#but all in all he was quite angry for the whole performance

[rosquinn]

One of my Dorian Gray hot takes is that there was absolutely nothing in Dorian and Basil's relationship that was healthy. I keep seeing posts like "Basil's love for Dorian was so pure, that's why the portrait was so pretty and the real villain of the story is Wotton because he corrupted it"

As I see it, yes, Wotton did corrupt him, but saying Basil's feelings for Dorian were pure is simply inaccurate to the story. Basil says himself he merely sees Dorian as an artistic ideal [Dorian Gray is to me simply a motive in art. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours. That is all; ch1] and admitted he (a 10 year older man, who had power over him) tried to isolate him from other people and "keep him to himself". Furthermore, Basil also plays a big role in the way Dorian sees himself and his beauty, by painting him everyday and not maintaining any conversation with him, he's indirectly reaffirming what Wotton tells him: people only care about you because you're pretty and young. There is also this scene from the second chapter:

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeksburning.

"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself."

Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have suchanother. You are not jealous of material things, are you?-you who are finer than any of them!"

Dorian is even dealing with a suicidal ideation over what Wotton has told him and the way Basil sees him, he needs emotional validation, he's asking to be told there's more than him than that, and Basil's reaction is just─ no. You're prettier than any other object (indirectly comparing him to one, too).

Basil's view of Dorian influences how he sees people as much as Wotton's. For example, to Dorian Sybil was only what she pretended to be, he loved her performance, her acting, how she did exactly what the public wanted (which can apply to Dorian himself), not the real her. She was only an artistic ideal to him, she meant to him exactly what Dorian meant to Basil. He ignored her desires, pain and everything not related to what he wanted to see, since that's what he's been taught he must appreciate.

I also disagree with the interpretation of the portrait as a "pure" reflection of Basil's love (I would personally rather describe it as an obsession, though) and Dorians soul because it's not. At least not entirely. Part of the point of the book is that everyone only saw the part of Dorian they wanted: the portrait represents Basil's idolized version of him, what he wanted to see and how he refused to see Dorian as a person instead of an artistic ideal. That's why he tried to make him redeem himself, because he hated seeing his version of Dorian shatter into pieces. It was never Dorian entirely, not even after aging terribly because that's the result of Basil and Wotton's influence. The portrait was not his soul, it was a modified version of it other people played with because nobody cared about the whole thing, and the influence was so big those parts became his whole being. It was just an idolized, molded version at first but turned into his real self with the time and the sins. Dorian's soul (the portrait) was constructed upon what others appreciated about him, so when Wotton motivated him to sin, because Dorian's potential to be terrible was what mattered to him, it became ugly and terrible. There was absolutely nothing pure about that portrait since day 1.

[libraryspectre]

Gerard wrote the first MCR song, Skylines and Turnstiles, about 9/11 and it's the only song of that kind I know of that wasn't patriotic. Instead it's about acknowledging that the nation had just been through a mass traumatization, and being honest about what everyone was feeling. The lyrics are clumsy in places because they weren't the songwriter we know they'd become, but he's saying plainly what a lot of people were wrapping up in patriotism and sentimentality.

^ the very first lyric written for MCR. The awkward silence he's referring to is the fact that no one was being open about how traumatized they were. You could be sad, angry, mourning, but this was the early 2000s and people didn't talk about mental health. He's trying to open the conversation on trauma and tell people they aren't alone.

Can you imagine one of those sanitized patriotic 9/11 songs including lyrics like this, that just baldly describe the horror of the event? Describing how you can't get the traumatic images out of your head? Asking the heavens for intervention and expressing worry about the direction things are going?

Like I said, a lot of the lyrics in this song are clumsy, but I still think "this broken city sky, like butane on my skin" is one of my favorites they've ever written.

In future MCR songs he would continue this trend of looking the horrors right in the face, saying openly and plainly how bad things are. (He similarly refuses to mince words in I'm Not Okay, Cancer, and Mama, just off the top of my head). There seems to be an attitude that you have to acknowledge the reality of the pain and suffering you're in before you can begin to move through it - the entirety of The Black Parade is working through the fear of dying before ending on the conclusion, in Famous Last Words, that living is worth it after all. And I think that started here, in this fumbling but raw attempt to connect with people after 9/11.

Gerard Way quite literally felt like he was given a mission from God to save lives through art (read that interview where he talks about Joan of Arc), and you have to admire the audacity of that. You have to admire the audacity of saying "we're a band who wants to save your life" and meaning it!!! They wanted to save lives!!!!! It's both not that serious and deadly serious at the same time - the band doesn't take themselves too seriously as people or performers, they're not afraid to get campy and silly or make fun of themselves. But they were DEADLY serious about the mission statement. It wavered a bit after The Black Parade was so maligned, because it became part of this whole conversation around teen suicide and they began to wonder if they hadn't handled the messaging responsibly. That's a horrible situation to find yourself in, and I don't blame them for backing off of "this band will save your life" after that. However, there were tons of fans who back then would say "MCR saved my life" and still do today.

So, like everything with MCR, the 9/11 origin story is kind of silly on the surface, but if you look a little further and accept the sincerity behind it, it kind of is that deep after all.

"Gerard Way started My Chemical Romance in response to the 9/11 attacks" sounds kind of funny when you say it like that and it can feel absurd. Like I'm not trying to take it too seriously. But I still feel like when people say this they should also have to include the fact that like. He was there. They should include that clip of Brian Schechter saying "he saw the bodies fall." I know "person who took 9/11 way too personally" has become a joke and in many cases that's justified, but I think perhaps. This is a little different.

[syn-back-in-black]

Jarvis during Coachella performance in 2012

If you haven't watched it -- watch it -- it was quite a fucked performance with Jarvis giving zero fucks about everything and eating grapes during "This Is Hardcore" (barely singing it).

