#i need to go to bed..

[thecheshirerat]

On TAZ-

Wow that sounds like I’m about to summarize some sort of discourse but I promise I’m not. I guess I’ll say that I really like this show and I will keep listening even if my worst fears come to pass, so keep that in mind!

For reference, I started listening near the end of Amnesty.

I’ve noticed, with the past few arcs- really since Ethersea- the narratives have just… not been fulfilling their promises, so to speak. They’ve been placing a lot of guns that don’t go off. What I mean by that is, the characters are great. Excellent, really. Lady Godwin? HELL YES. Emerich Dreadway? Fuck yeah! And so on! And the settings and premises have been epic- the goofiness and also horrifying nature of Engrave, the mad and thrilling world of Steeplechase- these things are COOL AS FUCK.

and then the actual narratives keep flopping?

And honestly, I notice it most in the endings, because you can really tell when an ending doesn’t land. You feel the sense of disappointment. But with vs. Dracula, for example, I could kinda see leading up to it that the ending couldn’t really BE anything special, because they lowkey didn’t set themselves up for it.

They spent the campaign fucking around in Engrave, finding clues and solving problems and not really experiencing any particularly meaningful character arcs or growth or, idk, forming relationships? So there wasn’t much to pay off, I’m not gonna lie!

Of course it doesn’t feel quite as dissatisfying when you’re in the thick of it, because they’re funny and the stuff is cool and- oh hey! Lady Godwin’s been turned into a werehorse against her will?? that’s got some real potential for a LOT of allegories and exploration of some fun character development! And then it’s kinda played as a joke. And then they do that again and again.

And they actually said that that was a move they made intentionally, in the TTAZZ. I’m not quoting them perfectly here, this is from memory, but I do remember them mentioning that they wanted lighthearted comedy without the burden of real life story stuff. And I get that, honestly, but… it’s not the choice I would’ve made. I do think you can keep a lighthearted tone while also, idk, forming relationships and wholesomely engaging with some amount of emotion. And sometimes going way too deep is funny as a tone shift!

But I digress. One thing that’s also popped out to me is the almost complete lack of any kind of romantic storyline or even references. This becomes obvious if you’re in a fandom because everyone is always dying to ship SOMEONE, and you can tell when people are really getting desperate. I don’t blame them for not wanting to roleplay romance with their family, and I do think stories lacking romance are COOL and SHOULD BE ENCOURAGED!

However if you can’t find ANYBODY to ship together… that may mean you just don’t have character bonds. The growing popularity of the PC polycule is interesting to me; I wonder if it’s partially because

a) none of the pcs have significant relationships outside of their party and

b) even within the party, there doesn’t seem to be much chemistry between any given pair of characters…? I hope I’m making my point well here- the PCs all seem equally close and have more or less the same relationship to all of their compatriots with little distinction, meaning, essentially, no shipping fodder that doesn’t involve just all of ‘em.

Either way, it makes me wonder if I can blame the “Graduation has too many NPCs!” critique. They really stopped giving the parties tag-along main NPCs after graduation, with the exception of maybe.. Urchin? Kodira? Shlabethany? Poppy? and even they get relatively little “screen” time. Steeplechase has great NPCs, I love them to death, but none of the PCs seem to ever have one on one conversations with NPCs or each other that do not explicitly focus on the plot. And I think that’s part of why the characters feel so underdeveloped despite having spent a lot of time with them- because in this character-driven genre, we get very little insight into their feelings or motivations or even their rudimentary backstories.

I started watching Fantasy High recently and it made me realize a couple things about TAZ.

1) Recently, TAZ has sooo few core NPCs, and it’s weird that the characters aren’t doing more one-on-one purely character based scenes. And that makes it really tough to develop them.

2) TAZ is- and I should have realized this before- one of many good dnd podcasts. They’re probably looking for a niche they can master.

And it sounds like they’re trying to get back to that old “Here there be Gerblins!” energy. They’ve referenced it so many times in recent TTAZZes- they wanted to be job-focused, allowing story stuff to happen organically, so they tried a more open world vibe with Ethersea. They wanted to be less afraid to kill stuff, so they tried playing criminals (and were still afraid to kill stuff). They wanted to be silly and light on character, as they tackled with taz vs dracula. Now they’re trying to bring in the silly cartoon vibe with Abnimals. I think they’re trying to make that family-friendly, funny and goofy show their niche. Something other actual plays can’t be better at them at.

