#They are merely a CONVENIENCE! Not a NECESSITY!

[stellaluna33]

Modern recipe-people's over-reliance on stand mixers is really starting to annoy me. "Oh no! How could you possibly make bread dough without a stand mixer and a fancy dough hook attachment?!" "How can I be expected to cream butter and sugar without a stand mixer?!" Well, I don't know... MAYBE USE A SPOON LIKE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN DOING FOR HUNDREDS THOUSANDS OF YEARS?!!!

Look, I KNOW it's tiresome to mix stuff by hand, but you have GOT to stop assuming that every person has both the money and the space for fancy kitchen equipment, and you have GOT to stop acting like this equipment is NECESSARY to the process! It's NOT! You should AT LEAST acknowledge the low-tech, low-budget alternative instead of implying that it's "impossible" without a fancy appliance! How hard is it to say, "use your stand mixer OR use a spoon/whisk/hand mixer"????

[beloveds-embrace]

Ok Duke au but only one of the boys fell for user! Maybe it was when she first came to the castle/ house, yk if Price ain't gonna give her love then let him!

Or maybe feelings showed up slowly, finally realizing that maybe he should go finally interact with her grace, seeing as she avoids any interactions with others.

Sorry if it makes no sense, I tried to make the decision of which boy falls only for user up to you, minus price >:)

i didn't want to make this too angsty fjddkcj </33 so it's more of the normal dukedom au

Kyle knows he shouldn’t; it isn’t part of the arrangement.

You were meant to be a formality, a necessity, a woman to fill a role, nothing more. And for a while, you had been just that. Sweet and competent, always carrying yourself with quiet dignity no matter the murmurs of high society. A wife in name, a duchess in duty, a friend of theirs, but never a true part of their world.

John had expected you to remain at a distance, and in return, you had been given a life of luxury and protection. That was the agreement. That was how it should have stayed.

But Kyle should’ve known better.

He should have known the moment you leaned over his shoulder one evening, peering at his bookkeeping notes with genuine interest instead of mere obligation. He should have known the moment you scolded Johnny for burning his hand, or when you’d pressed a cool cloth to Simon's temple after a headache instead of calling for a servant.

He should have known when you stopped seeing them as just your husband’s lovers.

But the real moment of downfall- the moment that shattered any fragile delusion he held- was when you smiled at him.

Not a polite smile, not a passing pleasantry.

A real smile.

It had been late. You had been working over estate documents at the desk, and he had lingered, pretending to tidy up, pretending to have something important to do. And then, you had looked at him, eyes warm, lips curving in a way that made something in his chest lurch.

"You work too hard, Kyle. Come sit down with me ?"

You had said his name. Not 'Mr. Garrick,' not 'the head butler.' Just Kyle. And it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time it made his heart ache something fierce and longing.

Because it was too soft. Too familiar. Too much like a wife speaking to a husband.

And now, he is here, standing beside John as you make your absurd little request, completely unaware of the way his hand clenches against his side.

You are oblivious, as you always are, so innocent in your own kindness. You do not see the way John’s gaze darkens, the way Kyle stiffens at your words.

"I am merely a bit… unsatisfied."

Your voice wavers slightly at the admission, and Kyle wonders- if he had been the one to claim you, if he had been the one to hold you at night, would you ever have been unsatisfied?

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, even as John’s fingers tighten around his glass.

Something tells him neither of them will let you remain unsatisfied for long.

But he knows the truth.

Even if you are claimed, even if you are made theirs, it will not be by some stable boy.

And that knowledge alone fills him with smug satisfaction.

He doesn’t miss the way John’s grip tightens around his glass, and he knows that if the other two were here as well, Simon's jaw would have tensed and Johnny would have lost all his amusing charm. You are oblivious, of course- always so sweetly naive, thinking you can simply ask for something like this and have it granted without consequence. But this? This will never happen.

John would never agree to this.

And Kyle is relieved. Relieved that your foolish little request will be swiftly discarded. Relieved that you will stay exactly where you belong- here, with them, under their watchful eyes.

You don’t even realize what you’ve done, do you? You think this arrangement is still just convenience, that they merely tolerate you. But Kyle sees it- the way even Simon looks at you during dances, the way Johnny slips you extra sweets as if bribing you into affection, the way John has begun watching you more intently, possessively.

You’ve wormed your way into their hearts, tangled yourself so deeply into their lives that they can’t ignore you anymore.

And Kyle?

Kyle is pleased.

Because it means you are theirs, whether you realize it or not. And no matter how much you pout over John’s rejection, you’ll never be anyone else’s. Because even if he'd been the first to fall for you, he did not need to worry about the others not liking you as well. And now, he will not need worry about anyone else taking you from them.

Not now, and not ever.

[cupofwyn]

may i have this dance?⠀( l.jn )

pairing יִ،⠀lee jeno!prince × fem!reader

genre/s יִ،⠀fluff. a tinge of comedy. bridgerton period. royalty!AU. rofan.

warning/s יִ،⠀profanity. little to inaccurate representations of the regency era. being chased. overpraising of jeno's beauty (not guilty).

wc יִ،⠀10.3k

a/n יִ،⠀i might have underestimated the word count—i thought it was going to be short for a oneshot but oh well. THANK YOU FOR THE LONG AWAITED ANTICIPATION. i honestly couldn't have done it without you guys. if u liked it, i'd like to hear your thoughts about it thru reblog, comments, or even an ask! tyvm for waiting <(_ _)>

synopsis יִ،⠀it was all self-inflicted pressure when the spotlight finally turned to you as the final member of the family to experience a love story—the miracle that has been passed down from your parents down to your siblings and the privilege of love in marriage that has been jealoused upon the ton of high society. though the world might have run out of love stories available for you when your family took it all to their delight, or so you thought.

IT'S DAUNTING TO BE IN THIS SCENERY. The mere presence of the most extravagant things seen by spectators of this ballroom and the contrasting sentiments you had within it.

A rush of cold blood runs from your head down to your fidgeting fingers, though you can’t quite pick on your fingers like how you’d used to without gloves.

Everything here is tremendously uncomfortable.

After a few gentlemen who asked for your hand for a dance after conversations, to which you’ve escaped with excuses of going to the powder room, an imaginary friend calling you from afar, and many more lame reasons you could come up with, you’re back to the place where your mother left you a couple of songs ago.

All the sharp eyes that hid uncomfortable curiosity and the reoccurring implicit words that only let you converse about anything but yourself.

Inheritance and fascination about your family’s wealth and the sudden showers of compliments and two-faced flirting tactics—it was getting repetitive.

How could it be not known that the youngest daughter of the emperor's most influential and right-hand man and adviser was to debut in this season? Every man that you approached and conversed with would immediately recognize you and call your name before you even introduced yourself; the striking appearance of the marquess passed down to yours and feminized. No noble nor commoner could not recognize a child of the man whom the ruler of this kingdom entrusted and was well-endowed by every fertile land and mine.

Despite this, there was a more interesting mystic that involved not only your father but your whole family.

Love and marriage.

The oddest and rarest words that could be found together, as marriage is only ever seen as a necessity when a noble comes of age. Politics, business partnerships, and also harshly done to pay for debts, so there was no chance that marriage could turn into something romantic when it is established outside of those forms—yet bizarrely, your family is in a different light.

Your parents, the marquess, and marchioness were wed out of political convenience and yet ended up being the love match of their season, leading to their children being raised with it. Your first-born older sister’s husband might come off as someone who forcefully wed your sister to marriage but was wed out of love at first sight; your older brother with scandalous womanizer antics in the circle and yet is trying to bury the fact that his childhood friend from across our manor's street is slowly becoming the person of his desires and is oblivious that it is also reciprocated.

Love is contagious in this family, and you hate that it's a standard in your family to be wed out of it.

It is incredibly obnoxious. All you knew was that it was the oddest feeling you've seen from your family after seeing those subtle gestures of endearment they shared with their partners. There was always that softness and warmth in their eyes whenever they looked at their significant other despite them looking away.

How powerful is love that it makes a person pacify and willingly consign themselves for the other?

Perhaps you were the end of it.

Such a thing couldn't be held within a grasp of hand if you wanted it right this instance, but in every attempt for you to engage and entertain such thoughts with other gentlemen—something sparks different in their eyes.

Deceitment. They view you as a spectacle—the love that surrounded your family was their tool to win you over, and it terrifies you.

To achieve love, did it have to be this manipulative and hurtful?

Your expectations crashed down with every interaction you had with every man in this hall.

You were simply a target in their eyes.

The uncomfortable hunting gazes they shared with you and their presence alone induced such an invasive depth of cautiousness in you.

To be perceived without any control of the situation, far from the peaceful environment you had within your own confinements before you debuted. The tightness you endured from your corset is nothing more than what your chest and breathing had right now. With a frantic heartbeat and the cold pump of blood rushing into you, you don’t notice someone calling out for your attention.

“Dear?” A firm hand wrapped around your arms, and you jumped from the sudden contact until you recognized your mother's voice, disrupting the unconscious well in your eyes.

“Mama,” you replied.

“Are you feeling well? You've been here ever since I talked to the whole ton of this banquet. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Your mother rubbed your arms firmly.

“It's nothing, mama. Just the nerves.” you returned.

“So, how are things going? Have you enjoyed the evening with a charming gentleman, perhaps?” she told you with a teasing tone, beaming a smile at the view of dancing couples and the beautiful quartet's piece gracing the air.

She trusted that with your lively nature, you would talk to any gentleman without any push of encouragement from her, so she left you alone to fend for your own partner. With your pesky and womanizer antic of your brother, what would go wrong when you were left alone in your first debutante ball?

Alas, she forgot that you were a shut-in marquis’ daughter and that your brother is the exact reason why you can't continue to converse with any gentleman in this banquet. Violence and disgust were the only emotions you ever had with the opposite sex in the comforts of your own home, but to be faced with strangers and to be expected to converse well with them? Indeed, different emotions other than what you feel around your brother were reeling in—most of it anxiety.

“Oh, yes! The gentlemen are very charming and very pleasing to look at while I am dancing.” you strayed a forced laugh by the end in an unstable voice, and you coughed to clear it, now grinning to your mother's way in hopes that she'd not find you suspicious.

The marchioness heaved a joyous chuckle at herself as she looked at you proudly, wrapping her arms around yours to link it.

“I am so happy for you, dear.” she embraced you and pulled away as she looked at you adoringly, “If you're feeling more enthusiastic, I could interest you with other gentlemen—”

“How delightful!” An annoying pipsqueak cuts out mother and has snuck through you from the crowd of desperate and awestruck women frolicking at him, inducing you to roll your eyes at him—the rightful heir of the marquis-dom and your older brother, Haechan.

You were at the least thankful for his presence right now, as your mother could’ve suggested something preposterous if he didn’t interrupt.

He cheekily greeted you with a grin and bowed mockingly.

Those familiar eyes of deceit always brought a chill to your spine.

Don't tell me.

“Good evening, missus debutante. Still not up to the offer that this fine brother of yours will be your first name on your dance card?” The marchioness pinched his arms, and he winced, breaking his dashing persona as he woefully looked at your mother beside him.

“Haechan, have you no concern? Your sister is actually having the time of her life, enjoying the lining lords for her hand tonight while you have been out here, just making your chances with another set of women for you to play with.” Haechan rubbed his injured arm and formed a slight pout.

“What line of suit—” he did not finish as you immediately pinched his side, making him snap his head at you with bloodshot eyes.

“Make yourself useful and go out there. I have someone I want her to be introduced to.” your mother insisted.

“Mama, please. I don't want any of this bloody extravaganza,” you said through gritted teeth, and you likewise got a tug from your mother on your sides, her eyes wide openly glaring at you.

“Y/N! Language,” she whisper-shouted, and you mumbled an annoyed apology in return.

“I should tell you, Y/N,” Haechan spoke up, looking at you with mischief in his eyes, the corner of his mouth upturned.

“Don't you dare.” you mouthed at him.

“—A dance! A dance doesn’t really make them your definitive husband, dear sister.” he apathetically commented and crossed his arms, giving you a smug look.

You furrowed your eyebrows at him. You could even feel your ears and nostrils shooting out warm air.

“That is true.” your mother replied. “Although it truly matters who you're dancing with at your debutante gala.” The marchioness starts, and you can shoot a look at her and sigh that she's even doing her sermons at this event. “It resembles the refined attitude and talents of a noble lady. In short, it defines their role in society. For example, your older sister’s husband, the Duke of Rogan. He might be considered the tyrant who mercilessly killed a thousand of the enemy’s army last year, but he is devilishly handsome. You wouldn’t want your sister to be looked upon as with plain rigid taste in marital circles because her first dance is with someone like, well—”

“Like Lord Hopworth.” Your brother continued.

“Hm. Yes, a gentleman with a love for his horses that he only smells of stables and dirt.” Your mother helplessly agrees and fans herself in shame, discussing such gossip circle topics with her children.

“Comparing sister’s husband to Lord Hopworth…they are both in different leagues, mother. I, on the other hand, have no issues whatsoever with the man's hobbies and his reputation in the marital circle. Still, he has already danced with all the women in his family during the past three marital seasons. Might a miracle of a chance would only appear if a distant cousin would appear out of thin air or if Y/N had the wits to ask him a dance.” Haechan chuckled to himself proudly, uttering from you a gasp.

Your brother has been testing your waters ever since he joined your company, and this growing annoyance soon turns into an outburst.

“Explains why women who danced with my unwed brother for three years are still not wed by now. You're just trying hard to hide the fact that you have feelings for your best friend.” you retorted back.

“Y/N! That's crude.” your mother criticizes your sudden remark.

Haechan's eyes grow open in every passing second, and his breathing stops. In a while, he snaps his head away, half-suppressing a snicker.

“Well, look who's talking. See, mother.” Haechan started, and you could feel your chest suddenly heavy.

“I heard from the gentlemen's circle that my dearest sister kept on escaping dance offers from several gentlemen, saying that she would make lousy excuses to reject their dance offers tacitly—!” he ended with a huff. Your mother was frozen on the spot. She finally lets go of your linked arms, looking at you with disbelief.

"Mama, I can explain."

“Is it true, Y/N?” She suddenly asks with a firm tone.

“I…” You’re left speechless. The disappointing truth of your dance affairs is now out in the open, revealed to your mother. At any moment, you’re almost about to be eaten up by guilt at your attitude, especially in your debut.

While rejecting dance offers is rude, the fact that you have dismissed a number of offers from gentlemen of this banquet and have been talked about in their circle was more destructive to your family’s reputation, but most importantly, your reputation.

“Yes, I admit it,” you admitted, your eyes lowering away from your mother.

“You should have just told me, dear. There's no need for you to lie about it.”

“If I would admit it, then I’ll only place you on the burden that I’m carrying. I—” you choked on your own voice, and your eyes grew well with tears.

“Mother, I have been only looked at as an object by all the men here. I tried my best to engage in a conversation, but all that I get are harsh eyes and insincere words, and I believe it is because they only see me for what I have—what our family has! Mama,” the last word strays like a plead, and you continue with choked tears.

“I’m sorry. I need to have fresh air.” You turned your heels away and left the front doors of the palace, leaving your familial company stunned.

“Y/N!” Your brother almost followed along but was stopped by your mother, her hand placed on his arms, and she shook her head.

“Leave your sister alone for now. She needs time to adjust.”

“But Mama, she was being rude!” Haechan grimaced.

“You have to understand that your sister must be faced with expectations not only from others but herself. She must have gone through so much when I left her.” The marchioness released a heavy sigh, burdened with guilt for having left you unattended.

“Oh, what have I done to her?” she brought her head down in defeat, and Haechan rubbed her arms for comfort, unable to speak anything and partly guilty of his behavior towards you.

“Check on her after a few minutes.” your mother pleaded, but it took a few minutes before he could respond.

“Alright.”

THE TEARS IN YOUR EYES FELL STRONGLY DOWN YOUR CHEEKS AS YOU LEFT THE SCENE. Your vision starts to get blurry, and you pursed your lips in hopes that these tears may come to a halt, but you know it isn’t that easy.

Humiliating. Pathetic. Your family has finally discovered your true intentions. You knew that the only people to blame were the men you interacted with and not yourself, but in the end, you were the one who was more affected by their treatment of you. Their simplistic perception of you as nothing but the daughter of a marquess that could bring them to their own prime and financial risings to the society, and it drove you mad.

You were furious about your status, yet, at the same time, conflicted that maybe you were a bit too sensitive and could not stand your guard.

But was it wrong to be hurt? That even with these privileges, you were viewed as nothing but that as soon as you left home.

Debuting into society wasn’t all what you thought it was. It isn’t romantic nor the slightest bit magical. It is war only disguised as something pleasurable with performative beauty in one place.

You desperately tried to hold back your weeping, hiding under the garden’s fountain, not the slightest care that your dress would be dirtied with the grass you laid on, clutching your chest to ease the heaviness. You thought that the fresh air and the silence of the outside gardens could appease, though now it is only the opposite. The vulnerability that you hid as much as you could only cease to hide and break down.

What a waste. That you were just crying in this beautiful scenery.

The serene lush of green and the silence of the night, flickers of stars shining bright in the night sky, bearing witness to the presence of a distraught lady sitting alone under the water fountain.

You look up to the night sky and wipe the falling tears with your arms, another set of tears only falling as you wipe your cheeks.

But there was no time to waste, you knew. You sniffed in all your snot, removing your gloves and disregarding it as it was moist from all the wiping, and let yourself calm down, hoping that there were no further moments that you’d cry again.

