entire night of debauchery for me and my enablers? That’s next-level. Honestly, I knew he had too much money the moment I laid eyes on his absurdly expensive car and that suit that looked like it belonged in a film where the protagonist casually drops millions on a failing vineyard just for fun. The man is practically a walking Forbes list. But hey, if he wants to fund my colleagues' victory lap for dragging me back into the wild, who am I to argue? (Although it does go against my every independent woman instincts.) And of course he wants to witness it all firsthand ugh.

And as if the universe is playing some ironic little joke, tomorrow is the ex’s birthday. I promised—because I am a woman of my word—that I’d treat him to dinner. But somehow, another man has decided to treat me for his birthday. My ex and I didn’t end on the best terms (does anyone, really?), but we’re still close, still good friends, and still somehow tangled up in each other’s lives. So I’m taking the day off, because if I’m going to be dragged into indulgence, I might as well commit.

This week has been stressful. Work has drained me. Family and life and all the other little things and some big things have pressed in a little too tightly. I need to reset, re-center. So tonight, I’m indulging in my own kind of luxury. My best silk nightie, my comfiest, fluffiest nightgown, the thickest bed socks known to mankind, and, of course, the most perfect, rich, velvety hot chocolate in the world and a Cadbury's Milktray of course. Im fully in my Bridget Jones stage (first book/movie of course). I will wrap myself in comfort and let my words spill out onto this page, where zero people will read them. But that’s perfect. Writing this is like throwing my feelings onto a canvas—messy, chaotic, but somehow satisfying.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling a little lighter. Or at the very least, a little more prepared to face my feelings and a weekend of champagne-fueled antics and birthday dinners that aren’t technically mine but somehow still revolve around me.

Either way, it’s a sweet thought.
 
Went to work for a grand total of one hour before I started throwing my guts up (RIP last night's cereal dinner—gone, but not forgotten). My ever-dashing boss, in an act of chivalry that would make even a medieval knight look like a peasant, dropped me off at home (so glad I didn't throw up in his nice car). After another spectacular round of stomach gymnastics, I promptly passed out for seven uninterrupted hours, my little panther curled up against me like a tiny, purring shadow of concern.

And you know what? Despite the violent purging of my insides and the lingering queasiness that refuses to let me so much as look at food, I woke up feeling absolutely fabulous. Which, to be fair, is how I wake up every day because—let's be honest—I absolutely love myself.

Last week, I admitted I hadn't quite felt like myself, but maybe I needed that. Sometimes you need a week of not feeling like yourself to remind you exactly who you are. And in a moment of zen clarity today (somewhere between being sprawled out on my bed and attempting to sip water without my stomach staging a protest), I realised: I am at the absolute peak of my life. I feel amazing. I look amazing. Absolutely stunning, really. My life is together in ways that should be illegal. My happiness, my peace? It comes solely from within me.

That said, this moment of enlightenment did come with some necessary self-improvement revelations. First and foremost: I need to eat actual meals. Cereal, while delightful, does not constitute a dinner, and the human body is not a temple that thrives on whims and existential defiance alone. Second: my sleep schedule? Overhauled. No more running on fumes and dramatic flair—I'm done with sleep deprivation for no reason other than sheer stubbornness and...quod non memorabitur.

Now, onto my ever-filling social schedule. Apparently, people like having me around. Who knew? My calendar is filling up at an alarming rate, but I'll make sure to schedule in some much-needed me time, because while I adore being dragged out by people who refuse to let me be a hermit, I also revel in my solitude. Balance, darling.

Speaking of balance, RP updates are rolling out swiftly to keep pace with my bustling schedule. A warm welcome (with a hint of wicked delight) to my newest follower, @DanteInTheInferno —your follow did not go unnoticed. Perhaps we'll weave something dark and delicious together? And a special mention to @BennyQ, the ever-patient saint who waits for me like a knight in rusted armour, ever ready to drag me back into a world of honour, chivalry, or the absolute lack thereof. There's a post there waiting for you now my sweet. Can Rurik and Wulfy just get married already?? ;)

As for tonight, I'm settling in with the desperate hope that my stomach has finished its purge of all things unholy. Swapping my usual historical fiction for Blood Meridian—because nothing says 'cozy night in' like existential brutality and poetic nihilism. Might even rewatch American Gods after, as Huginn and Muninn (or their feathered doppelgängers) spent the morning taunting my little black panther up a tree.