And honestly it kinda makes me sad, that they keep trying to go back to Balance while ignoring everything they learned during it. Because I loved Dust. Because I loved Amnesty. Because I loved Ethersea. I loved these past arcs! But they keep doing their brilliant characters dirty for some reason!!! And i don’t know why!!!!

You know that meme about people who ask questions in movies and then the person responds “Have you ever been to a movie before? You watch them and the information is revealed.” There have been so many times in TAZ recently where information has Not been revealed and if they keep doing it the audience will stop bothering to suspend their disbelief, because the trust just isn’t there.

What is Montrose’s deal? What on earth was Carmine Denton’s whole thing? Tell me more about Zoox’s feelings, about Devo’s past, about Amber’s future. Show me how Lady Godwin feels about the body horror that is her life- like, seriously! WHY DID WE HAVE TO COMPLETELY DISMISS THE OPPORTUNITY TO DISCUSS GENERATIONAL TRAUMA IN MUTT’S LIFE FOR A JOKE??

Do you remember in Steeplechase where the boys were getting medical attention or something- i don’t remember, but they were all in one room and only talking about The Plot. And Poppy literally banged on the door (speaking for both Justin and me, tbh) and was like “does anyone want to share any feeeeelings??” and they were like NOPE! and they moved on!!

like. cmon. you can’t just put a character like montrose out there and then leave them severely underdeveloped to the point that what would be interesting in proper context, with audience insight, becomes confusing and chaotic.

I just wish they would take their stories as seriously as we do.

It feels to me like they don’t believe in themselves, and it makes me sad. Maybe they didn’t get the response they wanted from Ethersea and so they’ve been trying to pivot, hoping to recapture whatever it was that earned them a loyal audience.

Again, I love them. They’re so funny and I’ll keep listening until the day they stop making this show, and when it happens I’ll cry.

But i KNOW they have more in them. Remember the “we’ll grow gills” monologue from Justin in the Prologues? Remember Travis’s SOLID acting with Devo? Or his awesome choice to give Lyndon/Beef a clearly delineated work/irl identity? His excellent narration and prose? Remember when Montrose described being lonely?! Remember all those moments where Shit Got Real and you cared??? The nanofather said some dope shit! dracula and victor and sweater dracula had such a wild dynamic! Clint’s acting in Dust 2- I can’t remember the characters name right now- was ASTOUNDING, I genuinely didn’t know he had that in him and it blew me away!

I’m not referencing Balance on purpose, both because the fandom is way to hung up on it and because I want to prove that you don’t even have to look at Balance, or even Post-Balance arcs, to see this kind of good cool stuff!

GAAAAAAAGHHHH!!! I want them to have fun. But also. We’re starving out here.

[freshlybakedspiderbread]

closed my doors and put down the curtains and got ready to just relax in bed, but then i saw a bug zipping around in my room and i was afraid it was a mosquito. you know it wasn’t that long ago when i couldn’t sleep thorugh a whole night because i was all itchy 😱 So i was trying to get it for like fifteen minutes or something. there were some instances i swear i was following it with my eyes so as not to lose it, and then it literally vanished right before my eyes 😨

eventually i saw it one last time and started swinging away like nuts with my tissue box and eventually managed to smash it!! 😠 ....but then i realised it wasn’t a mosquito but actually a moth of some kind. 😦 probably just a harmless thing that i could have left alone until it flew out or something 😐...😓

[boycritter]

bleeding and smoking are two of like the hottest things ever and it’s really unfair that you shouldn’t be doing either on the reg

[lil-gingerbread-queen]

"Robin brings light to the darkness" or something

[martyfive]

daisies

[jay-wasstuff]

-

Bonus: the old man (+insp)

[erinwantstowrite]

uhhhhhhhh smth smth gay gay title

i have not slept and it's like 2AM and im now feeling tired but i locked tf in to draw this i just HAD to finish before bed i will be more coherent tomorrow anyways. gay superbat. have

[mochasucculent]

Was looking at refs and since Viktor has two different leg braces I was wondering, do we think he wears them simultaneously?? The refs don't perfectly line up perspective-wise so it's hard to tell but parts of the one he wears during the Hexcore scenes look like they could maybe line up with the brace that he wears over his clothes, but also some parts really don't and look like they'd be super uncomfy. Also HOW does he take these on and off. Experts weigh in

[lazylittledragon]

i love my tavs but also i think they should kiss

[suiheisen]

"we know how to move our bodies, but i didn't know how to manage my heart, so you need help for this"

hi we need to talk more about judo gold medallist christa deguchi.