[incesthemes]

in provenance, the impala is depicted as quite dirty and beat-up, scuffed up and covered in mud. this is not the typical image that comes to mind when you say a man loves his car. in later seasons too, the impala tends to look shiny and new, and dean is seen performing maintenance on it pretty regularly—at least, there are many scenes that show dean taking care of it, and there are also many scenes which touch on dean's possessiveness and care for his car.

this isn't the case in season 1. season 1 dean has a beat-up hand-me-down from his dad which he loves and admires but is still willing to let it get dirty and dented and scuffed.

in season 1, the impala represents john.

based on how john talks about the car in dead man's blood, he still has a semblance of ownership over it: john gave dean the car, but he still considers it "his" in the sense that he feels entitled to judge how dean cares for it. dean, too, doesn't argue with this. in season 3, dream dean even uses this against real dean to drag out his insecurities and his abysmal self-esteem:

both john and dean agree that the impala is john's car. this makes sense because the impala is also sam and dean's literal home, or the closest to home they've ever gotten.

you have a good "home is where the heart is" kind of connection here: the impala is home, and john is the impala—john is home, john is their father, john is the thing that connects sam and dean by blood. et cetera et cetera.

so if the impala represents john, then how dean treats the impala gives the audience a lovely visual metaphor for how dean feels about john. provenance is just one episode after something wicked, where dean is finally starting to extricate himself from his father. the entire season has followed dean as he experiences betrayal after betrayal from his father, and in shadow we see evidence that he doesn't actually believe that his father will come to protect them anymore—he's effectively given up on john as someone to rely on, and he's spent the whole season separating himself from john and attaching himself to sam instead. provenance gives a nice wink and nod at this by showing the state of the impala—dean is upset with john, their relationship is crumbling, and dean doesn't know how to repair it.

one episode later john remarks on the state of the car, and one episode later dean finally defies his father for seemingly the first time.

so when dean starts destroying the impala in everybody loves a clown, what dean is actually destroying is john.

he feels angry, upset, hurt, betrayed all over again. john is dead, and his final words to his son gave him an impossible task. dean takes the crowbar to the impala right after sam corners him into another conversation about john—this is an outpouring of his emotions about him, all concentrated on the last remaining symbol of his father.

but what i think is interesting is that sam doesn't see the impala this way.

sam sees the impala as dean. the symbolism here is very, very obvious. if sam gives up on the impala, then he's metaphorically giving up on dean. and sam refuses to let dean die, so he can't let the impala die, either. to sam, the impala is dean. which necessarily means that to sam, dean is his home, as well.

which is exactly what he just chose in the season 1 finale when he picked dean over his revenge. sam spent the entire season scared to "go home," and in devil's trap he finally returns for good to his home—to dean.

and in bloodlust, the impala is fixed, and she's shining like new. from this moment on, dean shows a rather pointed possessiveness over his car.

this is also the first time dean calls the impala "baby." this is the first thing that happens after dean destroyed it in the episode prior. the dissonance gives a sense of rebirth: something happened between dean destroying the impala and dean fixing it. something happened between dean using the impala as a stand-in for his father and dean calling it his baby.

in season 2, the impala no longer represents john. john is dead, and dean killed him. "home" is no longer centered around john; their father is no longer the thing that connects sam and dean. in devil's trap they chose each other, they chose codependency, they created a relationship between them that transcends the family structure they inherited from john. john is not part of this new relationship—it's just sam and dean now, and john is dead.

dean assimilates to sam's perspective when he rebuilds the impala: his car is now an extension of himself, and he is the home that sam chose. this is now his car, not john's; he is now sam's family, not john. and throughout the first half of season 2 dean struggles with this new responsibility and what that means for him—how their codependency should work, whether or not he should try to fill john's shoes, what "home" is supposed to look like for them without john in it.

i think it's an interesting way to depict dean's emotional shift across this stretch of episodes. seasons 1 and 2 especially do a lot of great work to depict john even in his physical absence, from allegorical substitutes to his haunting presence to this, representing him through the symbol of their literal home. noticing this makes me much more emotional about the impala's role in the story, because it's a physical manifestation of the effort dean put in to become sam's home and commit to their codependent relationship. he loves his car because it's his home, and his home is where sam and dean's hearts are.

[blossom-hwa]

melody of the heart [1] | k.th

pairing: Taehyun x fem!reader genre:  fluff, a pinch of angst, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: period typical misogyny word count: 17.8k notes: — this is for all the bridgerton girlies who have been going insane just like me <3 highly inspired by francesca/john's burgeoning romance from the first half, so hope you all enjoy! — some of the dialogue has been lifted from the show—I do not claim any credit for it. — this takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun story, if you'll have me :) feel free to check that out as well! When your father calls you home from the continent to join the London season, for the first time in your life, you nearly throw a fit. You are not just the daughter of a viscount—you’ve made a name for yourself in England and abroad with your prodigious talent at the piano, having since childhood performed for royal courts far and wide. You have traveled far and beyond most other ladies of your rank, and to have your career halted all for the sake of marriage to a man who will likely force you to quit your craft is unthinkable. But all your life you have lived without raising a hand to your father, and so when the letter comes, you return home for the season, hoping and praying to make it through without stirring the waters.  Enter Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston—recently titled, in search of a wife, and as tired of the season already as you are. During a chance meeting at the season’s third ball you grow to know each other, and as time passes you grow to like each other, a mutual respect forming when you learn the depths of one another’s passions in the arts. In Taehyun you find a respite from the men who would clip your wings for the sake of finding a perfect wife. In you Taehyun finds a kindred spirit who would respect him for himself, and not the lands in his name. Together you navigate the grueling social activities of the London matchmaking project as acquaintances, then as friends, and maybe, just maybe— As lovers, too.  Part 1 >> Part 2

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As the white double doors begin creaking open, only one thought rings clear in the mess of your mind. 

I cannot be the diamond. 

Cannot. Will not. Your father wishes it, as does your governess and the entire unfamiliar extended family crowding your home for the season, but you can’t. Not least because you can’t handle the attention—just the idea of being presented to the queen makes you want the earth to swallow you whole—but also because the longer you can delay finding a husband, the longer you might still find a shred of freedom lingering on your fingertips. 

It's not fair. Late at night you lie in bed, staring at the dark ceiling as angry tears prick the corners of your eyes. Why is it that men should have the freedom to do as they wish, but women must be pushed into the confines of the household, meant to marry up just to add or promote a title for the family name? All you ever wanted to do was play the piano, and even though your father only saw your life’s passion as a way to make money, at least you could do it. You were good at it, too—you’ve played for the royal houses of Europe, met queens and kings and nobles of so many courts, and while you never quite loved being the spectacle of a child prodigy that your family painted you as, at least you were allowed to play. 