Don’t try being a coward this time, you demanded to yourself, quickly huffing out a breath as you slapped your cheeks.

There was no other choice but to go back inside and dance to any man that your eyes would first lay on—no matter their perception of you.

“Let's do this.”

However, a disruption comes.

A shuffle of running feet is suddenly getting louder by any minute closer to you, and you snappily bring your head to the source, seeing a young man with jet black hair and clothes with a ruby red suit running towards you, occasionally looking behind them as if being chased.

Only one thing and one matter came to mind when you saw that scene: To run.

You wasted no time, got up from the fountain's edge, and you hit your head on the edge. You hissed at the impact, slowly standing up as you clutched your head.

“Please!” A young man's voice called out, and it was from the gentleman running towards you. “Please, hide me.” he huffed.

Before you could run away from him, the man finally reached you and immediately hid behind the bushes near the fountain.

What...what was that?

You stood there with nothing in mind and confused about the sudden role given to you.

After a few seconds, another gentleman ran towards you, and this time, you were prepared to run away.

“My lady, halt! I only have a question to ask you.” he stops a few feet away from you and bends, his arms holding onto his knees as he catches his breath.

You stop in your tracks, obliging, and take two steps back.

He fixed himself and stood up straight, a foot tall from you. A refined man with rounded slit eyes and a timid demeanor stands before you, the same age, you guessed, as the man earlier, who is currently hiding in the bushes. He plastered a kind smile, eyes disappearing as he took his barnacle from his suit pocket.

The man cleared his voice and bowed down to greet you, and you do the same.

“Good evening, my lady. I am the son of the Viscount Huang. Renjun Huang, from the House of Capri. Pardon that I rashly made a bad impression on you during our first meeting.”

You greeted back a good evening, introducing yourself and your house, bowing again, and stood up, raising your chin slightly as you carefully asked. “What of I could assist you, Sir Huang?”

“There seems to be someone I am looking for but had run away, rather—” the viscount chuckled to himself and reiterated, “My company has left me alone.”

“Have you perhaps seen a young man with this stature,” he gestured inches above his height. “Wearing a red suit and has black hair?” he finished, and you froze at your spot.

His descriptions of the gentleman he was looking for were precisely like the man you saw speeding towards you, asking you to hide him from someone, which you presume is this person who introduced himself as the son of the House of Capri, Renjun Huang.

You thought deeply, trying to recall any memory from your social etiquette classes that made you memorize and recognize the names and history of each noble family in the kingdom before debuting, as it was essential to have one before entering society.

Viscount Huang from the House of Capri. Weren’t they a family of butlers who have served the imperial family from generation to generation?

"Hmm, a gentleman with that stature has a red suit and black hair?" he nodded at your question, and you wandered off, looking around as you faked an attempt to deeply think about his inquiry when you were actually in a dilemma on whose side you should pick.

Obviously, you had no relations with both gentlemen, and only a huge silence engulfed you as your own conscience measured the rightful decision in this situation.

You gulped and looked back at the man before you and immediately looked away as you saw the desperation and that hint of insanity in his eyes, vividly seeing those dark circles beneath them.

To which gentleman do you trust and help out?

“…I think,” you crossed your arms, rubbing your arms with your hands to appease you as you thought deeply of your choice. “I think I saw that man went that way.” you nervously pointed to your left where the gates leading to another part of the castle are.

The viscount mumbled to himself that he thought right and bowed his head to you. “Thank you, Miss Y/N. Have a good evening.” Sir Huang paused for a moment and smiled gently, adding. “I also hope you are feeling well, my lady.” and he ran in the direction you pointed.

And you were grateful for the sentiment that he shared with you; as short as it was, you felt that he was worried about you. Your eyes must be so swollen from the crying that you took no care to care about your appearance to anybody else. Now you felt guilty for deceiving him.

You waited until his figure disappeared from sight as he entered the castle, and you heaved out a big exhale you had unconsciously held earlier.

You should never be left unchaperoned in another social gathering, you decided.

Though, you can only wonder. Why was the son of a viscount, the son of the current imperial butler, so hung up on this person behind the bushes to the point of chasing him?

Oh, gosh.

You might have chosen a criminal.

A threat to the royal family, perhaps?

Speaking of the devil, the bush near the fountain rustled, and you turned slowly to the bushes, quickly seeking any sort of weapon you could find, and you saw a twig. You picked it up, bent it a little, swung it around to test its firmness, and finally decided that it was good for defense as it was durable.

It is better to have one or nothing, you thought.

You suspiciously walked near it, which is the most reckless thing to do right now, but the twig you held right now gave you that foolish, courageous act. That it could give you full defense against a possible criminal.

Then comes out the man from earlier, his broad back and his clean-cut hair in your view, startling you as your shoulders jump, causing you to clutch your chest and pacify your pounding heart.

“Thank heavens.” a deep voice unveils out of the mysterious man, and he sweeps the dirt and leaves on him, soon turning to you with a troubled face.

You swore you could feel your jaw getting loose as you froze in awe of the man before you.

Chiseled face made of strong facial bones, nose perfectly angled to a degree, lush pink lips of a distinguishable cupid's bow above it, and those long set of lashes, low as it veils his dark eyes, deep yet shining underneath the yellow dim lights of the nearby lamp post around us; it's almost like the porcelain statues and paintings of the imperial ancestors from the palace has come to life—the most significant artists and poets combined to forge imagery of a rightful muse to every medium and ink that praises a divine being.

And that mole, placed under his eyes.

His eyes stare back at you, only delving you to say.

“Wow.”

“Pardon?” The man raises his brow, his lips upturned to amusement.

Your cheeks get warm, and you immediately shake your hands in the air, correcting yourself. “I mean, wow—no, I mean,” you paused and thought deeply to yourself as you looked back at him with seriousness. “I'm afraid there are no present expressions to describe it.”

The man blinked, dumbfounded, and his cheekbones started to define, soon bursting into a fit of laughter at your reaction, holding his stomach as he bent down to laugh more.

The urge to be eaten by the ground was more tempting than ever in your point of existence. You lightly smacked your lips with your hand to punish yourself for your intrusive thoughts winning before you just by the presence of this captivating being.

He finished as he calmed down, ending it with a smile as he stood tall.

“Thank you. I've never been complimented with that expression before, at least not in a first meeting—wow.” The man snickered to himself, his eyes raised to the shape of a crescent moon, and you almost melted to your knees.

The imperial court should consider banning that charming smile; you finally kept the thought to yourself.

“I am deeply grateful for your kindness, miss. I would have understood if you had chosen Sir Huang instead of me since I am, after all, still a stranger to you.” he bowed to the highest degree, his upper body lowered straight as the ground, and you nervously assumed the same greeting, stunned with this deep gratitude.

You realize that this man is still a potential criminal, and you discreetly hide your weapon (a twig) behind you.

“Why were you chased by the viscount, my lord?” you backed off a few steps from the mysterious man as you stood before he did.

“Well, if I were speaking truthfully,” he whirred lowly, trying to find the right words to reason his circumstance. “I would have been forced to enter the ballroom to which I have been warily hiding from my chaperone—I don't want to go through this dancing propaganda, you see.”

“Oh,” you relaxed a little, the grip on your weapon (still a twig) becoming less firm. “I guess I understand.” you engaged.

“You do?”

“Do what?” you looked up at him cautiously, and he walked close to you.

“You also dislike this conviction behind the dancing and the desperation for marriage.” he reiterated, adamant sparkles of enthusiasm in his eyes, still not taking a hint of your obvious nervousness.

“I don't think we're meant to talk so freely about that.” you attempted to retreat from the topic, or moreover, from him, and the sparks were lost as he lowered his eyes and he finally stopped.

“Oh. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” The gentleman begged pardon, sincerity clear in his apology, and you notice it, bringing you to look at him and shaking your head.

“No! It's just that...” you hesitated. “I believe my opinions and criticisms of society, as a lady, would be frowned upon. That's why I responded that way.”

The young man looks at you and eases, assured that you are not opposed nor baffled by the conversation's topic.

“Well,” he looked around. “We are the only people present here, aren't we? You're free to tell me things without feeling drawn back, and I assure you that I intently outcast myself from society.”

“You have such grand privileges, my lord. I feel envious of that freedom.” you professed, smiling at him green-eyed, and he shrugged his shoulders, crossing his arms as he looked far and sighed, sitting on the edge of the water fountain.

“It's not always thrilling. My siblings are wary of me because my father favors me more than they do. My father also insisted that I marry and take his stead immediately. With my escapades, I am never to be left alone again when I leave my chambers,” he shared.

He noticed the silence afterward and soon came to regret his actions again.

“I apologize. I may have overshared—”

“I also have a conflicting problem as you do, but more personal.” you also opened up, also sitting on the water fountain's edge, still keeping a good fair distance from him. “I am the youngest and the last of my family to come of age, and I feel like I am not suitable to be here. This dancing and its etiquettes.” you stopped.

He remains silent, eyes now focused on you and every meaning that is present on your face as you're looking away, noticing the tears welling in your eyes.

“If you know my family very well, then you could probably guess that I am very privileged and that everybody wants to get close to me.” you chuckled to yourself, looking down and bringing your hands in front of you, now fidgeting on the twig. “It's funny how I hate that kind of attention because that means I can easily make friends, but it's not genuine.”

The cold air breeze caved between you, and there remained silence. The man keenly waits for another word from you, but there is a look of hesitance present on yours, and before he opens his mouth to talk, you continue.

“I hate it. Everything there reminds me that I could be easily eaten up if I'm not careful, and I’m scared to take any dance offers that could possibly have a hidden motive.” you wept yet again, the warm tears now falling on your cold hands, and you wiped it away.

You say nothing. In your peripheral, you notice a white thing hanging in the air, and you look at it, seeing an extended arm from the stranger who is reassuringly smiling, handing you a handkerchief.

“Here.” the man said, and you hesitated, staring at the handkerchief.

“There's nothing on the handkerchief. I swear on my family's name. It's yours to take.” he reassured, and you felt found out from your cautiousness.

“Thank you.” you mumbled under your breath and accepted the handkerchief, wiping every tear and snot on your face.

You have never thought to receive such understanding from a stranger this evening or be listened to without any judgment and malice. This interaction is what you hoped to receive from all of the conversations of the past gentleman—to be simply heard.

The man secretly grins to himself, finding the scene endearing and relaxed as you were freely talking to him.

“...If it assures you, I experience the same thing as you do ever since I was aware of it.” he sympathized with you, and you looked up at him, finding him smiling though opposite from his eyes, pained as he looked at the sky.

“People looked at me and treated me kindly, but they secretly plot things behind me just to use me, using their closeness to me to satisfy their selfish desires or to raise their rankings. My parents were wed out of convenience just to make an heir, and ever since then, I have lived my life carefully—I rarely find people who I could lean on and depend on.”

“That's why I don't bother myself attending the dances or any party, and I just stay outside of it when I'm forced to attend one. I realized if I even find this occasion tempting to join, then I'll only add more unwanted attention to my life.” he ended, and there came again the silence, but now you're sharing eye contact.

It is comforting this silence you shared this time, pleasant and easy to bear, and you can't help but break in a smile, a stray tear coming down your cheek, and he chuckled, rubbing his nape timidly at this progression.

The mysterious man sitting far away from you had more depth now that you knew behind the charming and gleaming factors that there was vulnerability and the capability for sympathy.

Would it be too much to ask for more of him?

“Would you care to share some refreshments with me?” you confidently sat a bit closer.

“I—”

“Your Highness!” Before he could answer, a distant voice shouted, and both of you looked at the familiar figure, Sir Huang, running towards you.

“What did he say?” your eyebrows furrowed as you watched Sir Huang getting closer.

“Your High—”

“Not important.” he interrupted, now standing near you as he held out his hand. “I'm sorry, but we must run, my lady. Please take my hand.” you can't help but accept it, and the both of you dash away in the direction of the ballroom's entrance. You run behind him, completely confused by your necessary involvement with this escapade and threatened that you are also now being chased.

“What is happening, my lord!” You shouted at him.

“I know a secret passage to the ballroom. Just follow me.” he looked back at you and quickly glanced at the growing tired viscount running after us.

The evening wind was cold as it slapped across your body and created a mess out of your hair, your breathing slowly reminding you that you are not the athletic person to run away with a chasing situation and definitely not with the evening gown and shoes you are wearing. You might need to lie down on the cold floor after this inevitably.

On the other hand, the lord, who is still firmly holding your hand, drags you both to hide any block and bushes, and after puzzling the frantic Sir Huang, the both of you proceed to run, him noticeably slowing his pace to match yours from time to time.

You were starting to lose your breath, and the both of you were finally on the grounds of the outside gates of the ballroom.

“It's truly incredible how you're still not catching your breath, my lord, but may I remind you,” you inhaled in more air and wiped the sweat off your forehead while he was tensely looking for whatever he hoped to find. “I am simply not built for running. I don't even like running at all!”

He quietly shushed you, and you pursed your lips to refrain complaints from coming out of your mouth, and you noticed that he still hadn't let go of your hand.

You flushed from the continual contact, and he dragged you away from the gate, leading you to the right side of the building, where a door meant for the servants and the noticeable clinks of pans from the inside. He doesn't hesitate to open it and bring you inside quickly, walking past the servants who are startled by the sudden presence of nobles in the dirty kitchen.

“Where are we going?” Your knees still feel weak from running, and outside of the kitchen, there is a stairway that leads upstairs, to which each noble was not permitted to enter at all costs as the ballroom grounds and the gardens were the only places that one was to enter.

“We're not permitted to enter this place, my lord!” Your hand dragged him down as he stepped on one step of the staircase, and he looked at you with a glint of hurry in his eyes.

‘Would you rather be seen with me by the viscount or continue running away with me?” he probed, lowering his chin to look down at you at the end of the stairway.

“Look,” you paused to make a statement. “I don't know why I am running with you when this is not part of my concern. You can't possibly think that I would run away with someone I just met!” you exclaimed, wide-eyed as you looked at the unnamed lord, finding his suggestions reckless.

The man was stunned by your reaction, visibly hurt by you berating the connection you made after all of those conversations, and you can see it, the guilt of your outburst at him gnawing at you.

“I seem to have chosen the wrong words. My butler—” he sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “The son of the viscount rather has seen us together, and you would be the prime evidence and witness of my last presence in this event, which he would never let go of, my lady. So choose. Would you rather be with me and slowly part our ways or be seen with me by the viscount and hear rumors of us being alone and unchaperoned?” the man paused, looking intently at you as he waited for your response. You, who had nothing to say and were ashamed of your earlier response, just nodded and agreed.

“Alright.” The both of you then walked up the staircase, his grip on your hand still unceasing, and you're slowly becoming bothered by it.

“You can let go of my hand already, sir.” you said.

“Sorry.” he quickly let go as the two of you reached the second floor.

The surrounding frames of eerily familiar faces of royals on the walls urge you to avoid any eye contact with them, their faces now barely comfortable to stare and adore at, and the clanking of both of the soles of your shoes on the wooden platform floors, loud, awkward, filling up the silence that the both of you shared only heightens the apparent climactic end of this camaraderie you shared at the garden—your blunt take on how your meeting was simply empty.

You can't help but feel hurt that you haven't considered the sentimental and unexpected companionship with a man you helped for unknown reasons was the best part of this nightmarish marital circle.

The man was clearly hurt by your words earlier and he still inevitably did not leave you alone to be spotted unchaperoned alone with a man. He helped you and listened to you without you asking of him. Your response earlier was ungrateful, responding that you were bothered by it.

You bit your lips, clasping your hands in front of you as you walked behind him.

“My lord?” you called him, and he answered with a gentle hum, continuing to walk.

“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to dismiss our meeting we had at the gardens.”

He stopped and looked back as he smiled reassuringly.

“There's no need for you to apologize, miss. I have inconvenienced you after all. Our meeting earlier was certainly unexpected and troubling for you, so I understand.” he turned back and continued to walk.

After a few walks, the muffled music from the ballroom slowly got louder. The ballroom was near your vicinity, and you tried to strike up a conversation.

“Are you still not interested in dancing, my lord?”

“Not really. I'm still not interested in being on the dance floor,” he responded shortly, and you take it as a sign not to continue, but he added after a second.

“After the past two seasons, my father is determined to marry me to any woman he'd find me dancing with,” he added, and you hummed thoughtfully.

“So this would be your third season in the marriage circle?” you asked him, and he nodded.

“Indeed.”

His answer made you think deeply, slowly coming up with crafted advice in your head. “Huh,” you responded as you came to a thought, and he looked back at you, puzzled.

“What do you mean by huh?"

“I think you’re missing the point here, my lord.” you slowly caught up to his pace. “If I were you, I'd be setting up a forged relationship with another noble lady just to keep off those kinds of intrusive parents, and then we'd keep the contract for a few years at the least,” you suggested with not much thought.

“Hmm, wait. But it would also not last that much—”

“...I see.” the man replied.

To your dismay, the person chasing you might have finally found out your presence, a set of running feet suddenly getting nearer, and your companion panicked, quickly moving both of you toward a nearby narrow corner, enough for both people to hide.

“Hide in that corner quickly.” He placed you in the corner and helped to hide you, but he didn't bother to hide with you.

“My lord, you should also hide.” you caught his arm and nudged him to where you were hiding too.

“My lady.” he suddenly said, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“Yes?” you replied carefully.

“May I ask for your hand for the next song?”

“What?” you almost shouted out, and he just grinned.