And with that, I bid the night farewell, hoping for no more episodes—unless they come in the form of binge-watching. Cheers to feeling fabulous, even when clammy and queasy.
 
Ah, Lady Velvet, your welcome is as tantalizing as the words you weave—silken threads spun with exquisite care. I would be a fool not to notice your talent, nor resist the pull of your darker delights. Tell me, do your whispers tempt only the shadows, or might they ensnare the devil himself? Either way, I suspect I’ll enjoy finding out.
 
Ah, the classic tale of RP turned R(omantic) Pursuit! Nothing kills a good story faster than a co-writer who thinks collaborative world-building is just foreplay. Alas, our gripping saga has met an untimely end—not due to war, betrayal, or even a badly timed plot twist, but because someone mistook character chemistry for a dating app.

Rest in peace, dear Gotham Nights. You were too good for this world... and definitely too good for him.
 
Darlings, gather close, for I have survived a weekend of sheer chaos and indulgence—and I have stories to tell!

Saturday Night: Chaos, Cocktails & Colleagues
It all began with a simple idea: a civilised night out with colleagues. (Pause for laughter.) Of course, 'civilised' went out the window faster than my good intentions when the first round of espresso martinis hit the table. From there, it was a blur of questionable dance moves (somebody, possibly me, attempted the worm), deep conversations about life (by which I mean an intense debate over whether chips or curly fries reign supreme), and an unexpected karaoke performance that absolutely should have been stopped but was instead encouraged.

Somewhere around 4 AM, we found ourselves discussing our deepest office secrets over street food—nothing bonds people like confessions over cheesy chips, I swear. Miraculously, I made it home with my dignity mostly intact, aside from some very suspicious photos on my phone and a new contact saved as 'Jason? Maybe HR?'

Sunday: Repenting at Champneys
With a hangover that could have felled a lesser mortal, I dragged myself to the promised land: Champneys Spa. The contrast between Saturday and Sunday was biblical. Saturday? Dionysian debauchery. Sunday? Celestial redemption.

There I was, wrapped in a fluffy robe, sipping cucumber water, trying to pretend I was a graceful, sophisticated woman instead of someone who had screeched 'I WILL SURVIVE' into a microphone mere hours before. Massages were had, pools were lounged in, and at one point, I do believe I levitated during a facial. By the time I left, I was a new woman. Reborn. Hydrated. A delicate butterfly once more.

RP Updates: A Knight's Honour & A Timeless Love
Now, onto matters of great importance—my roleplays!

First, I must issue a formal correction from my last entry, because dear @BennyQ is NOT a 'knight in rusting armour.' No, no, my loves, he is a Knight in Shining Armour (capitalisation necessary). Why, you ask? Let me count the ways:
  1. He doesn't just come to the rescue—he arrives with flair, timing so impeccable it could be choreographed by angels.
  2. His storytelling? So dazzling, I need sunglasses just to read our posts.
  3. He brings the perfect mix of tension and tenderness, making my heart do ridiculous things.
  4. And, let's be honest, any knight who can keep up with me must be wearing enchanted armour.
Meanwhile, my new RP Beyond Time with the smooth-talking @DanteInTheInferno has me absolutely giddy. A modern architect tumbling into medieval Scotland? Yes, please. The drama, the danger, the deliciously slow burn—it's all shaping up to be literary perfection. And my partner? A silver-tongued devil who knows exactly how to keep me on my toes. If this RP were a cocktail, it would be an Old Fashioned—timeless, sophisticated, and just strong enough to leave me breathless.

Spring: My Social Butterfly Era
Now as winter loosens its grip, I find myself emerging like some sort of fabulous social butterfly. Something about the sunshine and blooming flowers has activated my go-out-and-thrive instincts. Who knew? The girl who once scoffed at 'outside' is now brunching, spa-daying, and dancing (albeit badly).

So, here's to spring, to wild weekends, to incredible roleplays, and to people who make life feel like an adventure.

Until next time, my darlings—keep thriving, keep storytelling, and, for heaven's sake, keep me away from karaoke machines.

VelvetWhispers
 
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