But now your father, who rarely contacted you since your mother died five years ago, suddenly breaks his frosty silence to demand that you come home, because the royal checks you’ve been receiving have now begun to dwindle and the only purpose you can now fulfill for your family is to become some rich gentleman’s meek wife. And to make matters worse, you won’t see a penny of the money you made yourself. It’s going to your dowry.

It won’t even be yours. 

What is most upsetting is that he’s not even entirely wrong. Not about the dowry—you’re still smarting over your hard-earned money being turned over to some nameless, faceless gentleman of the ton—but about your musical escapades on the continent. People were eager to watch a child prodigy perform. They cooed and smiled over you like the zoo attraction you were. But as you grew older, you also noticed the invitations dwindling, the interested courts growing smaller, the payments decreasing. All because you were a woman nearing marriageable age, and to be such a prodigy was no longer suitable for your gender. 

For all your usual mild-mannered shyness, this knowledge makes you want to break dishes against the wall. 

But since you’ve returned to England, you’ve kept your mouth shut as you are wont to do. You’re not the type to scream and rage when things don’t go your way. Silence comes more naturally to your lips than shouting and you find yourself nodding quietly to your father’s demands more often than not. Still, though, you can have this. You can have the fact that you will not be the diamond. 

You were worried about it at first. Your name is not unknown by the people of the ton and judging by what little you’ve heard of Lady Whistledown’s papers, your return has stirred some gossip around town. Enough gossip that people speculated the queen might crown you her diamond on the sole basis of your celebrity—and as self-centered as it is, you were anxious about that. But it turned out you actually didn’t have to worry, because as it turned out, you are terrible at being a debutante.

Everything about it hurts. The feathers on your head, the slim, constricting dress, the jewelry choking your neck and wrists and the pale, slippery gloves that slide against your fingers—you certainly don’t wear gloves when you play the piano. The headdress only accentuates your terrible balance and when your governess had you practice your walk for the first time, you’d tripped every other time you went down the hallway.

Which was not ideal, not for you or for your family. Because even though you don’t want to be the queen’s diamond, you also don’t want to be the one girl to trip on her face in front of dozens of people and the queen herself. Only instead of motivating you to be better, the thought of tripping kept making you more and more anxious to the point that you felt like you’d throw up each time you saw your debutante gown.

“Why don’t you treat it like a performance?” your governess had finally suggested, wringing her hands at your latest miserable attempt to walk down the hallway with those godawful feathers on your head. “As though you were to play for the queen.”

The thing is, you have performed for the queen. Not recently, given that you’ve been on the continent for a good many years and only returned a few months ago, but you did perform for her when you were much younger. But that’s—different. Somehow. Your governess and certainly your father might see both situations as the same, but for some reason the idea of parading down an aisle amid dozens of prying eyes, all the while wearing a tuft of white feathers on your head, is terrifying to you in a way that playing the piano for hundreds or more isn’t. 

It doesn’t make sense. Which is why you didn’t bother trying to explain to your governess why exactly her well-meaning advice wouldn’t work, just gave her half a smile and an empty nod as you prepared to try once more. And it had gotten better the more you practiced. Over time you got used to the swaying of the feathers above you, the tiny steps you must take to avoid the headpiece falling to the floor, and all the other millions of tiny things you never thought you’d have to pay attention to. Now, though, as the doors swing fully open, revealing the queen and her entourage at the end of the aisle, framed by every single eye in the room trained on you—

You freeze.

Time stretches and dilates all at once. Opulent ornaments blend with the walls, gold almost seeming to drip onto the white in a way that, to your spiraling mind, looks like blood. The sea of faces before you blurs into a mass and your heart is pounding, your breath coming out in shallow gasps that can’t be doing anything flattering for you in this stupidly tight gown. 

“Y/N.”

Your aunt hisses your name with her unfamiliar voice and suddenly the room comes back into focus. Too much focus. Now everything is too bright and too defined and the gold of the decorations seems to be blinding your eyes. You accidentally lock eyes with the queen at the end of the aisle and all you can feel is the need to throw up. 

But you can’t. 

Slowly, slowly, you take the first step. Then the next. Feathers sway and your head is starting to spin uncomfortably, but you keep your eyes trained on the end of the aisle, something akin to a smile (or at least a grimace) pasted upon your lips. 

You halt after what you think is the right number of steps, just a short distance in front of the queen. The same muscle memory that lets your fingers fly over piano keys helps you into your low curtsy, head dipping just enough to be respectful, not so much that the awful headdress tips over. Wait a moment, your governess’s voice echoes through your muddled mind. Count five seconds, then rise. 

Slowly, you stand, meeting the queen’s appraising eyes once more. Her expression doesn’t change. Relief prickles your chest—maybe she doesn’t recognize you, which means she won’t crown you the diamond for the sole purpose of your fame, or maybe she’s just disappointed and unimpressed—and that relief continues to spread as you stumble out of the room, dimly aware of your aunt following just behind you. 

“Well, you weren’t the diamond,” your aunt sighs. “But at least you didn’t fall. “

Yes, you think fervently as you accept a glass of water from a footman. And thank the heavens on both accounts. 

. . . . .

It’s only the second ball, and Taehyun is already not enjoying the season. 

Ugh. He slips into a darkened corridor and finally allows himself to take a deep breath, the sounds of the party muffled behind the walls. “How did you do this so easily?” he mutters to the phantom of his brother in his mind. 

Taemin’s casual grin smiles back at him from behind his mind’s eye and despite himself, Taehyun almost laughs. He knows the answer already. Taemin enjoys this—the socializing, the talking, all of it. His brother’s easy grace and pleasant manners are easily employed in the ballroom, where he can spread charm at will and revel in the attention he receives in reciprocation. It’s not that Taehyun can’t find his way around a conversation or take an easy turn around the dance floor. He can. It’s just that he doesn’t enjoy it the way Taemin does.