“Your advice was brilliant.” he complimented, and you furrowed your eyebrows.

“I'm saying I would like to make an alliance with you. I'll ask for your hand, and you'll be the center of attention by tonight's party.”

“But wouldn't that risk me being your prospect partner?”

“Unless you'd be proposed to by a ton of suitors by the next morning, there'll be no chance of me winning, and there would be a delay in their enforcement of me to get married. Wouldn't it also be romantic to be asked by many men after dancing with a fine bachelor like me?” he joked by the end, and you scowled in reaction.

“I am not so certain with your plan, my lord. You, who I realized I am not aware of your name yet, and the noble family you belong to wouldn't possibly cause that much ruckus. Unless you are one of the royal princes, then that would make a lot of difference.” he evidently feels startled by your suggestion, and he shakes his head in denial.

“What? No—! Pfft. Why would you assume so?” he waved his hands in the air and continued. “But still, I'll make sure that I will help you feel less burdened with your situation. It's a win-win situation for both of us. At least for a while, when you don't pick me.”

“And how are you so sure I wouldn't pick you?” you answered quite quickly, and the young lord was startled, and so were you by your boldness.

The two of you spend a few seconds just staring at each other, and he breaks eye contact, looking away as he clears his voice.

“My lord, please,” Sir Huang coughed. “Please show yourself! I can't do this any longer!” he complained.

“What's your answer, my lady?” the man before you finally asked, holding out his hand, and you paused for a while, still a bit embarrassed.

Your act of boldness was unexpected of you. That plan you proposed was just a way to converse with him, but it made you look interested in your newfound companion. You just hoped that it wouldn't make both of you awkward, but that doesn't seem to be the case, as he was still willing to do it with you.

This alliance would be all in your favor. You'll finally show your mother that you have enjoyed tonight's party and won't place any more worry on her, but why would he assume you would want more men by the next morning? You don't want any flock of men by the next morning. You didn't like that he said that.

“I'm in.” you agreed and accepted his hand to shake. “This better work, sir?”

There's nothing wrong with accepting it either way, is it?

“Jeno.” He joined your hands and firmly made a handshake. “Call me Lord Jeno, my lady.”

Sir Huang still complains about his missing companion, Lord Jeno. His sneaking footsteps become louder, and Sir Jeno hid you properly for once.

“I'll show myself to the viscount, and you wait for a while until we leave. I'll see you downstairs.”

Then he left.

THIS ALLIANCE. THIS PLAN. You could immediately feel that you might soon regret agreeing to that ridiculous suggestion you made with that man. It was rebellious and certainly not fitting for someone who just entered the society. The man you agreed with has been in the season for three years, and you're barely keeping up with this hectic day a noble lady could have for just coming of age.

You waited a while after you heard no mumbling noises in the hallway and slowly got up, holding on to the wall as your knees weakened from all the running and the brief relaxation your legs had to take. You grunted as you fixed and swept your skirt clean, fixed your hair in place to a nearby mirror, peeked a little from the corners to investigate your surroundings, and left as you determined the place clear.

The music from the ballroom comes to a halt, the quartet resting for another set of music for tonight, and you start to get nervous as you encounter the stairway leading down to the ballroom.

You grumbled to yourself as you descended the stairs, questioning your actions and wondering about the identity of the mysterious man who finally introduced himself as Lord Jeno.

Everything about him exuded aristocracy, so you had no doubt that he was a noble and definitely wasn’t a criminal. But what was the deal of the son of a viscount chasing him like hunting prey? The son of the viscount whose family are butlers of the imperial family?

You almost scratched your head in this situation you've put yourself in. While you were grateful for the unexpected companionship you made with a handsome gentleman tonight, you had just dragged yourself into another complex obstacle you have never faced. More worse than arguing with your mother about your lying.

Who was Lord Jeno?

The ballroom doors swung open, and the gleaming yellow lights of the ballroom soon entered your vision. You stepped down to the final step of the staircase, near the refreshments where the people took their rest after a dance—and you attracted too much attention.

They must’ve heard your issue with accepting a number of dance offers from the noblemen, and you were gone by the following few songs when you conversed with the family you brought tonight.

People in society are quick to judge anyone who acts differently from the must-followed social etiquette you discovered. They're quick to spread words, to create a transparent wall they could ridicule anyone who is not doing the norms.

You couldn't bear but notice and catch all of the glances, and the whispered conversations shamelessly out loud in front of you, and your eyes desperately searched the room, looking for familiarity, looking for a place you could very much hide.

“Y/N!” you snapped and looked in the direction of the voice to see your brother walking towards you grumpily.

“I thought that you were outside, and I came out looking for you only to find you nowhere! Where have you been!” Haechan nagged, placing his hands on his hips as he exasperated an annoyed groan.

You looked down in defeat, not having the energy to fight back like what you usually do with him, not in this place. You could only give them another thing to talk about.

“I'm sorry I made you worried.” Haechan's gaze towards you softened, with the hands on his hips soon placed in his pockets.

Seeing you in a state where your usual reaction was to fight back was unusual for Haechan, and instead of anger and frustration, his emotions subsided into pure concern for you.

“Hey, I'm very sorry earlier. I shouldn't have told mother about your situation. It wasn't my right to do so.” Your brother apologized, and you looked up at him to see him with sympathizing eyes. You smiled knowingly, slowly turning into chuckles.

“You don't look good acting kind.” you teased, and he gently nudged you in response, shrugging off your comment.

“Shut up.” he irked and crossed his arms as he smiled by the end after the two of you shared a laugh.

“Say, brother," you said.

“Yes?” he replied.

“If a person was ever chased by a son of a butler, a known imperial butler to be exact, what does that mean for the person chased?” you asked hesitatingly.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” your immediate reply only brings him to suspicion by your sudden behavior.

“Y/N,” he started. “What did you do this time?”

You avoid eye contact with him as you start to fidget, your heart beating anxiously as you count as the seconds that pass by, observing how the musicians slowly approach their instruments and flip their music sheets on a standee.

“A man was chased by the son of Viscount Huang.” you gulped, and Haechan remained silent, pausing to come up with an appropriate question as he observed your frozen figure.

“And?” he asked.

“I made an alliance with said man.”

“Y/N,” he said with gritted teeth as he sighed in defeat. “What have you done!”

“I know, and I have my suspicions too! Alright! But I swear the person has only given me infinite kindness from the beginning…If you exclude the part that I helped in hiding him from the son of the royal butler.”

“Sweet heavens.” he places his palm on his forehead, shaking his head in distress.

“All we agreed was to have one dance, and that's it! I promise there's nothing more than what we have agreed. But listen, this man,” you stopped, looking around you, and got nearer to him as you whispered. “We might be talking about the kingdom’s prince here.” you reasoned with him, and he thought about it, looking at you still for you to continue.

“That’s ridiculous,” he commented. “There’s no way a prince would be asking you out.”

You gasped and hit him on his arm. “You know insulting me is also insulting our parents and yourself too.”

“I had my doubts.” Haechan joked, and you hit him again, earning from him a ‘hey!’.

“You have to take this seriously. This man has been acting suspiciously from the start. Look. He was chased by what I presume, his butler. I heard quite faintly a ‘Your Highness!’ when we were chased down by his butler, and he…” You looked at him, dead in the eyes. “Was a terrible liar. He had quite a violent reaction when I suspected him to be one of the princes.”

“You know, the youngest prince was supposed to debut on my season, but he hasn’t shown up ever since. No one knows his face or name.” Haechan whispered back at you.

“And when did you enter high society again?”

“This is my third, so the past two seasons ago.”

“Oh, dear,” you said as you stared at the ground from your realization. “Where is mother—”

“Lady Y/N.” An ardent voice called you from behind, and you looked behind you, and you saw your expected person.

“Lord Jeno?” you uttered his name, and upon release, the weight of the atmosphere became heavier with his simple presence alone.

And everyone notices. The notable stranger, who was never seen through the night until now, approached the debutante rumored upon and best known to reject several dance offers curtly.

“Y/N?” Haechan asked, staring at Lord Jeno.

Jeno notices your brother and bows, greeting him.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening…” Haechan wandered off, and you were wearing the same expression as he did. Bewildered. Intimidated. Awestrucked.

Shushed conversations and murmuring circles surround the both of you, but despite this, the lord in front of you is composed, poised straight, a firm hand holding out to ask for yours and the other behind him—too firm and frozen you notice. His hand shakes, and so do his eyes, looking at yours as he awkwardly smiles.

“Will you have this dance with me, Lady Y/N?” Lord Jeno asked hesitantly, and you gulped, offering out your hand to touch his, barely placed on his palms as you felt that if you touched his hands again, you’d taint him.

"Yes…my lord," you lately answered the last, not knowing how to address him. He breathed out a sigh of relief, too nervous as if there was a never-agreed-upon alliance behind this.

Shouldn’t you be the nervous one here?

Jeno leads you to the dance floor, and he is still stiff. The pressure of the many eyes is troubling him, especially since, out of his three seasons, he is officially marking an entrance into high society.

Everything he avoided was present in this banquet. Crowds and circles of people and their eyes—free to perceive him as a subject of talk.

He can barely breathe in air, overwhelmed by consciousness by the piercing stares now placed upon him, unaware of you calling out to him, and you tugged him down only to startle him, finally looking at you with anxious eyes.

You gestured for him to bend down, and he followed, whispering in his ears as if he were down at your height. “Are you not feeling well, my lord?”

The ticklish air on his ears from yours gives a ginger warmth to his ears, seconds late to answer you with a simple nod and smile, and you squeeze your clasped hands with him, giving him a feat of courage with your eyes. His heart flutters at this small gesture, the nearness of you making him feel warm but when he looks into your eyes, he notices a glint of something more to it.

Your eyes only show curiosity—more like suspicion.

“My lady, is there something you want to say to me?” Jeno asked, and the glint vanished as you shook your head.

“No. It’s nothing.” But nothing always had something.

You might already have guessed it, but you’re just keeping it to yourself.

The both of you finally take the dance floor. Jeno holds your hand and places the other one on your hips, and you place your free hand on his arm nervously. The quarter starts with the bass, plucking it, and the violin strung after, a cheery tune playing into the dance floor, positioning you both in a waltz.

There is a noticeable space that is around the both of you and Jeno notices it, giving you a sign about it.

“We're like a deadly disease on this dance floor.” Jeno joked, and you looked around you and chuckled along, too occupied by your reoccurring thought.

You reflected on the times when you interacted with him and thought deeply about the things you did ungraciously in front of him.

Well, you complained to him. Talked back at him. Held his hand. You also wiped your snot and tears on his handkerchief—a handkerchief that could possibly cost more than what a normal handkerchief is. After all, he is the prince.

Could be the prince, for now.

“Lady Y/N? What’s the problem? You’ve been staring at the air for quite a moment now. Is there any way I could help?” Jeno asked, concerned.

You don’t respond for a few seconds. “Lord Jeno.”

“Yes, my lady?” he replied lowly. Your mind only drives chaos at his tender reply.

“Are you really not one of the princes?” you ended, and his face tensed at your question.

“If I said yes…” he paused, his face softened, eyebrows brought together as he looked back at you hesitantly. “Will you avoid me too?”

Your heart dropped. Hearing him say ‘too’, only made you realize about his past situations that pained him and made you think about yourself. The memories of your interaction with him came crashing into you as you realized that you were acting and thinking the same as what he told you about the people who interacted with him. And he has probably felt lonely his whole life with this.

But with you, he felt seen and understood—just like what you felt about him too.

“No.” you immediately answered this time. “I won’t, my lord.”

Jeno doesn’t respond, only looking at you bewildered, and he smiles cheek to cheek, reassured by your sincerity.

The next dance segment pulled you near him as the strings modulated and came to a halt. He puts his face close to you slowly, moving his face on the side of your face as he whispers in your ears, the proximity of the both of you close—too close.

“That’s a relief.” you touch your ear as he pulls his face away. “I’m so glad it’s you that I met.” he said, still brimming with joy, unaware of the effect he had on you with that action.

The warmth of Jeno’s whispers remains for a while, and it’s ticklish, and for a moment, you forget the crowd watching you both, unaware of the stir that caused that simple action that took you off course too. The words he has spoken echoed through you, filling you with confusion and butterflies.

The music swells in, and Jeno gracefully leads you across the dance floor; the room is out of focus, other dancers and onlookers fading in the background as you only look at the man you’re dancing with—moving in perfect harmony.

There remains an unbroken eye contact, silence, and the strings from the instruments swarming between the both of you in glee rendition. Looking directly at a prince, you should be nervous and uncomfortable, but none of that is present in your mind. What you saw at the moment wasn’t the prince.

It was Jeno. The mysterious man that you helped and approached recklessly. The man who listened to your story with no prejudice. The man who offered his hand out to you when you were stuck in your own thoughts.

The friend you made out of this treacherous night.

As you continued to dance, you tried your best to gather yourself. You might not have heard him say yes to your question yet, but you can only wonder what it means for your future—what exactly would happen after this alliance was done and gone?

“Lord Jeno,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“Or should I say, Prince Jeno?” you asked carefully, and he chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, Lady Y/N?”

“It feels weird addressing you like this. It’s like I’m speaking casually, but I’m actually formally treating you.” you commented, and he laughed at this.

“You’re the only one who I hear calling me in that way. Even if you’re already properly addressing me,” he replied. “I much more prefer it.”

He’s doing that again. Commenting so easily about things that make you feel weak on your knees.

How can he be so oblivious about it?

“What were you going to tell me?” he asked, bringing you back to your question.

“I was about to ask about our alliance.” you finished, and he looked at you anticipatingly.

“Yes?”

“What would happen after this?” and the question comes out.

You already knew the answer to this since you had already talked about it with him. The advantage you’d have after it is his succession in making his own parents, the king, and queen, less nosy on him and going in your own peaceful ways. Though, you want to hear a different answer from him this time.

Despite everything already clear as day, you want to know what runs in his mind.

Where would this lead to?

Jeno thinks about it too.

Too hardly.

“How would you want things to happen?”

The question remains in the air and the music becomes less louder in your ears.

“I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want to wake up the next morning and be filled with other men asking for my hand.” you answered.

Oh.

Jeno remembered he said that. He thought about the moment he said that and soon came to regret when he suggested that as a situation that was sure to happen and not as a joke, not when you told him what you did at that moment.

“You?” you asked, almost like a plead, yearning to hear something different than what you were negatively thinking he would answer right now.

“Me too.”

His words remained ceaseless as they left right through him, the simple words underscored by the weight they carried. The dance continues, and your mind is racing, your heart thumping loudly as if to break through your chest.

Was it really possible that Jeno, the man you stumbled upon in such a bizarre way, felt the same wave of uncertainty about the future ahead of you as you did?

You studied his face as you slowly moved across the dance floor as the final segment came near. His expression remained calm and, when you hardly look, vulnerable.

As the music began to slow down, signaling the end of the dance, Jeno’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if he too, was reluctant for this moment to end. The quartet played the final notes, and you both came to a gentle stop, facing each other; the contact pulled away for the final bow. Applause erupted around you, but it felt distant.

After bowing, the both of you hesitantly leave the dance floor but this time, Jeno wasn’t the slightest nervous about the eyes that still remained on the two of you. Rather, he felt more clear about his thoughts and what he wanted more than what he desired in his life.

“Lady Y/N.” Jeno began, his voice low and earnest. “I do not wish to make you feel more uncertain for what is ahead of us after this alliance we made.”

Your heart skips a beat. “I do not understand, my lord.”

“If the morning comes tomorrow and you are filled with letters that ask for your presence, do not read anything that doesn’t have the mark of my family’s crest. The answer to your question you asked me when I told you about the alliance,” he paused as he smiled softly. “I hope that you are certain to choose me, my lady, as I am certain to pursue you in the future and the moment that we step out of this dance floor.”

The sincerity that spoke through his eyes was unmistakable, and you felt relieved and exhilarated. Your anxieties all vanish away in the face of his answers.

“Looks like I would only be expecting one person’s letter tomorrow.” you smiled at him and chuckled, looking at the ground as you felt timid before him.

The quartet plays another yet song, and the both of you are startled by the sudden start of instruments playing, making you look at each other and burst into laughter.

Jeno holds out his hand at you, and you tilt your head in confusion.

“What is it, Your Highness?” he snickered at the way you addressed him, the lining of his eyes prominent into a crescent shape.

“The imperial court should consider banning that smile. You’re too captivating.” This time, you let your intrusive thoughts reign, and you and Jeno laugh at your absurdity.

“Lady Y/N?” he asked, still holding out his hand and you hummed in response.

“May I have this dance?”

“Yes,” you accepted his hand. “Yes, Your Highness.”

taglist : @g4minelvr @thebubsz @fxckingshame @nosungluv @ajaaaaayyyyy @keemburley @firydust @crustipicklez-blog @daegalismybiasinnct @kunkunlele @minkyuncutie @jenosbiceps

© written by CUPOFWYN . 2024

[ckret2]

I have a public service announcement! No one's done this lately so it's not aimed at anyone specific—but that's why I'm posting now, so it doesn't single anyone out.

It's true that, in-universe, Bill's said he's apathetic about what gender humans see him as. But you and I aren't in his fictional universe; we're in the real universe.

And out here in our real universe, when someone discovers that a guy they've ONLY ever referred to with he/him pronouns actually has breasts under his shirt? If that person is a conservative, they might start calling this man "she." If that person is more progressive, sometimes they start calling him "they." Like they'll respect that he's trans but refuse to respect that he's transmasc.