[bi-writes]

you'd do anything to fuck your boss. (18+, ghost x f!secretary)

well, he's not technically your boss. you report to captain price, but he never fails to remind his boys that there's a pretty thing that sits outside of his office that can file their paperwork and take notes for them. he's always volunteering your services to them, and all you can do is cross your legs behind your desk and smile. even if you didn't want to do it, you would never tell your captain no.

except for him—not for your favorite.

lieutenant riley is exactly the sort of thing you would ruin your career for. closed-off. angry. matter-of-fact. he dealt with no bullshit, and he said whatever he wanted to; he did not care for how anyone perceived his opinions.

there is something comforting about someone that does not wear a false face. ghost is not creepy nor is he mean (not unless you're asking for it). he tells it to you as it is, and he doesn't reserve room for comfort nor ease. he doesn't care, and that's what makes him feel safe to you. there is nothing to discover. he has no secret to hide from you. there's something transparent that he keeps close to himself, and in that way, you can't keep your eyes off of him.

oh, well—he's also built like a fucking tank.

you think often about what you might have to do to get him to look at you. he's so massive; you find yourself in meetings, watching the way he takes up whatever side of the room he's in. the chair creaking as he sits down, straining to take his weight. the top of the doorway nearly skimming his head. the way he pins you to where you are just with a fixed glare.

fuck. he's hot. when his reports come across your desk, you even feel yourself squeezing your legs together at the way he writes—eloquently, with expansive vocabulary, a keen eye for detail and a penmanship that isn't written in fucking blue crayon (you'll never forgive johnny for that shit).

capable, confident, killing machine—holy fucking shit, will you just forget you're in my bed for one night? please, please, please, please—

for fuck's sake, how hard could it be? he's just a man; and men are all the same.

it's late when you knock on his door. he likes this little corner of the base; a room with four walls and one measly window, tucked in with just enough yellow light to keep him settled. when he opens the door, you can smell the cigarette he must've been smoking. he's dressed down because of the hour; just in the shirt under his jacket and dark jeans, mask just under his nose as he blows the remaining breath of smoke he was holding to the side.

"'s late," he mutters. you're supposed to be off-base by now. at home, back in civilian life, back with people of the real world and not amongst the ones that hide from it. he talks like he doesn't care you're even there; like he didn't even notice your wet eyes.

"i-i know," you whisper. "i-i need some help. no one else is...up."

you hold up your hand, which is shaking now. the side of your hand has been sliced open—an office accident, a paper cutter in the wrong position. there's blood dripping down the skin of your arm, soaking through the thin napkin you're trying to use as a makeshift bandage. ghost tilts his head, looking down at it, and he shakes his head when he sees it.

"clumsy girl."

you sit on his desk as he flips open a first aid kit. it's quiet here, no music, no men, just the sound of the outside and the rustle of plastic as ghost fishes out a clean bandage. he already helped you clean up the cut over the sink; nothing but soap and water, big hand scrubbing at the cut until he was satisfied it was clean.

he uses his teeth to tear open a new package, and you keep your eyes on his as he smooths it over your hand. he's not looking at you; he's focused on your hands, keeping you still, and when he finishes, he finally looks at you.

"thank you," you whisper. ghost doesn't move away. he doesn't want to; if he did, he would already be out of your space. you don't flinch when he reaches a hand up, a gloved hand wiping under your eye. when your lashes flutter, ghost's nostrils flare, tongue coming out to trace along his teeth. you smile, so demure, so soft.

you look sweet; and a man has to eat.

you squeak when he takes a blade out of his boot. you meet his eyes, mouth dropping open in a pant as he licks across the metal before using the tip of it to cut the button of your blouse. you look down, a whine leaving you as he pops each button off of your blouse with a flick of his blade. the buttons scatter across the floor, clattering, and then he's closer, stretching your thighs apart, pencil skirt riding up as he slides those gloved hands up your legs until it scrunches around your wide hips.