But even then, Taehyun still doesn’t understand how Taemin navigated the marriage mart so seamlessly. Surely he must have at some point grown fed up with the shiny veneer of the debutante season, the incessant pestering of the mamas when they found out the heir to one of London’s earldoms was newly seeking a wife. None of that seemed to bother Taemin that much, though. Two months he went through it with only the barest complaints, and by the third month he was happily married to a woman of a similar temperament. While they might not have been a love match at first, they were certainly an amicable and good one. 

Meanwhile, it’s been barely two weeks since the season started and Taehyun already wants it to be over.

He’s pushed it off enough, though. For three years he’s been allowed the excuse of first finishing his studies, then having to put the estate’s affairs in order—the news of the inheritance was rather abrupt, after all, and completely unexpected. He’s only related to the Addiston line distantly through his mother, not even his father—which is why he was able to inherit even as a second son—and they’d had no idea of the connection until the solicitor had shown up to their door with the news. But it’s been three years. With the weight of an estate on his unexperienced shoulders, the next logical step, to society, would be to find a capable wife to share the burden. His parents agree. So does his brother. 

And so does Taehyun. He just wishes the process of doing so wasn’t so…performative. So obviously meant for matches of rank instead of people. Taehyun knows that if he hadn’t gotten that chance inheritance, hardly anyone would look twice at him. He might be the son of an earl, but he’s only a second son, and the son of a second wife at that. While he’s certainly not at the bottom of the barrel of potential husbands, without his inheritance, he’d be garnering far fewer glances than he does now. 

Far fewer. 

In another better world, maybe it would be easier to find someone with whom he has a genuine connection without having to wade through all the social climbers in this one. Because that’s what he wants. A connection. Not someone who will simply look at his title and inheritance and pursue those instead of him.

But in this world, that might just be an elusive dream.

Taehyun sighs. It’s worse now that he lives alone and has grown used to his solitude. Sure, he has friends who come to barge in on him at different times of day—Kai and Beomgyu maintain little sense of decorum around him, in contrast to the Duke and Duchess of Hastings who, though good friends of his by now, do not come outside of calling hour without prior notice. They keep away the lonely spells in an estate that still doesn’t quite feel like his. But the silence isn’t unwelcome for a quieter person like he, and it remains a sharp contrast to the gaiety of the ton during the season. 

Which brings him back to here. Now. In some empty corridor of his host’s home, away from the staged smiles and bright lights of the ballroom. Somewhere he certainly shouldn’t be, but as long as he doesn’t get caught, Taehyun has little intention of returning to the fray until he can get his thoughts back in order. The muffled chatter of the party is still too loud here so he continues down the hallway, following the echoes of silence and…

Music?

He halts. Sure enough, now that he’s far enough from the noise of the ballroom, he can hear a soft, sweet melody coming from somewhere ahead of him. It’s haunting, lovely, and as he leans toward the sound he begins to recognize the notes of one of Beethoven’s sonatas. Part of the Tempest sonata, actually. One of the most difficult, and one of Taehyun’s personal favorites. 

Taehyun’s feet begin to move, the spell of the sonata carrying him to the end of the hallway. One of the doors has been opened just a crack and it’s easy to tell that’s where the secret pianist must be playing from, the melodies spinning into the air beyond the sliver of an open door.

Common sense tells him he should walk away. The musician seems to be alone—perhaps tired of the party, just like he—but nonetheless, that can’t spell good fortune for him, especially if they are a woman. Being caught alone with an unmarried debutante would only spell trouble for both of them, more her than he, and for her sake, at least, he can’t ruin her prospects just because he couldn’t turn away from her music. 

But something deeper keeps him rooted in place, breaths quiet and shallow, eyes half shut as he leans toward the door as much as he can without tripping over his feet. He enjoys fairy tales, though he is wont to admit it, loves stories of fantasy and magic, and he can’t help but compare these melodies to the spells he used to read about. For surely the pianist must be weaving a spell into the air, into every accent and crescendo, every passage of the sonata effortlessly magical to his ears. 

Taehyun loves music. He loves it almost as much as he loves literature. He took lessons and can play the piano as well as, if not better than many of his peers, but even he is nothing compared to the musician in that room. Nothing compared to the spell of their fingers dancing across the piano keys. 

Too soon, the music ends. And with its conclusion comes the realization that Taehyun needs to return to the party soon, or his absence will be noted—he’s already spent too much time away, if the two movements of the sonata he’s listened to are anything to go by. 

Taehyun forces himself to step away from the open door, from the lovely melodies and mysterious musician within. He doesn’t turn back even when a new piece begins, though soft notes follow him down the hall, all the way back to the party.

. . . . .

“Lady Taylor. Miss L/N.” The smile in front of you is sparkling in a way that leaves you dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the bright lights overhead. Either way, it is doing nothing to soothe the ache beginning to pulse between your temples. “I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

No, you haven’t. You don’t recognize this face or its too-bright smile. “I don’t believe we have,” you return, curving your lips as much as you can. “To what do I owe the pleasure…?”

“Mr. Haynesworth,” he says, angular eyes narrowing into what could be a pleasant expression if you weren’t so tired. “I noticed you were quite a fine dancer, and wanted to ask if you had a spot on your dance card that I could perhaps take.”

Without really meaning to, you glance at your aunt. She looks back, mostly impassive, but gives you a small nod. Yes, allow him. 

Your tongue tastes bitter even as you smile at Mr. Haynesworth. “Yes, I do. In fact, my next dance is free, should you like to dance the quadrille.” 

“An excellent choice,” he replies, and you have to try hard not to roll your eyes as he begins to sign his name on the card. What wouldn’t you give to be at home, in bed, purposely thinking about everything and anything but the season and your daughterly duty to find a husband? Lady Arina Park isn’t here to subtly nudge you in the direction of a music room and as far as you know, none of the Tillings play an instrument, so you can’t even snatch a quarter of an hour alone with your thoughts and music like you did at the last ball. Besides, your aunt would certainly scold you if she noticed you were gone, just like last time. 

It's not like it matters, though, because the orchestra music is fading, which means the next dance is about to begin, and you won’t be getting a chance to take a break. Mr. Haynesworth looks up from your card with a little smile and offers a hand. “Just in time,” he says genially. You do your best to feign enthusiasm as you take it. 