And because we live out here in the real world where I'm sick and tired of watching this happen, I'm also sick and tired of watching it happen to characters I write with he/him pronouns. Because multiple times I have had readers—nominally pro-LGBT readers!—start calling a he/him character I write "they/them" the second I headcanon him as transmasc or give him physical traits associated with AFAB bodies, in spite of the pronouns they see me use for him.

You've never seen canon call Bill anything but he/him. You've never seen the guy who invented Bill call him anything but he/him. Except when I write from the perspective of a character who literally DOESN'T KNOW they're looking at Bill, you've never seen ME refer to my specific interpretation of Bill with anything but he/him pronouns.

(And not to get too serious over cartoons, but—if you can't get a character's pronouns right after seeing me use THOUSANDS of he/him pronouns for him—a character whom you were INTRODUCED TO with the correct pronouns and whom you likely ONLY called by the correct pronouns for years, right up until the moment you saw him drawn with tits & hips—if the mere knowledge of his anatomy is enough to completely overwrite every single time you've seen & heard his pronouns used—then I worry about how y'all would talk about an IRL transmasc guy if you could see immediately that he's AFAB and only hear his pronouns once.)

Knowingly using the wrong pronouns doesn't magically become woke when it's gender neutral wrong pronouns. Stop ignoring the only pronouns you've ever seen me or the show call Bill. Do not misgender the silly cartoon triangle in my inbox & comments.

Thank you.

I'll GRUDGINGLY tolerate calling Bill the wrong name, since I know sometimes y'all need to differentiate whether you're talking to me about the vague concept of canon Bill or, specifically, the copy of Bill undergoing the events in my fic, and using his in-fic "this is the name used by PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS" nickname is convenient for that.

But I'd prefer it if you just said, like, "your Bill" or "Bill in your fic"—or, hell, just plain old "Bill" if it's already clear we're talking about my interpretation or my fic. He is Bill. Bill is his name. The name by which he goes is Bill. It grosses me out when people only call him by another name as if he's a different character altogether.

If you do call Bill a different name, please know: 1) I dislike that; 2) I never wanna see it outside of contexts where it's necessary for clarity; and 3) even if you're calling him the wrong name out of grammatical necessity, it's still the wrong name.

EDIT: I'm disabling reblogs on this post because people who don't even watch gravity falls, much less read this fic, have started trying to signal boost it. "Don't they/them transmasc he/hims" is an important message that should be spread, but it isn't the message of this post. The message of this post is "you know how people they/them transmasc he/hims? Don't do that to my fanfic cartoon character." This post is not for anybody who doesn't read my fic. Don't try to use a post about a Disney cartoon fanfic as a social activism message.

There are posts out there whose message is "don't they/them transmasc he/hims." If you want to spread that message, that's commendable, and you should find one of those posts or write your own.

[trippiexlove]

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Ch.11

Previous Part

The sharp clicks of Kayla Braxton's pen was the only sound in her meticulously organized office. She leaned back in her desk chair, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. She had just hung up with District Attorney Miller, and the conversation had gone precisely as she'd orchestrated.

"Self-defense, Mr. Miller. Pure and simple," Kayla had stated, her voice as smooth and convincing as expensive silk. "My client, Mr. Fatu, was merely defending himself against an unprovoked attack. While I understand the facility's need for disciplinary action, I assure you this was an isolated incident, a reaction born of necessity, not malicious intent." She had, of course, conveniently omitted the part where Josh might have escalated the situation, focusing solely on Bron's initial aggression. Her argument, backed by subtly skewed incident reports she'd managed to obtain, had been persuasive.

After a few tense minutes of Miller's objections and her calm, unyielding rebuttals, the DA had conceded. The disciplinary action would stand within the prison, but it would not impact Josh's federal appeal. The judge had been informed, and the appeal would proceed as scheduled. Victory, small but significant, tasted sweet.

Kayla immediately dialed Jimmy. He answered on the second ring, his usual cheerful greeting subdued. "Yo, what's good, Kayla?"

"Got good news," Kayla cut straight to the chase. "Josh's disciplinary action won't affect the appeal. I was able to smooth things over with the DA."

A sigh of profound relief came through the line. "Thank you, Kayla, f'real."

"Just tell him to keep his anger in check for once," Kayla retorted, a hint of weariness in her voice. "I've done my part. The rest is on him." She hung up, already moving on to her next task.

Meanwhile, back in the grim confines of the Georgia Department of Correction, Jey laid on the thin cot, staring at the cold, grey walls. The loud buzzing sound of the cell door sent a jolt through him. "Fatu! Let's go. Your lucky day." the guard barked.

Jey's head snapped up. Relief washed over him. He quickly gathered the few belongings he had. The guard cuffed him, and he was led through the echoing, cold halls of the facility, the clanging of gates and the distant murmur of voices a welcome change from the oppressive silence of solitary. Finally, he was back in his regular cell block.

Sami was already there, a wide grin on his face. "Glad you back, uce" He gave Jey a few pats on the shoulder "They moved Bron to a different cell block, so you ain't gotta worry about that clown no more"

Jey barely registered the news about Bron, his mind already elsewhere. He just nodded absently before walking over to a guard, a flicker of determination in his eyes. "Can I make a call real quick?"

The guard hesitated, eyeing him for a moment before reluctantly nodding. "Make it quick"

Jey snatched the phone, his fingers flying as he dialed Jimmy's number. After a few rings, his twin's voice answered, sounding relieved. "What's up twin, yo' ass back in gen pop?"

"Just got back," Jey leaned against the wall next to the phone "you checked in wit' Kayla f'me?"

"Yeah, said everything was smoothed over."

"Bet. What about that other situation" Jey's voice low, speaking in code.

"Yeah, still got eyes on that," Jimmy confirmed. "Ain't nothing changed"

"Aight, good shit uce," Jey mumbled, then hesitated. "You talked to Evren?"

Jimmy let out a small, almost teasing laugh. "Yeah, I did, uce. She pissed with you."

Jey chuckled, a genuine, albeit short, laugh escaping him. "Yeah? What she say?"

"Just that she's mad you got yo' ass in trouble again, acting stupid and all that," Jimmy recounted, the amusement clear in his voice.

"I'll handle that," Jey said, a determined glint in his eye. He knew she would be upset, but he knew he could fix it. "Preciate you, uce. F'real."

"Got'chu twin. Just stay yo' ass out of trouble, f'real."

"Gotta go. Hit'chu you later," Jey said, hanging up the phone, though he wasn't showing it, he was relieved the appeal wouldn't be affected.

Evren couldn't ignore the low hum of whispers that followed her through the hospital hallways, or the curious, sometimes sympathetic, glances that lingered a moment too long. News of the Dr. Rhodes investigation had spread like wildfire, turning the once-whispered complaints into open speculation. It was a strange mix of vindication and unease, knowing her ordeal was now public.

As she walked down the quiet halls of the ICU, lost in her thoughts, a familiar voice stopped her. "Evren?"

She looked up to see Liv, her fellow nurse, standing a few feet away, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

"Hey, Liv," Evren said, a bit surprised.

"I heard about what happened," Liv began, her gaze softening. "With Dr. Rhodes. I just wanted to say, I'm really sorry you had to go through that. If you need anything, any support, just let me know."

Evren felt a warmth spread through her chest. "Thank you, Liv. I really appreciate that."

Liv shifted her weight, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. Her voice dropped to a hush, almost a whisper. "Actually... I was the one who went to Mrs. McMahon and Mr. Levesque." She paused, letting that sink in. "I saw what happened in the scrub room a couple of weeks ago. How he made you feel uncomfortable, and how you just ran."

Evren's eyes widened. A wave of surprise, followed by profound gratitude, washed over her. She hadn't realized anyone had actually seen that moment. "You did?" she breathed, her voice filled with genuine emotion. "Liv, I don't know what to say. Thank you for telling them. You don't know how much that helped me out."

A faint, almost shy smile touched Liv's lips. "Someone had to. He's been getting away with too much for too long."

"I had a few run-ins with Dr. Rhodes myself," She confessed, her gaze hardening slightly. "Nothing like what he did to you, but enough to know he was trouble. I wasn't brave enough to say anything back then. But when I saw what happened with you, I couldn't allow him to do that again. Someone has to stop him." Liv glanced nervously down the hall, as if fearing Dr. Rhodes might suddenly appear. "Anyway, I gotta go. Just know you're not alone, Evren." She gave Evren a quick, encouraging nod before hurrying off, leaving Evren to process the revelation.

Back at the nurses' station, the usual controlled chaos reigned. Zahria looked up from her charting, a small smile spread across her face. "Hey, Jade, Bi and I goin' out tonight. You should pop out."

Evren sat and thought about it. Usually, after the long week, she'd be heading home to crash. But tonight, after the stressful week, and the worrying about Josh, a night out with her friends sounded like a great escape. "Yeah?" she asked, a tentative smile forming. "I'd be down for that."

Zahria smiled, doing a little happy dance in her seat. "Good, just a bunch of bad bitches poppin' out" she stated excitedly, making Evren laugh.

Later, after her shift, Evren walked around her room. Getting ready for the night out. The long week working at the hospital left her mentally exhausted, and she was desperate for some drinks. 

She was searching through her closet when her phone began ringing. When she picked it up she saw it was Josh. Answering it quickly, she placed it on speaker. The automated voice coming through.

"This is a collect call from" .. "Jey" .. "An Inmate at Georgia Department of Correction. Please press one to accept the call" 

After a few seconds the call connected "What's up ma" his raspy voice came through as she continued looking through her clothes.

"Hey" Evren replied, her tone noticeably flat. She pulled out a black dress, holding it against herself in the mirror.

Josh noted the snap in her tone, "You good?"

"Nah, I'm good," She said curtly, continuing looking through her closet, "I ain't the one who been in the hole for two weeks" 

A sigh came through from Jey, "Yeah shit got hectic but it's all good now"

"Josh you got put in solitary confinement. That's more than just hectic."

"Why you trippin' bout it Evren?" his voice heightening a bit.

"Because that was irresponsible as fuck what you did" her tone tight. 

Jey sucked his teeth "What'chu expect me to do. I ain't bout to let someone bitch me out. That ain't me, you know that" a hint of frustration laced in his voice.

"So instead of thinking smart, and walk away, you get into fight that could of affected your appeal. You hear how crazy that sounds, Josh"

"Evren, I ain't call f'you to lecture my ass." he snapped, his own temper flaring. "I would've called my lawyer for all that."

Evren nodded to herself, "You know what, til you can stop being fuckin' reckless and act like you care, don't bother callin' me"

She hung up without another word, throwing her phone on the bed. Quickly finding an outfit, she took a quick shower, doing her usual routine. Checking her phone she seen she had a few missed calls from Josh, rolling her eyes. 

She clicked on Zahria's message. 

Zah❤️‍🔥: Pulling up in 5 mins Ren😍: Ok I'll be ready

She grabbed her purse and keys heading downstairs. Moments later Zahria texted saying she was outside. Quickly locking up, Evren made her way out her condo, taking the elevator. Making it Zahria's car she was met with lively greetings from the girls. 

"Damn, girl you look good!" Bianca said as Evren got in the backseat with her. Zahria and Jade in the front. Zahria pulled off after she was settled, blasting music all the way there.

Meanwhile, back in the grim confines of the Georgia Department of Correction, Jey was stewing. That whole conversation with Evren was replaying in his head, knotting him up. He slammed the phone against the receiver, the loud crack echoing in the small booth. He glanced back at the long line of impatient inmates, then with a frustrated sigh, he walked away, heading straight for his cell. They were about to lock down for the night anyway.

When he reached his cell, Sami, his cellmate, was already on his top bunk, lost in a book. Jey walked over to his own bunk, plopping down hard. Sami could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

"You good, uce?" Sami leaned over the side of his bunk, looking at Jey.

"Yeah, I'm straight," Jey muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. Nah, he wasn't. Not really. Evren's words were a bitter pill, especially that part about him not caring about getting out. That stung, 'cause that was some bullshit. Every damn day in this place was a fight just to stay sane, a constant reminder of everything he was missing. He just had a different way of showing it than she did. He couldn't back down in here, not for a second. Showing weakness was a death sentence.

He picked at a loose thread on his mattress. Yeah, he knew he messed up getting into that fight. Stupid? Maybe. But in the moment, he wasn't thinking 'bout nothing but putting that dude in his place. Now, all he could hear was Evren's voice, that cold disappointment. He hated that sound from her more than anything. She didn't get it. How could she, sitting in her comfortable apartment? She ain't dealing with none of this.

"Sounds like you took a bad call," Sami pressed gently, closing his book. He knew Jey too well to let a simple I'm straight slide.

Jey ran a hand over his head. "Yeah, just Ev. She trippin' 'bout me gettin' put in the hole." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Acting like I don't know what I'm doing. Like my ass wanted to be in here."

"She just worried bout you," Sami offered, though he knew it wasn't that simple. "just tryna make sure you good."

"I know that," Jey mumbled, but the frustration was still sizzling. "But she don't get it. I can't just be a bitch in here, Sami. You know that. If I let motherfuckas' think they can run over me, then what?" He looked up at his cellmate, a flicker of raw frustration in his eyes.

Sami just nodded, his gaze steady. He didn't have to say much for Jey to know he understood. The unwritten rules of prison were brutal, and backing down often led to far worse consequences than a stint in solitary. But Evren was on the outside, seeing things through a different lens.

The distant clang of cell doors locking for the night echoed through the block, a harsh reminder of his reality. Jey closed his eyes, the conversation playing over in his head. A tinge of disappointment hit him, sharp and unexpected. It wasn't just at her; it was at himself for letting it get to him. He'd messed up, yeah, he knew that. But he had to protect himself in here. And he knew Evren cared, that's why she was so mad. That kind of real worry, that was something he wasn't used to from anybody outside his family. But that didn't mean she got to tell him how to survive.

Evren settled into the plush leather seat of Zahria's car, the bass from the music vibrating through her. Bianca and Jade were already animated, their laughter bright and infectious. For a moment, the heavy cloak of the hospital, the whispered investigations, and the recent, harsh phone call with Jey all seemed to dissipate. Zahria pulled off, the city lights beginning to blur as they sped down the highway.

"So, what's the moves tonight?" Jade shouted over the music, her eyes sparkling.

Zahria, always the planner, grinned. "I was thinkin' we hit up 'The Loft' first. They got this new DJ tonight, and the cocktails are supposed to be good. Then, if we're feeling it, maybe we'll see where the night takes us."

Evren found herself smiling genuinely. The music was loud, the company vibrant, and for the first time in days, she felt a lightness she hadn't realized she was missing. They talked about work gossip, ridiculous patient stories, and the latest celebrity drama, carefully skirting around the more serious topics that had consumed Evren's week. She laughed, a true, unrestrained sound, as Bianca recounted a particularly embarrassing encounter with a handsome doctor, Dr. Montez Ford.

The Loft was already buzzing when they arrived, a pulsing hip-hop beat thrumming through the floorboards. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and expensive liquor, and the crowd was a blur of movement under the flashing lights. Evren found herself loosening up with each song, the rhythm seeping into her bones. She wasn't going to think about Jey, or Dr. Rhodes, or anything else that had weighed her down. Tonight was for forgetting.

After a couple of strong cocktails, a comfortable warmth spread through Evren, dulling the sharp edges of her lingering frustration with Jey. She was laughing freely with Zahria at the bar when a smooth voice cut through the music.

"Looks like you ladies need another round, on me."

Evren turned to see a tall, striking man with dark hair pulled back, tattoos peeking from under his shirt, and an intense gaze. He carried himself with an air of effortless cool. "I'm Damien, by the way," he said, his voice a low rumble over the bass.

Zahria, ever the wing-woman, gave Evren a subtle nudge. Evren offered a small smile in return. "Evren. And thank you, Damien. That's really sweet of you."

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Sweet? Nah, just appreciate a good vibe when I see one." He smirked, making Evren's lips quirk upwards despite herself. "So, Evren, you gonna let me buy you a drink, or you gonna make me stand here awkwardly all night?"

Evren laughed again, feeling genuinely charmed. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood."

As the bartender placed their fresh drinks in front of them they fell into a flirtatious conversation. Damien leaned in slightly, his voice a playful murmur. "Now that we've established my excellent taste in cocktails, how about you dance with me?" He extended a hand towards the dance floor, where the lights were strobing to an insistent beat.

Evren hesitated for only a second. This was exactly what she needed. She took his hand. "Lead the way."

He grinned, pulling her gently onto the crowded dance floor. Damien was a surprisingly good dancer, his movements fluid and confident as they moved to the beat. Evren found herself easily falling into sync with him, her body swaying to the music, her mind blessedly empty of worry. She was laughing, moving, and for the first time all week, she felt truly carefree.

Unbeknownst to Evren, across the sprawling club, leaning against the VIP section railing with a few of his associates, Jimmy scanned the crowd. This was one of their family's spot, after all. His eyes, sharp and accustomed to taking in everything, landed on the dance floor. He watched the throng of bodies, then paused, his gaze narrowing. He saw his brother's girl, laughing and dancing with a man he didn't recognize. A familiar scowl began to form on his face. And right now, what he was seeing was definitely somebody else's business.

Jimmy excused himself from the VIP section, his jaw tight. He navigated through the dense crowd, his eyes locked on Evren. He moved with purpose, a silent force cutting through the music and the bodies.

He reached the edge of their dancing space, his hand shooting out to grab Evren's arm, pulling her sharply away from Damien. He pulled her along til they got to a hallway.