"i know wot y'r doin'," ghost mutters. his forehead presses to yours, and you lift your knees, trapping him between your legs as you lock your ankles behind him. "think i haven't seen ya?"

"mmm..."

"oooohhh, now y'wanna play stupid, tha' 'ow it's gonna be, yeah?"

you'll play dumb and dumber until the day you die if he fucks you like this every time. the items on his desk scatter as he lays you over it, arms knocking pens and papers over as his mouth fits against yours and your little (compared to his own) hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans to get him just naked enough. he's eating you, stealing your breath, tongue laving over your teeth and around your mouth until there's spit gathering under your chin. he'd be a good kisser if he wasn't so fucking nasty about it, but it means you taste the ash that clings to him, and somehow it's good—so fucking good, take it out, take it out, take it out—

"knew you'd be big," you babble, soft hand cupping under his cock. he cradles the back of your head, tip catching between your folds, and you can do nothing but arch your back as he puts two thumbs against your pussy and fits himself inside.

he is big, in a nasty, terrible way. he's big in the way that must've turned other girls off. he's big in the way that must've made them gag, made them hurt, made them decide it was all too much and left before they could get his cock properly wet, and for that, you're taking this as a challenge.

when he presses a gloved hand over your belly and feels for the tip of his cock, you know you have him.

locked and fucking loaded.

he lets your fingers under the mask. your nails scratch over his buzzed hair under the fabric, and you hum into his mouth as he grips the outside of your thigh and pulls you even closer to him.

it'll never be the same again. you'll never be normal, not with this thing hiding you under their shadow. you'll never want another man, you'll never look at him the same way, you'll never feel as full as you at this very moment underneath him with his cock rearranging your insides and forcing your toes to curl in the heels you're still wearing.

your eyes water just as much as your pussy. you're leaking from everywhere—tears on your cheeks, slick along his cock, sweat at the base of your spine, drool in his mouth. you take it like the clumsy girl you really must be. your legs are dangling around his hips, body following his lead because you don't know what to do with yourself with how good he makes you feel.

you bare your throat as he grinds his hips. as your head tips back, his teeth catch your jaw, and when his cock punches somewhere soft, you push your hips up against his to meet him halfway. your body react on autopilot, but ghost forces you where he wants you with a stiff hand and a condescending huff.

"tha' good, innit?"

yes. yes, it's that fucking good, yes, it's the best you'll ever have, yes, you're going to make an excuse every single night so you can end up right here, underneath him, anchored against him for nothing but your pleasure. you'll do anything to come back.

you come just before him. your legs are shaking, hanging off his arms, and he buries his face into your neck when you feel his cum hot inside of you.

he pulls out slowly, chin against his thick chest as he watches the knickers he never took off of you soaked through now. he pinches the fabric between his gloved hands, sliding them off of you. he's a nasty man, and you expect him to pocket them, but what you didn't expect was his tongue to fall out, and you definitely didn't expect to see him wad up the fabric and stick it right into his mouth.

he grins, maniacal, as he sucks with a fervor before spitting it back out into his waiting hand. when your legs start to close, your thighs rubbing together for stimulation, ghost grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"oi," he pushes your legs apart, stepping between them again. "not done with you."

no, maybe ghost isn't like other men.

he's hungrier. it'll take much more than that to feed him right.

[becasbelt]

vi not wearing a bra after she's been recovering? makes sense, totally checks out. unclear if vi even owns a bra at this point. caitlyn not wearing a bra to go visit her dumbass ex who got herself locked in a secluded prison cell? SUSPICIOUS

[outer-andromeda]

... I also draw angst sometimes. Blame songs for fueling me-

(Song refs here are "La Foule" by Edith Piaf and "Against the Kitchen Floor" by Will Wood)

[isjasz]

Have you read midnight strangers? 

I ACTUALLY HAVE BUT i havent read the most recent chapter from like. a week ago yet BHASHDJSAD I need to read it soon.......

I did doodle them to test a brush a while ago too, but I desperately want to do proper fanart at some point istg💥

[future-crab]

okay so then "Blood" came on and the clown started doing a silly little dance next to Gerard's corpse and THEN he started taking off his shirt and for a second it kinda seemed like the clown was going to do a striptease but actually he was removing the shirt to reveal that he had a bomb strapped to his chest and Then he exploded. and then a lady played the cello for like ten minutes and then it was time for the encore...

[syoddeye]

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”