I hate this, you can’t help thinking, watching other couples take to the floor. You like to dance—honestly, you enjoy almost anything that has to do with music—but right here, right now, with all the eyes trying to discern who will win Her Majesty’s seasonal title of diamond of the first water (because of all the girls presented this season she still hasn’t picked one, and you harbor a nasty hope that she never will), it’s too much. The bright lights of the ballroom. The slippery silk of your gloves against your hands. Mr. Haynesworth’s pleasant smile as he asks you questions against the background of the orchestra’s new tune, each of them polite, noncommittal, and as meaningless as the last. 

“How are you finding the party tonight?”

I think the candles are trying to burn right through my eyes into my brain. “Quite lovely indeed.”

“How are you finding London in general? It must be a change from abroad, no?”

Boring. Stifling. Rainy. “It is very different, Mr. Haynesworth, though not unpleasant. I imagine that with time, I will grow used to it too.”

“So you do intend to find a husband this season, if you say you will be here for some time?”

If my father didn’t want me husband hunting, I wouldn’t be here. “Yes, that would be my intention.”

“I hope you will come to enjoy London then, Miss L/N. It is an old city, and it certainly has its charms.”

Of course. “Of course.”

He spins you under his arm and you come to face to face, his nice smile suddenly very close to your eyes. You almost stumble—muscle memory had been leading this dance as you tried to answer his questions through your growing headache, and in the midst of that you’d forgotten this part. “I read Whistledown,” he says, completely oblivious to the brief spike in your heart rate. 

Inwardly, you sigh. Ah, so you’re either going to ask me about piano, or ask me about the fact that the queen still has not chosen her diamond of the season.

“She says you are quite the pianist, Miss L/N.”

…You would have preferred questions about piano over the nonexistent diamond, it’s true, but what exactly are you supposed to say to that? “I have been playing since I was young.”

“A true prodigy, then. I wonder why the queen has not yet chosen a diamond, though there is clearly one right here.” Despite the compliment, his thin eyes suddenly seem too narrow, the planes of his face too sharp as he leans in ever so slightly. “I hear you spent quite some time with other royal courts during your…little tour. How were your travels?”

You nearly pause. Your head still hurts and between the dancing and conversation, your mind is being split onto two different tracks, so it takes you a moment to realize why Mr. Haynesworth’s words offended you.

Little tour.

You do not like how he said the words little tour.

It sounds like how your father talks about your performances abroad. It sounds like when your aunt tells you to stop practicing, it’s time for your French lesson. It sounds like when your cousin sticks her head into the music room and asks you to play more softly since it’s distracting from the conversation downstairs. 

Dismissal. Accidental or intentional, it doesn’t matter. It’s dismissal of you, your talent, your work, your passion.

Maybe you would have preferred questions about the nonexistent diamond instead.

“I enjoyed traveling and meeting new people during my tour, though it would have meant little without the music,” you reply, unable to rein in some of the bite to your words. “Music is my passion, Mr. Haynesworth, and the piano my medium. I’m afraid without either, my life would retain little meaning.” And for the first time that evening, it seems that the higher powers are on your side, because the tune of the quadrille is fading, which means the dance is ending. Keeping your current smile plastered firmly to your face, you sweep into a brief curtsy. “I must see to my aunt, Mr. Haynesworth, and so I take my leave. It was good to meet you.”

Lies, all lies, but it gets you off the dance floor without another word from him. Weaving blindly through the crowd, you follow the paths of fewest people until the chatter of the ballroom is just a faint buzz in your ears and blissful silence fills the air instead. 

A rush of air leaves your lips all at once and you put a hand to your chest, where your heart is beating just a little too uncomfortably fast. You’re outside the house, in the gardens, but in almost full view of the front of the home where carriages are lined up, their footmen at the ready. It would be lovely to just be alone, but in public that cannot be for fear of compromise, so you take solace in what little solitude you have now under the moon and stars.

You close your eyes for a long moment. You hadn’t realized earlier how hot the ballroom felt, but you certainly know it now as cool night air breezes across your face turned up to the sky. The stars twinkle overhead, comforting pinpricks of light so unlike the burning intensity of the candles and chandeliers within, and all at once you’re hit with the overwhelming thought that you absolutely do not want to go back inside. 

“I’m not going to survive this season,” you mutter, then quickly glance around—no one should have heard that, it sounds so whiney and childish. But in the moment it feels so true. And for two terrible seconds, you feel an overwhelming lump in your throat, a tightening in your chest—

No. You will not cry. Not here, not now. You bite back the tears, suddenly feeling so alone even in the solitude you sought. No one is on your side. Not your father, your own flesh and blood. Not the aunt who accompanied you here. Not even your governess, who is sweet and kind but ultimately bows to the whims of your father. Only your mother ever understood your calling to music and she’s dead, five years buried underground, and for all you have healed since that dark time, you still miss her. 

You miss her so, so much. 

One deep, shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, your heart rate calms into something that feels more normal, and you tilt your head back up to the sky, letting the midnight blue wash across your vision like a soft blanket. It comforts you enough that you almost don’t hear the footsteps against the stone path until they’re just a few feet away from you.

“Good evening,” a quiet, unfamiliar voice says. 

Conversation. Exactly what you wanted to avoid in the ballroom. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem so daunting out here. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the sky. Maybe it’s the gentle quality of this man’s quiet voice that makes it seem like he seeks the same solace from the night that you do, and nothing more.

“Good evening,” you reply, not quite looking at him as you dip a small curtsy. “Forgive me. I was only—”

“In need of some quiet?” He turns around and between the dark hair and half smile and large eyes, your breath lodges in your throat. But any nervousness at this man’s handsome face fades away when you see the softness hidden in his expression, the gentle uncertainty caught between his broad shoulders. “I have been in search of it all night.”

For all your previous mood, this man’s small smile makes you want to smile too. And so you let your lips curve slightly, more than you thought you could without forcing it, and as you do they begin to curve more. “It seems we are of the same spirit,” you say, and the night seems to laugh quietly with you both. “Miss Y/N L/N, good sir.”

“Taehyun Kang, Earl of Addiston.” He bows slightly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

. . . . .