"The fuck you think you doin', Evren?" Jimmy's voice was low, laced with a mix of anger and disbelief, cutting through the loud music only for her ears.

Evren stumbled slightly, the sudden pull and Jimmy's harsh tone jolting her. Her carefree mood evaporated, replaced by a surge of irritation and a touch of the alcohol making her bold. She snatched her arm back. "Jimmy! What is your problem?!"

"My problem?" Jimmy scoffed, gesturing vaguely towards the crowd. "You're out here dancin' with some random ass dude. What you think Jey would say if he saw this, huh?"

Evren's eyes flashed. The mention of Jey, coupled with Jimmy's accusing tone, hit a nerve. "It shouldn't matter what Jey thinks. I'm single. I'm not stuck waiting around for nobody." Her voice rose slightly, defiant.

Jimmy shook his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "That's not how it works, Evren. You know that. Jey got me lookin' out for you."

"I don't need to be 'looked after'," Evren retorted, pulling herself up to her full height, despite feeling a little wobbly. "I can handle myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I was actually having fun." She glared at him, then turned, walking bout out to the crowd. Leaving Jimmy they're shaking his head. 

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A few days later, the frustration in the Georgia Department of Correction was palpable for Jey. He'd been trying to get a hold of Evren since their last blow-up, calling her number religiously during his allotted phone times, only to be met with her voicemail or a direct disconnect. It was clear she was ignoring him, and it was pissing him off.

Finally, in desperation, he called Jimmy. His twin answered on the second ring.

"Yo, what's good, uce?" Jimmy's voice came through the line, sounding a little less cheerful than usual.

"Just checking in," Jey said, trying to keep his tone even. "Everything straight on your end?"

"Yeah, twin. All good," Jimmy replied, a slight hesitation in his voice. "Just the usual."

"You heard anything from Evren?" Jey finally blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. "She ain't been picking up my calls."

A beat of silence stretched on the line, long enough for Jey to pause for a second. "Nah, she ain't hit me up," Jimmy said slowly. "But, I did see her the other night."

Jey frowned. "Oh yeah? Where at?"

"At The Loft," Jimmy said, and Jey could almost hear his brother bracing himself. "She was out with her girls. Everything was cool until..." Jimmy trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

"Until what, Jimmy?" Jey's voice was tight, a cold dread starting to spread through him. "What happened?"

"She was dancin' with some dude. Some random," Jimmy finally admitted, quickly adding, "Look, I went and said something to her, pulled her off the floor. Told her you wouldn't like it. She got all heated, said it don't matter what you think 'cause she single."

The word single hit Jey like a physical blow. Dancing with some random dude? Evren, his Evren, out there giving her time to somebody else. The thought sent a jolt of anger through him, sharp and immediate. He knew they were on the outs, but for her to do that pissed him off. He gripped the receiver, his knuckles turning white.

"She said she single?" Jey's voice was dangerously low, a stark contrast to the sudden storm brewing inside him.

"Yeah, man," Jimmy confirmed, sounding genuinely apologetic now. "Look, she was tipsy, upset. I told her she shouldn't be out here like that, but she said she didn't need nobody lookin' after her."

Jey closed his eyes, taking a ragged breath. The anger warring with a bitter sting. He understood she was mad, but single? After everything, the unspoken connection, the way they were with each other? That word felt like a deliberate slap in the face.

"Aight, Jimmy," Jey finally managed, his voice strained. "Ima hit'chu up later." He didn't wait for a reply, just hung up the phone with a decisive click, the noise echoing in the quiet phone booth area.

He stood there for a moment, letting the rage and hurt wash over him. Then, with a fierce glint in his eye, he pushed through the small crowd of inmates waiting for their turn, heading straight for the computer terminals used for messaging. He typed the message quickly. Short and straight to the point. After he sent the he got up, heading straight to his cell for the night not wanting to be around the other inmates.

From Fatu, Joshua #1759: So, you out here "single" now? Dancin' on some random dude? That's how you really moving? Don't play these games with me, Evren. You know who you belong to. You ain't "single" like that. You better think bout what you're doing out there.

The warm Atlanta sun streamed through the expansive glass ceilings of Lenox Square Mall as Evren and Bianca strolled, designer bags swinging from their arms. Laughter bubbled up between them, light and infectious, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the hospital.

"Girl, you were practically glowing on the club the other night," Bianca teased, bumping Evren's shoulder playfully. "Damien, right? He seemed kinda into you."

Evren grinned, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "He was cool. But speaking of into you, how are things going with Tez?" She nudged Bianca, who blushed.

"Oh, you know," Bianca demurred, but her smile was wide. "He's very persistent. And charming. We've gone out a few times, the vibes actually been really nice."

"See? I told you!" Evren cheered, genuinely happy for her friend.

As they ducked into a boutique, Browse a rack of vibrant dresses, Evren's phone buzzed. She pulled it out, expecting a group chat message, but her brow furrowed instantly as she saw the sender: Jey. Seeing his name made her stomach clench. Her easygoing mood evaporated, replaced by a familiar knot of tension.

Bianca, who had been holding up a sequined top, noticed the sudden shift in Evren's demeanor. "Everything straight, Ren?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Evren sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Nah, not really." She hesitated, then decided to just lay it out. "It's Josh. He just sent me this message." She read him the most biting lines from Jey's email, her voice dripping with annoyance. "He ended up in solitary confinement 'cause he couldn't keep his temper in check, then we had this heated call a few nights ago. I told him to stop being reckless. He said he didn't want to be lectured so I hung up, and I haven't talked to him since. And now this message. He acting he can control me or something."

"I mean, it gotta be hard for him being in there, seeing you out here doing your thing. But that ain't no excuse for that mess. You right, he can't be acting like he own you just 'cause he stuck. That's a him problem, not a you problem." Bianca shrugged her shoulder before continuing to look through the racks.

Just then, Evren's phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text. Evren looked down at it, a faint smile touching her lips despite the previous frustration.

"Who's that?" Bianca asked, nodding at the phone in Evren's hand, noticing the sudden change in her expression.

"It's Damien," Evren said, looking up at Bianca. "We've been talking for the past couple of days." She paused, then held up the phone so Bianca could see his message.

Damien🇵🇷: Hey, Mami. Was wondering if you're free tomorrow night? Wanted to take you out.

Bianca read it, then her expression turned serious. "Just be careful with how you handle it. You know Josh. He ain't one of those dudes who play bout his feelings when it come to you."

"I know," Evren reiterated, her voice firm, "but I'm single. I can go on a date." She typed quickly, a sense of defiant freedom settling over her.

Evren💕: I'd love to! Tomorrow night sounds perfect. Looking forward to it.

She locked her phone, putting it away in her pocket. Enjoying the rest of her girls day without the distraction of Josh looming on her mind. 

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[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT PRICE AND PREFERRING SITTING ON HIS LAP OFTEN.

cw: tooth rotting fluff, comfort, slightly suggestive, established relationship, lap sitting, flirty teasing, pet names, touching, intimacy, kinda cuddling, male anatomy, hard on, hints on blowjob, desperation and horny price, reader doesn't have gender description in the story, john might be ooc since he's wearing a glasses. pairing: bf john price x gf fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

there was something in john’s thighs that attracted you every time, like an affectionate yard kitten, to the lap of a passing person.

of course, the point is not at all in how attractive his muscular, wide thighs look in his military cargo pants or jeans, in which the second only further emphasizes how wide and soft his thighs are, and his light home shorts reveal them fully every time, making them even plusher, exposing dark thick hair hiding a scattering of healed scars underneath.

a great place to sit down.

therefore, you can never resist climbing onto the limp muscles, just at the moment when he smokes his usual cigars on the viranda, thick clouds of smoke dissolve with a tart smell around his figure when he holds a half open book with his free hand, glasses on the tip of his nose, not a necessary necessity, but convenient in order to preserve his eyesight, slightly weakened with age and military service.

john feels your presence almost immediately, as soon as the door opens slightly, albeit almost silently, but he clings to the slight shuffling of steps, and intuitively raises his hand with the book just when you fall into his arms, plopping your butt right on his rounded thighs, feeling how the muscles beneath you tense before relaxing, and a heavy hand traces the curve of your hip and waist, thick fingers tenderly squeezing the skin over the fabric of your light clothing.

— “feeling comfy, sweetheart?„

he purrs with a hint of hoarseness and a chesty, amusing grumble, blowing thick smoke through his nose and rings through his lips, letting the smoke rise up from his mustache and dissolve in the light breeze, blue eyes narrow as he examines you, familiarly running a warm palm along your leg and to the hip bone, tracking your satisfied purr with a smirk on his lips, corners of his lips hiding under facial hair.

— “very much so„

you answer sincerely and satisfactorily, settling on his lap with a slight fidgeting of your butt on his thighs, pressing against his wide chest with comfort and fluttering eyelashes, when you look into his blue eyes, cold in color, but so warm when he looks at you, despite at your sly squint and the way you move soft touches over his chest and to his thighs, outlining the skin with your fingers, as if planning something.

and john will know what excatly very soon, when you'll imposingly rise from your usual comfortable place only to kneel in front of him, settling between his already spread legs, not looking at the slight discomfort in his knees from the wooden surface of the veranda, completely concentrating on his darting gaze and slightly nervous swallowing when you place soft palms on his thighs and move them, causing his hairs to stand on end while your face getting closer.

he rolls his head back with a slight chesty growl and a scratch of his beard when you, so charmingly cunning, nose yourself between his legs, poking into his wide thigh and very close to his crotch, where under shorts and boxers swells and throbs from your mere presence next to him and a reverent gesture in his direction, holding him on the edge almost all the time, and now only further inflaming the feelings seething inside him.

a heavy hand rests right on the top of your head to gently stroke your hair, lightly scratching and moving towards your face, cupping with one palm and gently tickling the skin near your ears with the callous pads of his fingers, while you lean towards the touch, catching notes of tart tobacco and light woodiness, a characteristic, relaxing aroma, and he sees how your facial features soften into absolute limpness, lazily fluttering your eyelashes and causing a slight chuckle in your direction.

— “looking adorable down there, darling, hope you're enjoying this position, eh?„

he earns a meek nod and an almost sleepy — “mhhmm„ in his direction, before you press yourself tighter, not into his palm, but into the skin of his leg, creeping further, closer to his crotch, and john fidgets slightly uncomfortably, not from your actions, but from not wanting you to notice his obvious arousal, although this is pretty noticeable in the dark pupils enveloping the blue of his eyes and in the way his eyelids become heavy, his eyelashes cast a shadow over his eyes, and the bulging silhouette of his cock enthusiastically rubs against the fabric of his shorts and press into the barrier.

you will definitely repay him in full later, but for now you will remain a little longer in the same place, where his legs themselves slightly squeeze together, squeezing you slightly between them, rolling pleasant sensations across your skin, and you lick your lips, not immediately registering his strangled, breathy sigh in response to your actions and how much tighter you are pressed against him, your parted lips practically where he burns and demands, but he waits, patiently, until then he allows a quietly grumbled word to slip from his lips — “killing me, all looking like that, shi'..„ before john takes another drag from his almost finished cigar, calming himself, as you smile to yourself in response to his words.

you will definitely take care of him, just a little later, promise, john.

[janecafe]

☆ — paid reading (personal)

a personal paid reading is not a necessity. if you really want it, you should afford it :)

price list

300-500 words (1-2 pages) - 10$ (short reading)

600-1000 words (2-4 pages) - 22$ (average reading)

3000-5000 (5-10 pages) - 45$ (detailed reading)

7000 and up (15-20 pages) - 80$ (in-depth reading)

add on (per topic)

▢ future spouse 10$

▢ sexual, 18+, nsfw 15$

▢ celebrity and idols 8$

▢ career or finances (specify) 5$

▢ general (ex. "my life 10 years from now". ) 6$

other's and vip work:

▢ rush, priority or urgent order 20$

▢ similar reading style with my pick-a-card's 15$

— a. added note for rush, priority and urgent order. for instance, if your order is a day process, will make sure you can receive your order by 2-4 hours after your booking.

example of pricing board

a. if your desired purchase is "short reading" that costs 10$ and your add on (chosen topic) is future spouse that costs 10$ then your total bill is 20$.

b. if you wish that your order to be rushed you can add 15$ to your purchase, for instance, if your desired purchase is "detailed reading" that costs 35$ and your add on (chosen topic) is 18+ that costs 10$ then you want it to be in priority or vip mode, well you can add 20$ to your order. that will make your grand total of 65$.

a.) how is the example (a) sentence is being calculated.

short reading - 10$

topic chosen (fs) - 10$ +

———

grand total= 20$

b.) how is the example (b) sentence is being calculated.

detailed reading- 45$

topic chosen (18+)- 15$ +

———

sub- total = 55$

vip mode- 20$

———

grand total = 75$

packages and subscriptions (CLOSED)

- this section is under construction 🚧🏗️

☆ spanish latte - an in-depth reading about your future lover, this package includes the 18+. instead of paying for $185. you can now, afford it in $170. this package is gonna have 30 pages overall.

☆ caramel macchiato - this is a 3 pulled card of your chosen question. you can afford this package for $5. remember, this won't cover the adult readings.

☆ matcha - this package is merely focus and cover with a donation-based request option.

☆ butterfly pea tea

☆ espresso

☆ lemon juice

☆ mango shake

rules & policies

i. payments are non-refundable, once your booking was confirmed there's no way out.

a. optional: you can do a "half payment advance" which means you can down-payment 50% with your purchase then pay the rest on the day your reading will be released. please, make sure to add $3 when paying it's for the convenience fee. so the requester can save and collect the right amount of money while waiting for their reading.

ii. kindly message me if you are interested and have any questions

iii. no changing of mind on the spot, so before booking make sure you already set your want.

iv. procedure may take 24 hrs and up depending on the desired length and topic. please be patient. do not rush the process. beautiful and accurate readings take time.

v. the reader is not a professional tarot holder. i am someone who is self-taught. please manage your expectations.

vi. discount policy; to someone who ordered 3 times in a row will be given 10% off.

vii. book a reading with me is equal to confidentiality. the information and discussion with the client must be kept secret.

viii. shipment and delays. readings will send through your provided email. if i failed to fulfill your reading to send on the converse and schedule date, you have rights to terminate your request and i will refund your money. otherwise, i will make sure to send a notice if there's a cause that which make delay the delivery of your reading.

— a. the notice message will only send when a paid reading has been started and unable to finish and send it on the day of deliverance.

payment methods

i. i only accept kofi and paypal as options. other payments type like bank transfers are not available.

ii. tipping is not necessary but my heart will be filled with so much joy if you

paypal not available.

how to book a private reading?

i. start your message with a positive ratio of greeting.

ii. tell me what your purpose is, state your aim

— a. send me your name, your age and email. the details such as zodiac signs are not automatically general but if you feel including it with your details then you are good.

— b. state your question and wants.

iii. you can book your reading through dms and emails. but i do prefer and agree with email messages.

iv. my contact info

— a. my email account is /janecafe34@gmail.com

jane, the bean fiend.

[icarusignite]

For Whom the Bell Tolls Masterlist

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Strong! Reader

Tropes: World War 2 HOTD AU, nurse x soldier, trauma bonding, childhood sweethearts, star-crossed lovers

Wattpad / AO3

Summary:

"The tragic hero is complete. You can call him unhappy (miserable, utterly broken) even before he is dead. For an instant, he is something divine, and then he dies, because there's nothing else left to do. The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking, someone whose face is a mask."

In the years preceding the inferno of the Second World War, the world dances precariously on the edge of destruction, teetering between disintegrating old empires and the looming dawn of new ones. In the heart of this volatile era, the Targaryen family rises to power through the might of their ironclad empire, the Targaryen Ammunitions Conglomerate. The story is set against a backdrop of a world torn between tradition and modernity, where the echoes of old wars linger in the corridors of power, and the spectre of new conflicts casts long shadows across the lives of those entangled in its web.

Viserys Targaryen, the Chief Executive Officer of Targaryen Ammunitions, is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. Decades before the world would be set ablaze, he cements his legacy, but at the cost of his own soul. The death of his first wife leaves him shattered, clinging to the last vestiges of humanity through the love he bears for his only daughter, Rhaenyra, his chosen heir. 

But even Viserys cannot escape the machinations of those around him. Drawn into a marriage with Alicent Hightower, his daughter's former college classmate, he finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit spun by her father. Otto Hightower's ambitions reach far beyond the bounds of mere familial ties; he seeks to control the empire itself, and the Targaryen family, once bound by blood and loyalty, begins to fracture as ambition and betrayal take root.

Rhaenyra, a woman of fierce independence and unyielding spirit, is forced into a life she never wanted. Pressured by her father and the demands of his legacy, she is coerced into a marriage of convenience with Laenor Velaryon, a man whose own struggles mirror her own. Their union is one of necessity, where neither partner truly belongs to the other, yet, in their shared discomfort and understanding, they find solace, forging a partnership that defies the world's expectations. Laenor, hiding his true nature in a society that would cast him out, finds safety in the match, while she, in turn, secures the power and stability she needs to maintain her position as her father's heir.

Years pass, and the couple's inability to have children leads them down a different path—a path that brings them to the doors of Harrenhall, where the recently deceased Harwin Strong leaves behind four orphaned children who have been disowned by his brother Larys in his greed for their fortune. Rhaenyra, with a heart as relentless as it is kind, cannot bring herself to separate the siblings, despite the dangers it may pose to her own ambitions. She adopts them all, bringing the Strong children into the fold of the Targaryen family.

As the eldest of these children, you are burdened by the weight of the world. At just ten years old, you have been forced to grow up far too quickly, stepping into the role of mother and protector to your younger siblings in the absence of your own. Your heart is a fortress, built stone by stone, your mistrust of the world as deep as the abyss. When you and your brothers are taken in by the Targaryens, your siblings find joy in the luxuries and love showered upon them by their new family, but you cannot let yourself believe in the comfort being offered, waiting for the moment when it will all be torn away.

Your fears are only compounded by the cold reception you receive from Rhaenyra's half-siblings, the children of Alicent Hightower. The second of these, Aemond Targaryen, is a boy who has grown up in the long shadow cast by his half-sister. Neglected by his father, who lavishes affection upon his new adoptive grandchildren, he harbours a deep resentment toward the Strong siblings. In his eyes, you are all usurpers, interlopers who have stolen all that should have been his and his alone. 

Nevertheless, the two of you find an unlikely ally in each other. Aemond, who despises the hollow privilege of his lineage, finds in you a kindred spirit, someone who understands the bitterness that festers in his heart. You, in turn, see in him a mirror of your own disillusionment, a boy lost in a world that seems intent on breaking him.

As the world outside your gilded cage hurtles toward cataclysm, your connection blossoms into something deeper, something tender, but just as your hearts begin to entwine, calamity, as it always does, intervenes.

Tragedy strikes the family, one blow after another, as the winds of war begin to howl across the continent. The fragile alliances that Rhaenyra has built start to crumble, and as Viserys struggles to hold his empire together, the rifts within his own family threaten to destroy everything he has worked for.

It is all made worse when a terrible accident steals away two precious loved ones, and in the aftermath, guilt weaves its thorny tendrils around Aemond's heart. At the tender age of eighteen, burdened by the weight of his own self-reproach, he severs all ties with his family, abandoning the name that has become a symbol of his anguish. He takes up his mother's maiden name, hoping to cast off the shackles of his past and live free from the burdens that have haunted him.

But in his flight from the wraiths of his former life, he leaves behind the only person who has ever understood him, to pick up the fractured remnants of their family. You are left all alone, as you have been for so much of your life, to mourn in silence, and the grief that once bound the two of you together now festers into a simmering resentment. Aemond does not write, nor does he respond to the countless letters you send, each one a plea for reconciliation, a desperate attempt to reach him across the chasm that has opened between you. 

Eventually, you receive word that he has been drafted into the conflict. The news shatters the fragile remnants of your dreams, the ambitions you once held of becoming a historian now buried beneath the rubble of a world on fire. You abandon everything and follow him into the inferno, earning the nursing certifications that place you at the very heart of the battlefield, where life and death are decided with every breath.

In this vast and chaotic landscape, the young lovers keep missing each other, like ships passing in the night, always just out of reach. Time and again, they come within moments of reunion, but never actually do. Until, at last, they are thrown together once more when a severely wounded and half-blind Aemond Hightower is brought into the makeshift clinic where you have been stationed.

The reunion is a storm of tears and apologies, a raw and unfiltered outpouring of the pain that has been carried for so long. For a few precious months, you have each other once more, as you tend to his injuries, nursing him back to some semblance of health. In those fleeting moments, the two of you cling to each other like drowning souls.

But fate is a fickle mistress, and there is nothing she loves more than to slit the throats of young lovers, and you are not spared the annihilation that has been written for you in the very stars, centuries before you were even born, a destiny that neither of you can escape, no matter how hard you try.

"You're going to die in your best friend's arms. And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, you've memorized it, it's all you know."

CHAPTERS: (coming soon)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter3

Chapter 4

A/N: This isn't going to be a full-length fic. It's going to be a collection of one-shots almost, or snippets jumping around the timeline to tell the most important parts of the story, so maybe 10-12 chapters at most. This way I won't bore yall with unnecessary filler chapters and still get to tell the story I want. The summary is about as much as you'll on the background tbh, this is meant to be an AemondxReader centric story. It's inspired by Atonement and every other WW2 movie I've ever watched.

Comment to lemme know if this is something you would be interested in and if you'd like to be added to the taglist.

Alternatively, add yourself to the taglist!

[whencyclopedia]

Celtic Coinage

The coinage of the ancient Celts, minted from the early 3rd century BCE to the 1st century CE, at first imitated Greek and then Roman coins. Celtic engravers then soon developed their own unique style, creating distinctive coins with depictions of stylised horses, abstract shapes, and the portraits of Celtic chiefs. Not being part of a wider political and economic entity like the Roman Empire, gold, silver, and bronze Celtic coins were rarely used for interregional trade but were, rather, used to buy and exchange goods locally and to spread imagery of rulers, tribes, and the ancient Celtic religion. Finally, coins were frequently buried in large hoards as part of votive rituals.

The Function of Celtic Coinage

An enormous number of Celtic coins have been found in burials and as part of ritual treasure hoards across Europe. Some hoards contained as many as 10,000 coins. Celtic coins were used for a variety of reasons. They were, as one would expect, used as a currency to acquire goods locally but coins were primarily used as a more convenient replacement for other high-value goods which had previously been used in a barter system. Coins were also offered as diplomatic gifts and perhaps given as tribute to more powerful neighbouring rulers.

Coins were also minted for prestige reasons: to demonstrate the wealth and sophistication of a particular chief and to spread their likeness amongst the people they ruled. Coins were sometimes dispensed by chiefs to their people on special occasions as a demonstration of their success and generosity. It is for this reason, perhaps, that the minting of Celtic coins was so sporadic: only when a ruler needed extra legitimacy for their rule were new coins minted.

Although coins provided artists with a new medium to show off their skills, an unexpected consequence of their introduction on wider ancient Celtic art is here summarised by the historians J. Farley and F. Hunter:

The spread of coinage coincided with a rapid decline in the production of unique and ornately decorated objects: the shields, weapons and torcs that were both symbols of status and power, and the canvases for earlier Celtic art. As small, mass produced objects, coins are undoubtedly less impressive than the imposing metalwork that had gone before but they offered a new kind of impact. Rapid manufacture and portability allowed powerful images, political messages, and a newly transformed stock of Celtic art to be transmitted to a wider audience than ever before.

(110)

Celtic coins were rarely used in interregional trade since, unlike say in the Roman Empire, Celtic Europe was made up of many different tribal groups and the coinage of one had no value in another except for the weight of precious metal. It is for this reason that small scales have turned up everywhere in the archaeological record, needed to assess the real value of coins which were used in trade. A consequence of the necessity for a coin to have a real value as opposed to a face value was that should any chief be tempted to debase the metal in their coinage (and some did), they would find it of little use outside their own territory.

Finally, coins were frequently buried in hoards. However, this was not always a mere ‘bank in the ground’ strategy but likely involved some sort of specific ritual and was done as a votive offering to Celtic deities. Such deposits were added to over a period of many years, sometimes several decades, and were often divided into multiple hoards in the same vicinity. The site of Hallaton in England, for example, has been excavated by archaeologists, and they discovered over 5,000 coins buried in 16 different places. Nearby were remains of ritual animal sacrifices, further pointing to a religious significance to the burial of these coins.

Continue reading...

[itsclydebitches]

The narrative H/C potential of switching Cazador and Orin’s kidnappings is just delicious to me. Instead of Astarion’s siblings waking him up and giving the party the chance to defend him, the player arrives back at camp (or finishes a long rest if Astarion is currently in your party) to discover that he’s just gone. No note, no sign of a struggle, nothing. Insert any hand wave-y means of abducting Astarion quietly here. The point is that this would wreck him.

Not just because he’s now back in the clutches of Cazador (though that’s obvious), but because you’re not coming for him. See, having Orin as your kidnapper is actually one of the more reassuring options, despite her murder-happy disposition. Even if she nabs a struggling character like Gale who might believe they’re unworthy of rescue for any number of reasons, Orin is one of the few baddies you simply have to engage with. Significantly, knowledge of that necessity is baked into the actual story-world. We see fighting her as a gameplay mechanic—defeat three mini bosses to reach the final boss—but that structure still exists as a Save The World quest for your party. No stone, no victory. No Orin, no stone. Ergo, they’re fighting Orin. So whoever is kidnapped knows that the party will show up eventually, even if it’s not for them. That’s it’s own wonderful, angsty assumption—“You came because it was the right thing to do, not because you care about me. My rescue was always a byproduct of saving the people who truly deserve it”—but at least there’s still reassurance in knowing you’ll see them again. All the kidnapped member has to do is not piss off Orin in the meantime and hope the party doesn’t die along the way. Not stellar odds, admittedly, but are they really any worse than what they’ve been dealing with all along?

Getting kidnapped by Cazador on the other hand... oh boy. He’s a missable boss, both mechanically and narratively. Who’s worried about him when there’s a fucking Netherbrain threatening all of Faerûn? Sure, sure, your Tav might have spent their journey helping every idiot with suitably convincing puppy-dog eyes, but Astarion is very much not a refugee tiefling/snake-threatened child/shadow-cursed hero/etc. He’s a chaotic, caustic bitch whose trauma is expressed more through biting fury than soft bouts of crying. Not only is he (in his own mind) not the sort of person people go out of their way to save, but would you even know where to begin? Depending on your approval rating you might still be iffy about Astarion’s past, as well as this upcoming ritual. Has Tav met any of the siblings yet? Do they know that Cazador’s Ascension would pose a threat to all of Baldur’s Gate? Do they have any means of finding the entrance to his palace without a former resident in the party (or convenient map marker)? Now, toss in the fact that, depending on how many long rests you’ve done, the party has only been traveling together for a matter of days/weeks. They know one another deeply (yay trauma bonding) but once separated that timeframe feels pretty insignificant, particularly to someone who has existed for over 200 years. Even if you’re romancing Astarion and he has more reason to believe that this short period of time was emotionally meaningful, he’s still admitted to manipulating you, to molding your emotions to best ensure his protection... but protection never extended to this.

Besides, Astarion has literally been here before. No heroes rescued him across two centuries of enslavement. Why would they rescue him now?

Except, it’s far worse this time around, isn’t it? Cazador isn’t merely his abuser, he’s now set to become an all-powerful vampire whose hold will truly be unbreakable. Astarion isn’t merely a slave to one individual, he’s now got a ticking time bomb in the form of a parasite set to enslave him to another. (And isn’t that something to chew on: him cursing the fact that the artifact’s protection still extends to him. At least as a Mind Flayer he wouldn’t feel anymore, would have a chance to fight back.) This time around Astarion isn’t just another beloved “child” of Cazador’s, he’s uniquely gifted in his ability to walk in the sun and resist commands. The hells only know what Cazador will make him do with that newfound power if he survives the ritual— or how Cazador will ensure Astarion’s continued “loyalty” while he does it. Worst of all though... now Astarion has had a chance to see what life could be like. Freedom. Agency. People who love him despite all the reasons they shouldn’t. Whoever said, “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” was a fucking fool. It’s so much worse to go backwards, to have lost not merely the life you dreamed of, but also the ability to pretend you never needed it in the first place.

Imagine that Astarion. Picture how broken he would be.

Now imagine the party kicking down Cazador’s door. The look on Astarion’s face when he realizes that despite the danger, the practical hurtles, the bigger stakes at play, the fact that it’s him... they came anyway.

[merwgue]

(This is neither a pro nor anti post, this is merely to criticise SJM's writing. However, it will be tagged as "anti" because if I tag it neutral, I'll get jumped❤️)

Ah yes, the infamous communication void in Sarah J. Maas's books—a void so deep it could probably swallow the entire Night Court and still be hungry. SJM doesn’t just dabble in miscommunication; she throws her characters into emotional landmines and says, "You figure it out... or don’t." And that’s where the fated mates trope comes in, right? It’s supposed to patch up that mess with some mystical connection, as if being mates magically grants couples ESP-level knowledge of each other’s deepest feelings. Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.

Let’s dive into why SJM’s version of communication—or lack thereof—just doesn’t hold water.

The Fated Mate Shortcut

In theory, fated mates should have some magical telepathic bond that transcends words. It's the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card for character development: why build healthy communication skills when the mating bond can conveniently swoop in to fill the gaps? In Maas’s world, this idea is wielded like an all-powerful tool: mates just know what the other is feeling, and therefore don't need to use this wild, ancient concept called words. The idea that fated mates can "sense" each other's emotions essentially sidelines the necessity of open dialogue. But here’s the problem: emotional intuition ≠ effective communication.

Psychologically speaking, emotional intelligence involves recognizing and managing your own emotions and the emotions of others. That’s not mind-reading! You can be deeply connected to someone, even soul-tied, and still have no idea what’s going on in their head. People are complex, and relationships require actual verbal communication to navigate emotional landscapes.

Take Feyre and Tamlin. They clearly loved each other but weren’t mates, which might be why their lack of communication felt so tangible and raw. The failure to express needs, fears, and insecurities is what led to their downfall, and honestly? That’s valid. Miscommunication or inability to communicate is one of the most common—and understandable—reasons relationships end. But do we get that sense of growth and change when Feyre hooks up with Rhysand? Not really. It’s like the narrative shifts gears from "Tamlin doesn’t understand Feyre" to "Rhysand just knows because they’re mates," completely skipping the part where Feyre needs to actually talk about what she went through.

The "Communication-Free" Mating Bond

Now we get to the Rhysand-Feyre dynamic. Once they're revealed as mates, it’s as though any need for in-depth conversations about feelings becomes redundant. The bond is treated as an unbreakable connection that automatically compensates for any emotional roadblocks. Rhysand messes up? It's okay, they’re mates. Feyre’s spiraling emotionally? Don’t worry, the bond will smooth that over. In psychological terms, this reliance on a supernatural bond as a "fix" is classic avoidant behavior. Instead of confronting the discomfort of working through problems, the narrative leans into this magical quick-fix. They’re bonded for life—problem solved, right?

Except it’s not.

Relationships—good ones, healthy ones—are built on effective communication, trust, and vulnerability. The mere presence of a fated mate bond doesn’t remove the need for these things. Mates don’t automatically understand each other’s trauma just because of some mystical bond. Imagine being so emotionally stunted that instead of apologizing or owning up to your mistakes, you’re just like, "But we’re mates, so it’s fine." Spoiler alert: it’s not fine.

Nessian: Miscommunication Meets the Mating Bond

And then we have Nesta and Cassian, whose relationship could be the ultimate case study in how not to communicate. Nesta, dealing with PTSD and trauma, is paired with Cassian, who—for all his supposed swagger—cannot for the life of him communicate effectively. They constantly clash, avoid real conversations about their pain, and sweep everything under the rug with physical intimacy. They kiss and make up, but no one is really talking. And that’s not love; that’s avoidance. It's like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

The bond between them is used as a crutch. When they fight, we’re supposed to believe that their mate bond will fix things eventually, but that's simply not how relationships work. Kissing your partner instead of discussing real problems is fine for a silly argument, but when it comes to serious issues—trauma, boundaries, power imbalances—it’s irresponsible. And the fact that Maas frames this as healthy because they’re mates is the narrative equivalent of gaslighting the reader into accepting toxic dynamics.

In psychological terms, this is where we see the conflict-avoidant and emotionally avoidant behaviors on full display. Cassian and Nesta both lack the emotional tools to effectively navigate their struggles, yet instead of being called out, their dysfunction is wrapped up in a bow of "fated mates" as if that’s supposed to be a solution. It’s not. The reality is that their bond does nothing to facilitate real healing; it’s just there as a placeholder for emotional growth that never comes.

The Unhealthy Dynamic

In psychology, we talk about secure attachment as the cornerstone of healthy relationships. You can have a deep connection, but you also need to work on things like trust, openness, and communication. What happens in Maas’s world is the opposite: the characters are codependent on this fated bond, rather than working toward a healthy attachment style. And SJM lets them off the hook. This narrative implies that emotional labor and apologizing for mistakes don’t really matter because "the bond will fix it." Not only does this undermine real, meaningful growth, but it also glosses over the entire point of relationships: to grow and learn together through the hard stuff.

When it comes to Cassian and Nesta, they literally can’t communicate. Cassian has all his own insecurities (hello, always calling himself a brute, never feeling worthy of Rhysand’s inner circle), and Nesta is navigating serious mental health struggles. They’re both drowning, but instead of Maas writing about how they could heal together, she plasters it with the band-aid of "mating bond."

At the end of the day, the whole "fated mates" trope in ACOTAR is a narrative cop-out that excuses bad communication and toxic dynamics. It’s okay to have flawed characters, but the problem is Maas doesn't treat them as flawed. She treats their lack of communication as something normal or even romantic. When in reality, if you can’t talk through your issues with your partner, no magical bond is going to save you.

So yeah, SJM’s version of "fated mates" feels like a lazy way to dodge the hard work of showing real character growth. And if these characters weren’t mates, they’d probably have broken up long ago—because healthy relationships are built on communication, not just magical convenience.

[thecrowskitten]

Kitten

Pairing: Sylus/OC (Ameris)

Summary:

Sylus can't hold back anymore, he needs Ameris close to him.

Masterlist

Word count: 3,670

***

No sun greeted the N109 Zone, leaving time to slip through grasping fingers like sand. Shadows stretched endlessly, artificial lighting the only reprieve from the perpetual gloom. Ameris spent her days confined to the guest room, a space as lavish as it was suffocating. The silken sheets clung to her skin like a second layer, expensive and soft, yet foreign. Everything in the room was tailored to her, down to the pink and gold accents mirroring her apartment in Linkon City. Every detail whispered a truth she didn’t want to acknowledge—Sylus had been watching her for longer than she could have ever realized.