A comfortable silence has fallen, and Taehyun has little desire to disturb it, but your name keeps rolling around his head, a little too familiar for someone he’s only met today. There’s something about your face, too. He’s certain the two of you have never been introduced—he’s fairly sure he would have remembered your smile, which seems to complement the night sky perfectly—but at the same time…

Someone opens the door to the mansion and a few orchestral notes follow them outside. Orchestra. Music. 

Oh. 

“Might I ask…” he begins slowly. He almost wishes he could take back his words when you turn to him, but he’s already started, so he continues. “You are Miss Y/N L/N, the celebrated pianist?”

You lips part, like you didn’t expect the question. Embarrassment starts to crawl up his cheeks—it would be mortifying if you said no, even more so if you had no idea who he was talking about—but then you nod, surprise still coating your features. “Yes, my lord. I am.”

Oh. Oh. This is—maybe worse than if you’d said no. Because this means Taehyun is in the presence of someone famous, someone with celebrity, someone he admires and respects even though they’ve never met face to face before—

Calm down. “I saw one of your performances a few years ago,” he says, forcing his voice to remain level. You open your mouth to say something but Taehyun barrels on because if he doesn’t say it now he’ll never say it again. “I was in Germany to visit a friend. We went together. I, um—” and this is when he stutters, because of course it is—“I found your performance most impressive. Particularly Beethoven’s Appassionata. Your interpretation…it was perfect to me. There was a delicacy to it that made it uniquely beautiful.” He coughs and prays the night hides the warmth that has crept into his cheeks. “I suppose I just wanted to say that you are a very talented musician, and you must have worked very hard to come so far.” 

You look away, and in that moment Taehyun does fear that he said too much. He might have presumed a level of familiarity you weren’t comfortable with, or maybe you don’t appreciate being complimented in public, or maybe he just said the wrong thing—but then you look back at him, and even with only the moon and stars to light your face, it’s plain to see the smile curving across your lips, pleased and proud and limited only by the shyness and humility of your nature, evident as you give him a small curtsy again. “Thank you very much, my lord,” you say, and if your smile was complemented by the night before, now it sparkles at brightly as any of the stars. “It means…so much to me that you would say such a thing. Truly.”

Taehyun smiles. A little more shyly than he’d like, but no matter. “It is not a difficult thing to say these things,” he replies. “Your performance then was impeccable, as I’m sure it is now.” And now that the connection has been made, a memory from the second ball of the season suddenly returns, of a dark corridor and a beautiful sonata. Were you—? “If I may ask, were you the one playing the piano at the Kims’ ball just a week ago?” 

You blink. “You…heard that?”

All of a sudden Taehyun realizes the implications of his words—that he was at the ball, that he decided to leave to wander the dark corridors, that he heard you playing and not only didn’t hasten away at once but stayed to listen for long enough to make this connection. None of them paint him in the best light, and one of them is far worse than the others, if taken the wrong way. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, and if his face wasn’t warm before, it certainly is now. “I happened upon it by accident. I was only trying to find some quiet away from the ball—” 

“Much as you were just now,” you interrupt, and Taehyun almost flushes even more before he sees the small, amused smile on your lips. 

“Yes,” he agrees sheepishly. “I heard music coming from one of the rooms and it was…beautiful. The Tempest is one of my favorite of Beethoven’s works. You played it wonderfully, and I couldn’t help but stay and listen for some time.” He bows his head. “I hope I have not been too forward or made you uncomfortable. If I have, I do apologize.”

“Do not apologize,” you say, a bashful hint returning to your own voice that Taehyun finds very endearing, especially when you duck your head slightly. “Please, my lord. I am only…deeply honored that you hold me in such high regard.”

Taehyun relaxes, his own smile growing wider. “Earning that regard was not difficult,” he says. “Even my friend, who has much less knowledge of music than I do, was fairly blown away, and almost inspired to take piano lessons because of you.”

You laugh. “You must jest, my lord.” 

“I do not,” he replies, laughing as well. “He is not here tonight, but perhaps someday you two will meet, and his praise will be even more effusive than mine.” 

“In that case, I eagerly await that day.” You look at him, a question in your eyes. “Might I ask, my lord—you mentioned that you have some knowledge of music? Are you a musician yourself?”

“Oh, I…dabble.” Taehyun laughs a little. “With the piano. I quite enjoy it, but I am nowhere near as good as you.”

“But you have a musician’s ear and heart,” you say, conviction in your tone, and Taehyun finds himself rooted under the strength of your gaze, under the stars, under the night sky. “You appreciate the art and the work that goes into it, which is more than I can say for most.”

Taehyun opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I suppose you are right.”

You duck your head a bit, shoulders suddenly hunching. “I apologize, if I was too forward—”

“Not at all!” he says quickly. “No, not at all. Forgive me, it has simply been a long night and my conversing skills are somewhat frayed at the moment. I appreciate your words, Miss L/N. Very much.”

For a moment, you seem to search his face, like you’re looking for something. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, and when you do, your shoulders thankfully relax. “I was only speaking what I felt to be the truth, my lord. And, for what it is worth…” You pause, your expression somewhat strange before it settles into a genuine smile. “This conversation is one of only a few that I have truly enjoyed tonight.”

He laughs, your quip unexpected but welcome. “It must have been a long night for you too, then?”

“You have no idea.” This time, you two laugh together. “Actually, I’m sure you do. There are only so many times you can be asked the same questions and give the same answers, or hear the same topics and remain sane.” You shake your head. “If the queen plans to choose a diamond this season, I wish she would just hurry up and do so. It seems to be all anyone can talk about nowadays.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “She has not yet chosen one?”

“Apparently not.” You shrug. “My cousins say Lady Whistledown writes about it in every issue. I suppose it is a source of gossip, but…to be quite frank, I do not understand why the queen’s opinion on one woman reigns so supreme in the marriage mart. Should not the couple choose each other based on their own perceived merits, and not solely because the queen approves of one but not the other?” A short pause, and then your shoulders slump. “Though perhaps I only do not understand because I have been away for so long.”

“Well, I quite agree with you,” Taehyun says frankly. “I do agree that the queen’s approval would be a feather in anyone’s cap, but anyone who only sees the title of diamond and nothing else, I believe, would not make a happy marriage, even if the diamond agreed to the match. I don’t believe a title alone is any sort of solid foundation upon which to make a partnership.” 