The poison had left her system within a day, but its aftermath lingered. Fatigue anchored her to the bed, pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. The butterfly rash faded under the steroid cream he had so conveniently placed on the nightstand, yet the stiffness in her joints remained, dull and persistent. At first, rest was a relief, but isolation soon became unbearable. She longed for the hum of city life, for real sunlight rather than the sterile glow of false illumination.

Sylus was a presence that hovered at the edge of her awareness, brief and unreadable. He entered only to ensure she ate and took her medication—a tray of food placed beside her, a book left for entertainment, a quiet insistence that she follow the routine. He lingered just long enough to watch her take the pills, his presence more obligation than comfort. She tested him, prodding at the boundary he had built between them, but he never gave her anything beyond necessity. Once satisfied, he settled into the armchair across from her, eyes scanning the pages of a novel titled Life After Becoming a Mafia Boss, avoiding her gaze. If she asked him something personal, he merely smirked, turned a page, and let the silence stretch. The moment she finished, he was gone. 

When Sylus was absent, Luke or Kieran took his place, their presence just as fleeting. It was a routine that became predictable, and Ameris despised it.

The day she was well enough to stand without feeling like her legs would give out, she dressed in the clothing left in the dresser—designer alternatives to her usual wardrobe, the fabric soft and expensive. The weight of the garments felt curated, as if he had personally ensured they would suit her. Pulling her curls into a ponytail, she stepped into the unknown halls of Onychinus’ base.

The corridors stretched before her, sleek marble underfoot, dim lighting casting elongated shadows against the walls. Expensive art lined the halls—vivid reds and deep blues clashing against the dark, refined aesthetic. Each brushstroke carried a story, some canvases filled with abstract chaos, others haunted by stark depictions of the N109 Zone’s decay. She paused in front of one, fingers ghosting over the gilded frame. The cityscape stared back, both as it once was and as it had become. No signatures marked the paintings, and thought took root—were these commissioned, or had Sylus himself captured these moments?

A murmur of voices cut through the stillness. One belonged to Sylus, his unmistakable baritone smooth and unwavering, amusement curling at the edges of his words. The other was unfamiliar, its tone clipped, used to command.

Curiosity won over caution. She approached the slightly ajar door where Luke and Kieran stood guard. They met her gaze, their masked faces revealing nothing, but they didn’t stop her. Silent permission. Ignoring their warning gestures, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The study was lined with towering bookshelves, the scent of aged pages mingling with whiskey and something distinctly Sylus. He lounged in a wine-red chair behind a sleek obsidian desk, posture relaxed yet calculated. The glass in his hand caught the dim light as he brought it to his lips, those ruby eyes finding her instantly. Across from him sat a man in a black suit, sharp gray eyes narrowing in displeasure at the intrusion.

Ameris felt the weight of scrutiny as the man’s gaze swept over her, lingering where the loose sweater draped over her frame, where the joggers hugged her form.

Sylus set down his glass and extended a hand toward her, an unspoken command she had no choice but to follow. The moment she reached him, he pulled her into his lap with practiced ease. A sharp inhale caught in her throat, but she masked her surprise, keeping her expression composed even as his grip settled firmly around her waist, his free hand trailing the curve of her jaw.

“Well,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement, “Kitten, you’re out of bed.”

Her glare was sharp, but he only smirked, his thumb brushing the hollow of her throat before sliding down to rest against her collarbone. His touch was possessive yet effortless as if he had always known the shape of her. She should have recoiled. Should have pushed him away. But there was something unnervingly familiar in the way he held her as if her body had already memorized the feel of him long before her mind could recall it.

“This is unexpected,” the suited guest observed, his gaze flickering between them, calculating. “I was under the impression she wasn’t—”

“She wasn’t,” Sylus interjected, voice light but edged with finality. “But you see, it would be cruel of me to keep my Kitten locked away when she’s been lost for so long.”

A side glance warned her to stay silent, and she obeyed. Instead, her eyes traced the sharp lines of Sylus’ profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the aristocratic refinement of his jaw, the way the dim lighting cast shifting shadows over his high cheekbones. His features were carved with an unnatural symmetry, something both human and not. Even in stillness, he exuded a quiet predatory grace, like a blade poised for the perfect strike.

Then, without warning, he leaned in.

His lips brushed against the curve of her neck, a whisper of warmth against her skin. The barest hint of pressure sent a ripple through her, but it wasn’t the present that consumed her—it was something else. Something old.

The air thickened. Heat wrapped around her, stifling and electric. The scent of smoke and ozone filled her lungs, firelight reflecting against polished obsidian scales. Massive wings unfurled, their shadow swallowing the chamber whole. Ruby eyes glowed from the darkness, watching her with a hunger that was not human.

Her fingers ghosted over hardened scales, black as the abyss yet gleaming with an unnatural sheen. The creature loomed over her, immense and powerful, its form both terrifying and achingly familiar. It had touched her before. Claimed her before. 

You are mine, it had said, voice a deep rumble that resonated in her bones. You always have been. 

Her vision snapped back. The study returned in a blink, Sylus’ breath still warm against her skin, his presence lingering like a shadow, his gaze fixed on the very spot where phantom fangs had once pressed.

Ameris swallowed, her pulse erratic. Her fingers barely brushed the fresh mark he had left, heat rising to her cheeks against her will. He had found her sweet spot with ease as if this was something they had done countless times before.

His grip on her knee tightened slightly, his voice a low murmur against her ear, lips ghosting over the cold metal of her piercings. “Something wrong, Kitten?”

“No, I’m alright.” The lie slipped easily, her tone calm even as her mind churned. Not yet. Not now. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge what had just happened.

Instead, she leaned into his touch, her head settling in the crook of his neck. She didn’t know who Sylus had been to her. She didn’t know what history existed between them. But right now, in this moment, she knew one thing with certainty—

He would keep her safe.

***

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Ameris inquired, her voice deceptively even as she stared at the empty chair where the suited man had sat moments before. Black smoke curled from the edges of the seat, Sylus’ Evol dissipating into the air as though it were ink dissolving in water.

“I killed him.” The words left Sylus’ mouth as easily as an exhale as if it were the most natural conclusion to the meeting.

His hand still rested at her waist, fingers splayed, an anchor that neither held her in place nor let her go. Ameris didn’t move. Instead, she reached up, brushing her fingers along the sharp cut of his jaw before gripping his chin and forcing him to look at her.

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—surprise, amusement, something deeper that vanished behind careful detachment. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“You’re getting bold, Kitten,” Sylus murmured, his voice dropping into something indulgent. He didn’t resist her touch, allowing her to tilt his chin, ruby eyes locked onto hers, searching, daring.

“Just playing your game, Boss Man.” Her tone was smooth and effortless, but there was weight behind her words, an unspoken challenge between them.

He smirked. “You killed him. Just like that.”

The corner of Sylus’ lips curled, a ghost of satisfaction there. “Surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be,” she admitted. Her fingers slipped from his chin, and his grip at her waist tightened—not restraining, not stopping, just reminding. “I know the kind of person you are.”

His smirk deepened, amused. “Oh? Do tell.”

Ameris narrowed her eyes slightly, the shift in his demeanour was unmistakable. He was enjoying their little game, and Ameris’ ability to match his energy. The tension between them grew with each word, and each action, increasing the stakes every second. 

She exhaled sharply, shifting in his lap, but he didn’t release her. Instead, his fingers traced absent patterns at her waist. The touch was light and deliberate, the soft fabric of her sweater the only barrier between her bare skin and his hand. 

“You barely even spoke to him,” she pressed, willing herself to ignore how her pulse betrayed her. “Why was he here?”

Sylus leaned back against the chair, his posture still impossibly relaxed, but she wasn’t fooled. Every movement, every breath was calculated. “He was an Ever representative.”

Her gaze flickered to the whiskey glass he had abandoned, the ice melting into the amber liquid.

“They’re getting desperate,” he continued, watching her reaction closely. ��They wanted to negotiate terms. Something about a peaceful arrangement—ensuring no further ‘unnecessary conflict’ between us.” He paused, deliberating what to say next before deciding it was better to say it: “Told me I’d be compensated handsomely if I handed you over.”

She had known Ever was circling, that their eyes were on her. But hearing it like this, from him, twisted something in her stomach. They weren’t just watching anymore, they were beginning to act. 

“You didn’t take the deal.”

Sylus arched a brow, slow and unbothered. “We struck a deal, sweetie. You’re mine.”

His fingers spread slightly against her side, just enough for her to feel the weight of his words. He wasn’t holding her there, but he was making a point.

She swallowed back the heat curling low in her stomach, meeting his gaze with an even one of her own. “They won’t stop just because you killed their Envoy.”

“They won’t.” His fingers tapped idly against her side, a slow, steady rhythm. “But I sent a message.”

Sylus’ Evol still lingered in the air, faint yet present. It remained the only proof that man ever existed, his death a symbol of quiet, ruthless efficiency. It should have unsettled her, it did unsettle her, though beneath that unease was a sliver of relief. 

Sylus eyed her carefully. “You’re not afraid.”

Ameris inhaled, slow and measured, feeling the weight of his gaze press into her like gravity. She had known fear before—had faced the unknown, the powerful, the unrelenting. Yet here, with him, there was no terror. 

She shook her head. “Fear isn’t something I’ve been able to afford since the attack fourteen years ago. Besides, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you would do anything to keep me by your side.”

His breath hitched, so subtle that if she hadn’t been this close, she wouldn’t have noticed. Sylus found his resolve slipping with her this close to him. Ameris was as magnetic as she was when they first met, her sense of neutrality when first getting to know someone a refreshing change from the immediate judgement from the rest of the world. Already, Sylus could tell she saw him for who he was, not for the things he’s done. He was falling in love with her all over again. 

A slow, pleased hum rumbled in his chest, deep enough that she felt it against her own. His grip on her waist loosened, fingertips sliding away, granting her space.

“I would burn the world down if it meant having you by my side forever,” he murmured.

She should have moved then. Should have put distance between them, and reclaimed the space that had been theirs before this moment. But something inside her told her to stay, another memory bubbling just below the surface

The memory earlier—flickering firelight, the scent of embers and something ancient, the brush of obsidian scales against bare skin—echoed at the edges of her mind, clawing for acknowledgment. Ameris wanted to know more. Wanted nothing more than to discover who Sylus was to her, and who she was to him. 

Sylus exhaled through his nose, amused. “I wonder, Kitten…” He leaned in, voice brushing over her ear, low enough that only she could hear. “Would you have stopped me?”

Ameris pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“No.”

“Good,” Sylus said, eyes narrowing as his fingers brushed over the mark he’d left on her neck, his Evol causing it to form into a wyvern, before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then get dressed.” 

Ameris blinked, momentarily thrown off by the abrupt shift in tone. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back against the chair, retrieving his whiskey glass with a lazy grace. “We have somewhere to be.”

“Where?” Ameris raised an eyebrow, hating the idea of going in blind. 

Sylus took a slow sip, savouring the taste before answering. “An auction. And before you protest—yes, you’re coming with me.”

Ameris narrowed her eyes, suspicion curling in her chest. “Wasn’t going to protest anything, but why?”

His gaze darkened, sharp and unreadable. “Because I want Ever to see exactly who they failed to take from me.”

She exhaled through her nose, frustration simmering beneath the surface. It wasn’t a request. It never was with him. Still, as she slid off his lap and turned toward the door, she felt the weight of his eyes following her, the ghost of his touch lingering against her skin.

***

Sitting at the vanity in the bedroom, Ameris struggled to pull her hair into a simple updo as she got ready for the auction. Sylus had given her an hour to get dressed, a prepared outfit neatly folded at the foot of her bed. She did a quick, yet elegant, makeup look before trying to figure out her hair. While she managed to keep her curls tamed, it was always difficult to keep them in place when tied back in more than just a simple ponytail. Her shaky hands didn’t help, the lack of grip strength and stability causing her to nearly give up. 

“Sit still,” Sylus commanded, suddenly appearing behind her. His fingers raked through her hair, leading Ameris to settle hers in her lap. She didn’t want to admit it, but she loved the feeling of his hands in her hair—the way they worked with a precision she hadn’t expected, the warmth of his touch grounding her, despite the mounting pressure of the evening. 

“I don’t recall asking for your help.” Ameris stared into the mirror, watching as Sylus worked her hair into two braids before settling the rest of her hair into a low bun, leaving the shorter strands at the front to frame her face. 

“I’m just here to ensure you look perfect, sweetie,” Sylus let his hands trail down her neck, before settling onto her shoulders. He leaned down on the side where his mark lay clear as day – now resembling a tattoo in black ink. It looked as though it was flying up towards her ear, wanting to grab the simple ruby teardrop earrings Sylus had left for her to wear. “Come, it’s time we go.” 

“What? No compliment?” Ameris arched her brow. She inspected his handiwork, impressed with how tight he managed to make the braids. His skill was unexpected, the style perfectly symmetrical without a single hair out of place. Sylus held a hand out to Ameris impatiently, leading her to take it and finally test the new shoes that adorned her feet. the heels were surprisingly comfortable and suited the dress well with the gold chain and red rubies to decorate it. 

“It suits you,” He said with a straight face, looking her up and down. He involuntarily bit his lip as his gaze settled on her bust, pulling out a simple ruby brooch and fastening it onto the left side, near the dress’s strap. “No one can stay wary when there’s a beauty walking around.” 

“Hmph,” Ameris looked at the two of them in the full-length mirror. “This beauty will bash your skull sooner or later.” 

Sylus chuckled, inspecting every inch of her closely. She noticed how gentle his touch was, how he looked at her. Sylus’s lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile, but his eyes betrayed something more than just desire. There was something softer there, something deeper, almost like tenderness mixed with the heat of his want. He didn’t just want her, though that much was painfully clear. There was an intensity in his gaze that said more, something raw and powerful—a connection that, for a moment, felt like more than the game they played.

His hand brushed the side of her face, his fingers trailing slowly down her neck, lingering just above the mark he’d left on her skin. His touch was almost too tender, his thumb grazing the pulse point beneath her jaw. She could feel it—the warmth of his gaze, the burn of his touch—but she couldn’t allow herself to believe it. 

“I don’t need to remind you, Ameris,” he murmured, his voice hushed, full of dark promise. “You belong to me.” His words were possessive, his lips barely touching her ear as they lingered in the silence between them.

Her chest tightened at the weight of his statement, but it was the look in his eyes that made her stomach flip, that made her heart beat just a little too fast. He was looking at her like no one ever had. Not just with lust, not just with the hunger of someone claiming what they wanted, but with a depth of feeling she wasn’t prepared to face. There was something else in his gaze. Something akin to love.

But no. She couldn’t believe it. Not from him. Not from Sylus. His lust was undeniable, and she understood it, recognized it, revelled in it—but he couldn’t be in love with her. Not when she was dying. 

She shook her head imperceptibly, clenching her jaw as if to force herself to deny it, to push aside that feeling in her chest, the small, dangerous voice that whispered it might be real.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she said, her voice sharp, as she pulled away from him slightly, keeping her back straight, her expression cool. He chuckled, the sound low and dark, a breath of amusement that came too easily from him. But even as he smirked, the tenderness never left his eyes. 

“You can tell yourself that all you want,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He chuckled, the sound low and dark, a breath of amusement that came too easily from him. But even as he smirked, the tenderness never left his eyes. “But I know you, Ameris. I see what you are trying to hide. You’ve always belonged to me, you just don’t remember it yet.” 

His hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, the contact lingering, possessive in a way that sent a jolt through her. Ameris stiffened, her body reacting before she could force herself to stay calm. She met his gaze once more, trying to find something to counter his words, something to mask the truth of what she was feeling, but his eyes... those eyes full of lust, of longing, of that unspoken love... it all made her want to break away, run, but she couldn’t. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she forced the words out, trying to shove down the rising tide of emotions. 

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice cold, her tone steady despite the chaos building inside her. Sylus’s smile widened, and there was something unshakably sure in his expression, a quiet certainty that unsettled her. 

“Maybe not. But I will,” he said, stepping closer, his body only inches from hers now. “And one day, you’ll realize it too.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing just above her ear. “You’ll understand that you don’t have to fight it. You belong to me, as much as I belong to you.”

Ameris’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she could almost believe it—believe in the love behind those words, the way his touch was a promise, not just a demand. It scared her more than the danger they were about to enter, bringing Ameris to pull back sharply, breaking the connection, her eyes hardening as she looked at him with a practiced coldness. 

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, her voice firm. “We have an auction to attend.”

[frodothefair]

The Traveling King of Rohan

@from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras, you might like this. :)

I have a headcanon, inspired by Medieval tradition, that the King of Rohan, in times of peace, travels to stay for several weeks at the court of one of his vassals, to maintain relationships with nobles and get a first hand view of the running of the country and the lives of the people.

It's going to happen in The Golden Hall, and I've seen a similar thing in other works such as @konartiste's The Marriage Bed of the Brute and the Bookworm.

However, my headcanon puts a little twist on the tradition. Inspired by the conviction of Emperor Joseph in my beloved Marie Antoinette series, "a king only sees what he is shown," I think Éomer decides that, much like Joseph, he will travel incognito to get a more authentic view of the country.