You look up, meeting his eyes, and a moment of understanding seems to pass between the two of you. A smile that looks much like relief curves your lips. “I agree, my lord,” you say softly. “It is a relief to know that I am not the only one of these opinions.”

Taehyun came outside for fresh air, for a respite from the chaotic buzz of the party inside. He came outside for solitude. But though he found conversation instead, he finds himself feeling better than he perhaps would have, had he immediately gained the silence he sought. Your quiet, frank honesty is as refreshing to Taehyun as the night air itself and he realizes he would love to continue your conversation, if not for—

“Y/N!”

Both of you start at the sudden shout of your name from the mansion doors. An older woman comes striding out, a stranger to Taehyun but evidently more familiar to you. Not altogether welcome, though, it seems—your shoulders tense and immediately your gaze shutters somewhat as the woman draws closer. “Lady Taylor,” you say quietly, turning back to Taehyun with a smile significantly more strained than before. “My aunt, and my chaperone tonight.”

He nods once. “I see.”

“Y/N, I’ve been looking for you for half the night,” Lady Taylor scolds as soon as she is near enough, which does little to endear her to Taehyun after she interrupted his time with you. “Why do you insist on disappearing so?”

“My apologies, Aunt Taylor,” you say. Taehyun doesn’t miss the brief clench of your fingers at your sides. “I went to find some fresh air, and then found myself caught up in conversation with Lord Kang.” You gesture to him. “Lord Kang, please meet my aunt, Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth.”

Taehyun bows politely as your aunt curtsies. “A pleasure, my lady. I am Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly at the mention of his title, and he bites back a sigh. So she knows of his estate and inheritance, too. “Charmed, my lord,” is all she says, though, before turning back to you. “Please forgive my interruption. Y/N, you must come back inside. The ball is not yet over, and several gentlemen are still waiting to dance with you.”

You glance down at your dance card, then back up at him, your face twisted in apology. “I must do as my aunt says,” you say quietly. “Though it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

“And the same to you.” He smiles as easily as he can, and maybe he’s just hoping, but your smile seems to become a little less forced too. “It is getting late and I’m sure your dance card must be full, so I will not keep you further. However…” He inclines his head slightly, respectfully. “Perhaps if we meet again, I hope you will indulge me if I ask you to save a dance for me, so that we might continue our conversation where it left off?”

This time, he’s sure he’s not imagining the softening of your face and the return of some sparkle to your eyes. “I would be honored to, my lord,” you say, curtsying. “Have a good night.”

He bows. “I wish the same to you.”

. . . . .

The last few days since the Tillings’ ball have been dreary and wet, full of gray clouds and rain. Today, though, when you wake, the clouds have cleared to reveal the bright sun set against a shimmering blue sky. When your cousins come bursting into the music room to take you on a walk, you don’t even argue—the afternoon looks beautiful, and even you are itching to go outside. 

“You spend so much time cooped up in that little room,” your oldest cousin scolds when you meet everyone in the entryway, though there’s a smile on her face so you try not to take her words the wrong way. “You need some fresh air.”

You smile back as best as you can. “I appreciate the concern, Lilly, but worry not. I’m as eager to see the sun as you are.”

It is pleasant, feeling the sun on your skin after days of grey skies and intermittent rainfall pattering on your windows as you tried to practice. Truth be told, by yesterday you were feeling restless, too, so you can’t even blame the children of your family for wanting to run around as they do now, leaping happily under the blue sky. 

You stick to the back of the group, quietly watching Lilly and your other cousins try to corral their children under the watchful eye of Aunt Taylor. Jieun looks particularly frazzled as she tries to chase down her youngest and you take pity on her, scooping up the child the next time she runs past and giving her little forehead a small tap that makes her giggle. “Be careful,” you warn gently, handing her to a grateful Jieun. “Don’t get hurt, or your mother will worry, yes?”

It's not just your family. It seems as though the entirety of London has come out to enjoy the wonderful weather. The park is green and bright and almost seems to shimmer under the sun, and laughter and chatter fill the air with faint birdsong. You may enjoy spending your time cooped up in that little room, as your cousin says, but you are glad you came out today for the sun on your skin and the joy in the air.

“You are good with the children,” Lilly says beside your ear. You start—you hadn’t realized she was so close until she spoke. “Won’t it be wonderful when you have children of your own, and they can all play together?”

Please, Lilly. “Maybe.” 

“Sound more excited, will you?” she laughs. “You can’t mean to not have children. Or are you already married to your music?”

Your smile is wavering, but you heave it back up with the teeth-gritting reminder that she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly, she doesn’t mean it badly. “I’m not married to my music, insofar as I cannot marry an intangible thing,” you respond as dryly as you can. “I’m not sure even the priests at Gretna Green would agree to perform such a ceremony.”

“You know what I mean,” Lilly says, scooping up one of her children. Both of them seem to eye you in a way that makes you feel defensive. “When will you emerge from your music room, Y/N, to see the rest of the world around you?”

That’s not fair, you want to say. I have emerged from my music room. I just find that I don’t necessarily enjoy what—or who—awaits me outside.

Like the incessant demand that you marry and produce children for an unnamed man who will control you for the rest of your life. 

“I see the world as much as I like to,” is all you say instead, but Lilly has already been distracted by her toddler trying to wiggle out of her arms. You leave her to it, and drift behind everyone once more. 

It’s not that you don’t want to have children. It’s not even that you don’t want to get married. It’s just that you resent the fact that it is your only option. You don’t even think you’d mind marriage and children if you could still live with your music, but the way everyone else talks about it, it’s always one or the other. Give up marriage for the piano. Give up the piano for marriage.

Not that the first option is even a choice. 

You take a deep breath. Breathe in the fresh air, the scent of flowers and grass. The sky doesn’t seem as blue as before, nor does the sunshine feel as welcoming, but it’s still there, and it’s still pleasant enough. Lilly means well, and she doesn’t mean to be dismissive. You’re still unmarried and still not the diamond. The world isn’t ending.

Jieun’s youngest finds her way behind your skirts once more, giggling when you turn around to chase her down. A smile finds its way to your face that isn’t forced because she really is adorable, and her little laughs soften your expression when you swing her up and warn her again not to hurt herself.