This is nicely enabled by the fact that in pre-modern-media societies, few people actually knew what the king and queen looked like. In Rohan, in particular, nobody's printing or mass-producing images of the king and passing them out. Heck, nobody's printing or producing any media en masse, because the Rohirrim are a predominantly oral culture. The people are famously "scattered," and the only ones who would be able to recognize the king on sight outside of Edoras are the men who served under his direct command -- aka, not that many people. Plus, if the king were to be described, he would come out to look like pretty much every 30-year-old Rohir who ever lived. He doesn't have any unusual features (for his people), his coloring is similar to everyone else's, and the fact that he's tall? Well, my headcanon there is that Tolkien's races of Men are taller on average than people in our world, so Éomer's alleged height at 6'5 would put him in the top 10% or so, as opposed to the <1% in our universe. (I also have another headcanon that the feet and inches they used in Middle-earth are different from our feet and inches, so all the characters are not as tall as we think, and The Professor, as the nerdy academic who allegedly created the work out of primary sources, somehow misunderstood that fact, or conveniently omitted it to make his characters seem more impressive.) Granted, both the height headcanons come from a place of me personally being uncomfortable around Very Tall People.

But I digress. The king's disguise (or lack of necessity thereof) we've handled, but what about the queen? All the Rohirrim in general know about the queen is that she is very beautiful, and has dark hair. But here, the queen's ladies in waiting have a solution. They procure a blonde wig, and suddenly, she is merely another beautiful Rohanese woman who doesn't talk much, so as not to betray her accent.

[catofadifferentcolor]

Random DA Thoughts (1/?): Skyhold Layout

I have a tendency to hyperfixate. Here, my Dragon Age and medieval history hyperfixations merge together perfectly to answer the question: is Skyhold a functional castle?

The answer is obviously: no. Optimization and rendering have done away with quite a lot that is necessary to make Skyhold a truly livable fantasy Middle Ages-analog castle, up to and including all the cellars and cisterns that would be necessary to keep the population fed during the winter or in the event of a siege.

But it's close - close enough that with a few tweaks Skyhold could serve as a believable, livable mountain fortress.

Starting with the bird's eye view, my biggest changes are in the area immediately to the south of the keep - rather than keep the stables there, I've turned it into a kitchen yard with bakehouse, brewery, and coops - in addition to access to a kitchen garden.

The stables and a small stockyard have been moved to the lower bailey, but most livestock would by necessity be kept further down the mountain - and so would most dairying and butchering. Only the most high-ranked, like the Inquisitor's inner circle, would keep their horses in the keep. There might also be just enough cows or goats to provide daily milk needs, with cheese and butter coming from offsite.

Each of the nine towers would rise five stories - a ground level with four levels above, plus at least one sub-level with cellars, cisterns, and/or wells in the event the curtain walls are breached. For convenience sake, I have named these (clockwise, staring from the top): the North Tower, Wolf Tower, Kitchen Tower, South Tower, Eastern Gatehouse, Western Gatehouse, Star Tower, West Tower, and Courtyard Tower.

Ramparts can be accessed via the 3rd level of each tower. Some, like the gatehouses, have additional officer housing on the topmost level, as was common in medieval castles. Others, like the Courtyard Tower, have the infirmary in its lower levels, with medics and healers housed on the upper floors. The North Tower - which can be customized for mages or templars in game - is envisioned as mage tower here, with space for enchanting and requisitions on the ground level.

The keep's ground level and courtyard remain largely the same, merely be expanded upon. The courtyard gains a hothouse and a separate building for the chapel as well as hot springs access for bathing. The keep grows outwards, becoming more than just a great hall. Josephine's office also becomes the castellan's suite, gaining a waiting area and restricted access to their private chambers. The War Room is the ground level of the Wolf Tower, accessible only through the castellan's suite.

The 1st and 2nd levels are largely similar - with a lot of wasted space open the the great hall. I envision it as similar in size to Westminster Hall and imagine it must be a nightmare to heat even with magic. Main attractions include Vivienne's balcony and the chamberlain's office - which, as the chamberlain is historically in charge of managing the royal household, may well be Vivienne's rooms. Leliana, as the Inquisition’s seneschal, has the office and chambers on the second level.

The 3rd level is the one which required the most imagination, as other than the towers and outbuildings there's not a lot of obvious space where visiting nobles and other dignitaries might sleep - and those would likely be given over to military officers and servants respectively. So, drawing inspiration from the Winter Palace, we have a handful of household apartments here too.

The 4th level houses more than just the Inquisitor's bedchambers. Here, I've given them an actual office and a bedroom with a door that closes, as well as a second suite on the same level - perhaps if Vivienne isn't claiming the chamberlain's rooms, she has the two-room south-facing suite.

The rotunda extends up for two more levels, though for sanitation levels the ravenry has been moved to a different building. A balcony extends around the 6th level, offering a brilliant view of the Frostbacks - but politely cuts off before turning north, allowing those in the 4th level bedrooms privacy from prurient eyes.

There are also two sub-levels - the first provides more cellars as well as access to the secret library (behind a not-so-fake wine rack in the smallest of the cellars). The bottom-most has the undercroft as well as the hot springs - here imagined as largely untouched, with minimal masonry additions added for safety and privacy. (I'm really loving the images I've found of Deep Blue Hot Springs in Warrnambool, Australia, so something along those lines.)

Does this cover all bases? Probably not. There are a lot of latrines I've not bothered drawing and prefer to imagine as some lovely ancient elven version of internal plumbing, being emptied far from the castle's drinking water. The outbuildings I've added should provide more services beyond the blacksmith we see as well as servant housing. (Laundries. Coopers. Fletchers. Chandlers. The works.)

Anyway, I had a fun time making these. Feel free to offer up any comments or suggestions on what should be added or changed.

[slayingfiction]

The Intricacies of Crafting Character Deaths in Storytelling

Elevating Narrative Through Character Deaths

Character deaths wield the unique ability to transform the narrative landscape, serving pivotal roles that extend beyond the confines of plot advancement. They are moments ripe with potential to:

Deepen Plot Dynamics: The departure of a character can catalyze significant plot developments, altering the course of the narrative and presenting new challenges and dynamics for the characters left behind. This not only propels the story forward but also introduces complexity and unpredictability.

Enhance Character Arcs: The ramifications of a character's demise are felt most acutely in the evolution of surviving characters. Witnessing or grappling with loss can reveal hidden depths, trigger transformations, and redefine motivations, thereby enriching character arcs with nuanced layers of growth and introspection.

Amplify Thematic Resonance: Character deaths can serve as poignant reflections of the story's underlying themes—be it the fragility of life, the inevitability of change, or the nature of sacrifice. These moments offer a mirror to the thematic heart of the narrative, inviting deeper contemplation and emotional engagement from the audience.

Forge Emotional Connections: At its core, the impact of a character's death hinges on its ability to evoke a profound emotional response. This connection not only cements the audience's investment in the narrative but also elevates the storytelling experience, making it memorably resonant.

Discerning the Whys and Why Nots of Character Deaths

The decision to write a character out of a story should stem from a place of narrative integrity rather than convenience or shock value.

Valid Reasons Include:

Narrative Necessity and Integrity: A character's death should feel like a natural culmination of the narrative's direction and themes, serving as an essential link in the chain of the story's development rather than an arbitrary twist.

Emotional and Thematic Depth: If the demise meaningfully enriches the narrative's emotional landscape or underscores its thematic concerns, it justifies the inclusion.

Conversely, character deaths can detract from the story when:

Solely for Shock Value: Utilizing death merely as a tool for surprise can undermine the narrative's depth, leading to moments that feel unearned or manipulative.

For Plot Convenience: Eliminating a character simply to untangle complex plot threads can be perceived as a shortcut, cheapening the narrative's overall craftsmanship.

Crafting Deaths with Lasting Impact

The resonance of a character's death is profoundly influenced by the narrative groundwork laid both before and after the event.

Prior to the Death:

Robust Character Development: Investing time in developing the character ensures that the audience forms a meaningful bond, amplifying the impact of their loss.

Strategic Foreshadowing: Implementing subtle hints about the character's fate can enhance the sense of inevitability and poignancy of their demise, while still preserving the element of surprise.

Narrative Integration: The potential death should be deeply intertwined with the story's fabric, ensuring it feels like a consequential event rather than an isolated incident.

Following the Death:

Showcase Reactions: Illustrating the emotional and practical aftermath of the death through the eyes of surviving characters adds layers of realism and depth to the narrative.

Honor the Legacy: Exploring how the deceased character's influence persists, whether through the memories of others, the impact of their actions, or ongoing storylines they set in motion, can enrich the narrative's continuity and emotional resonance.

Mindful Tone Setting: The narrative tone in the wake of the death should reflect its significance, allowing both characters and audience adequate space to navigate their grief and find closure.

Navigating the Ethical Landscape

Writers must tread carefully, mindful of the ethical implications and the messages their stories convey through the depiction of death. It's crucial to handle such moments with sensitivity, avoiding the trivialization of loss or perpetuation of harmful stereotypes. Moreover, understanding genre expectations and audience sensibilities can guide the frequency and portrayal of character deaths, ensuring they enrich rather than detract from the storytelling experience.

Conclusion

The decision to conclude a character's journey through death is a formidable aspect of storytelling, demanding careful consideration and thoughtful execution. By anchoring these moments in narrative necessity, emotional depth, and ethical sensitivity, writers can craft deaths that not only serve the story but also offer a lasting impact on the audience. Such carefully navigated departures not only underscore the stakes and depth of the narrative but also foster a deeper emotional connection between the story and its readers. Ultimately, the art of writing character deaths is about balance—between advancing the plot and honoring the emotional journey of the audience, between the shock of loss and the narrative necessity, and between the finality of death and the enduring legacy of a character’s impact.

Happy Writing!

[hell-much]

Sneak Peek - For Once In My Life

Below the cut a little something from Margaery's POV. (Sneak Peek for Sansa's POV can be found here.)

A hearty kick brings about the desired roaring. Margaery glares down at the radiator as the metallic clang echoes, daring it to not give out on her again.

The small plug-in radiator sitting by her bedroom window is her most cherished and her most despised piece of furniture in this place. It’s a complete piece of rubbish. No matter at what temperature she sets it, no matter if kicks it, pleads with it, no matter if turns it on just before going to bed, it always turns off during the night, leaving her to wake up in a walk-in fridge of a bedroom.

She’ll have to invest in a newer one if she wants any chance to survive the winter. The other day, a shiny red one in the window at the hardware store tempted her, the advertisement promising rapid heating, but she couldn't bring herself to buy it—for the mere notion of having to surrender to spending the winter here.

She knows that’s stupid. Whether or not she’s freezing here, won’t be what helps Sansa to reach a decision. Never mind that in the temperatures Margaery’s used to, this right here is winter, or at the very least the coldest August she has ever experienced.

With a warming sip of her coffee, Margaery looks out the window. One of these days she'll need to catch the sunrise somewhere out of town. It’s already completely different than only a few weeks ago. The cool, damp air is almost palpable in the first rays that break through the clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, but it also robs her off any motivation to leave the house, like, ever.

The thick woollen blanket wrapped around her she heads to the kitchen and pours herself another coffee. Hearing the weather report on the radio, lets her think there’s no getting around that trip to the hardware store.

She exhales heavily. There’s no use to fret about it. She’s always thrived on new experiences and new challenges, and this right here, surviving a northern winter might be her greatest yet. If she makes it through fall that is.

A light fizzling feeling spreads in her chest when the key turns in the lock. Spinning around, she smiles, spotting Sansa pushing through the door, a potted plant in one arm and a rolled-up rug in the other.

Setting her cup down, Margaery takes the spider plant off her hands. “I would have preferred flowers, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Sansa takes off her shoes and into the set of slippers matching Margaery’s. “You’ll get flowers when I’m convinced you can keep them alive.”

“I resent that. I’m good with flowers.”

“In the South maybe,” Sansa says brushing a fleeting kiss to her lips. “Keeping them alive on four hours of daylight is a whole other thing.”

Margaery’s fingers trace the delicate veins of the leaves, and she wonders how she’s supposed to stay alive with four hours of daylight. She trails after Sansa and watches her unroll the thick, red rug on the bathroom tiles. Sansa stands there for a moment, hands braced into her hips, before crouching down and unfurling the plush fringe. A content breath comes of her lips as she takes it in a second time.

“What do you think?” Sansa asks over her shoulder.

“Convenient colour for being on the rag.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and takes the plant from her, setting it on wash counter. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Coming to a stand behind her, Margaery loops her into a tight hug. “I’m teasing you. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

A tentative smile looks back at her through the mirror. “You really like it?”

Margaery presses a kiss to her neck. “I love it.”

Truthfully, Margaery can’t claim to care much for these home making endeavours.

Renting an apartment was somewhat of a necessity; the only sensible choice to make. Staying in the motel in Mole’s Town, while convenient in proximity and cozy enough, had started to become a peril. Too central in a town too small not to attract attention. Here, in the outskirts of Queenscrown, nobody bats an eye when Sansa pops in and out of the big, anonymous apartment block.

The decoration efforts are less of a necessity. In Margaery’s perception anyway. For her standards the plain furnishing the apartment came with was perfectly acceptable.

Sansa wholeheartedly disagreed.

From the first time she brought her here she’s made it her mission to make it as comfortable as possible. The sheer volume of things Sansa has dragged here in the last couple of weeks makes Margaery wonder how her husband has not yet noticed the countless items missing from their home. Bedding, curtains, cutlery and dishes, plants, lamps, glasses, vases… It’s reached the point, where Margaery honestly isn’t sure how she will go about moving out of here without a moving service.

She’s understands that it’s Sansa’s love language; her way to make sure she is as comfortable as possible staying here. It might not always be what Margaery considers necessary, but she will admit that being surrounded by things Sansa lovingly put in place–pulling open the curtains she sewed for her, first thing in the morning, cuddling into the warm flannel bedlinen and a mountain of throw pillows at night, finding a fridge stacked to the brim with Tupperware containers—is a nice notion, makes her feel constantly surrounded by Sansa.

She looks forward to the moment she steps from the shower onto that fluffy rug for the first time.

“How are you, darling?” Margaery asks.

“I’m fine.”

Her voice sounds just a tad too bright and something about the way Sansa fiddling with the leaves, chafes within Margaery. “No, you're not.”

Sansa’s hands still, her eyes wide with soft astonishment. “What makes you say that?”

“Well for one, you haven’t kissed me yet.”

“I did.”

“Not properly.”

The gentle smile spreading on Sansa’s face, brings a warmth that spreads through Margaery like sunshine, one only Sansa’s presence brings these days. Twisting around, Sansa tilts Margaery’s chin up, her breathy, “How incredibly rude of me,” disappearing in a through and through proper kiss.

In the last six weeks Sansa’s kisses have not lost an ounce of eagerness; neither have hands, always pleasantly warm, brushing over her cheeks, sinking into her hair. The heavy wool blanket, that Margaery carries around all day, wrapped around her as a make-shift poncho never stays put for long when Sansa is close by.

With a first longing sated, Margaery brushes a hand over the heavy braid sitting on Sansa’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Want me to take your mind of it?”

Sansa smiles softly as fingers work the belt of her dress. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“And when has that ever stopped us?”

She has yet to see the day when Sansa has time to spare. Time is all too sparse. Things are ramping up for the harvest on the farm and Sansa’s workload is mindboggling. Sometimes she’ll just drop down for a nap as soon as she arrives. Margaery will lie next to her then, watch her try to keep her eyes open, and caress her into the sleep she needs.

The reality of her staying here differed from her expectations in many ways; mid-morning naps weren't something on her agenda. She’s filled a couple rolls of films with photographs of a sleeping Sansa. It’s all so sickeningly domestic.

They’ve both become masters at making most of every second together, to squeeze whole days of lovemaking, of talking, getting lost in each other’s eyes and soaking up each other’s presence into less than an hour.

Taking a hold of her hands, she pulls Sansa a few step backwards, before she halts once more, searching her eyes. “Unless you’d rather talk.”

“I have two hectares of potatoes awaiting my attention,” Sansa says, pushing her to keep walking. “Just talking won't help me retain my will to live through that.”

So that’s what the mood is all about.

Margaery threads her fingers thread through Sansa’s and nods to the bedroom. “Come on then.”

There’s something that’s almost clinical to the way they both slip out of their clothes. Like stripping for a doctor’s examination, each item of clothing carefully folded and stacked neatly; a quiet ritual only accompanied by rustling of fabric on skin.

That sentiment never lasts very long though. There’s always that one second that has nothing to do with efficiency: When Sansa stands there naked, and her fingers loosen the hair tie holding her braid together. How she holds her eyes through that simple act, delicately pulls apart strands of her hair, letting tresses cascade around her bare shoulders, is breathtakingly sensual.

She does it for no other reason than knowing Margaery prefers her hair open, only ever wears it open for her. In that moment she truly arrives here, becomes hers for however short of a time they have together.

Finding their way into each other’s arms becomes as inevitable as breathing after that. With the length of Sansa’s warm bare body pressing against her own, with kisses finding hers greedily, every last bit of Margaery’s restlessness settles. The sparse doubts she has about staying here, the wondering if there truly will be a future for them, slips to the very back of her mind.

Sansa could tell her in this very second that it will be nothing but these stolen moments for the rest of their lives and she’d be content with it.

Their kisses following are devoid of the usual playful nibbles and gentle exploration; instead, they come quick and intense. Hands, aching with a longing accumulated throughout a too long day spent apart, roam with determination, each touch a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, this time will be enough to sustain them until tomorrow.