“Miss L/N?”

You whirl around. As does the rest of your family. 

“…Lord Kang?”

There he is standing just a few feet away, looking as surprised to see you as you are to see him. “Miss L/N,” he says again, a smile spreading across his face. “I didn’t expect to see you, though I suppose you and your family are here to enjoy the weather as well?”

“Yes, we are.” You smile back, trying not to cringe when the toddler still in your arms tries to grab at your hair. Thankfully, Jieun appears to relieve you of her child in that moment, whispering hurried apologies into your ear as she whisks past. “My family thought it would be good for the children to see the sun.”

“And for you!” Lilly whirls into the conversation with a beatific smile and the outward countenance of nothing but an angel. You grit your teeth as she continues. “My cousin spends far too much time indoors at that piano of hers, she hardly sees the sunlight.”

Lord have mercy. 

“Well, I have heard she is quite accomplished at it,” Lord Kang replies easily, that smile never wavering on his face. “Something has clearly come of all those hours she has dedicated to practicing.” He turns to you with that lovely smile and those dark eyes, and while he was handsome under the night sky, it can’t compare to what he looks like now, under the sun. “It seems good fortune has brought us together before the next ball of the season, Miss L/N. Would you mind if I joined your walk, so that we might continue our conversation from the other night?”

Well. You blink once or twice, casting a glance at your aunt, who seems about as confused as you are. In the absence of her input, you choose to assent. “Of course, my lord. We would be honored.”

And so the walk continues, though Lilly and Jieun continue to shoot you confused and excited glances every so often. You ignore them as you best you can, which isn’t hard when Lord Kang is beside you. 

“It’s good to see you, my lord,” you say. “How have you been since the Tillings’ ball?”

“Well enough, though the rain has been somewhat dragging on my mood over the past few days.” He shrugs. “Such is London, though.”

“It is a bit dreadful to think of, if this is what it’s always like,” you say, only half joking. “More time for me to practice, I suppose, though I must admit I am very happy to see the sun.”

“And to be with your family?”

“…Of course,” you respond quickly, though you’re sure he can see exactly how you feel about the group you’re walking with, judging by his half smile. 

“I understand,” he says quietly. “It is not always easy when one’s kin doesn’t quite appreciate the depths of one’s interests.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You have experience with it too, my lord?”

“With music, somewhat,” he admits. “But more so reading. My family is well-read, of course, but many of them cannot fathom that I would usually rather be in my library than socializing with the ton.”

“I would agree with your sentiment.” The two of you laugh. “What do you like to read?”

It takes a little prodding, but your question eventually launches Lord Kang into a spiel about classics, about authors old and new, novels and philosophy and literature of times so far in the past that you almost can’t fathom it. Truth be told, you don’t know much about what he speaks of—you enjoy reading, but your books of choice tend to be the popular novels of today, and while you recognize some of the classic titles he mentions you can’t say you particularly enjoyed them. But listening to him talk about them, hearing the passion behind his every word, is captivating in a way that you’d never have thought possible when speaking of Plato and Aristotle. And in the midst of this, he never makes you feel out of place or stupid. He answers each of your questions with enthusiastic verve no matter how basic they are, and by the time his friends are calling for him from the end of the park, you’re both so wrapped in your conversation that you almost don’t hear them. 

“I’m afraid I must go,” Lord Kang apologizes when you finally point out the two men making their way towards you. “I promised I would meet them later.” He suddenly looks a little shy, which is a more endearing expression than you’d have expected on his handsome face. “I hope I did not bore you with my talk. I know this subject is not the most interesting to everyone and I can get…carried away with it.”

“Not at all,” you respond immediately. “Truly, not at all. I love hearing about the interests that others have, and clearly this is a deep one of yours. I enjoyed our conversation immensely.” You draw a short breath. “In truth, it was…very good to speak with someone other than my family today.” Your smile, though not forced, feels considerably smaller than it was before. “I do not have many friends in the ton, as I was abroad for so long. Thank you for taking pity on a poor soul such as I, and speaking to me as one.”

Lord Kang steps forward and takes your hand gently, so gently. When he looks into your eyes it is as though he sees all of your soul and your breath catches at the warmth of his palm against yours. “It was never pity,” he says sincerely. “You are a wonderful person with whom to speak, and if I may presume, the beginnings of a very good friend. I look forward to the next time I may see you.” 

You fight to keep your voice steady against the rush of heat in your cheeks. “And I you, my lord. Have a wonderful evening.”

The setting sun perfectly frames his lovely smile. “Until next time, then.” 

The pressure of his lips against your skin lingers long after he has disappeared, long after you have returned home, and long after you have retired for the night.

. . . . .

Beomgyu pounces the moment they’re all seated at the club. “So who was that?”

Taehyun really should have expected this. Even with that knowledge, though, he still has to roll his eyes. “Who are you talking about?” he can’t resist asking. Beomgyu is annoying. He has to be annoying back, sometimes. 

“The girl you were with. The debutante.” Beomgyu grins, undeterred. “Who is she?”

Taehyun gives up. He’ll never win against Beomgyu. “Miss Y/N L/N,” he says, conceding defeat. “We met at the Tillings’ ball a few days ago.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “The pianist?” 

“That’s the one.” Taehyun grins. “I told her you were almost inspired to take lessons because of her.” Kai groans, and Taehyun’s smile only widens. “She was flattered.”

“And I bet she laughed,” Beomgyu adds. 

“She did.”

Kai just screams into his hands. 

“I don’t believe that you didn’t make a fool out of yourself either,” Beomgyu accuses amidst Kai’s muffled screaming. “You admired her at least as much as he did, probably more for your love of music. How much of an idiot did you look when you realized it was her?”

Taehyun is an honest man, but only to a point. “Not much at all.”

Beomgyu snorts, but that’s when their drinks arrive, so Taehyun thanks the higher powers for intervening before he was forced into revealing the truth of warm cheeks and night air. “And how goes you and your lady friend?” Taehyun asks before Beomgyu can pick up his line of questioning again. “Last I remember, she was threatening to slit your throat with your own letter opener. Have there been any recent developments?”

It’s Kai’s turn to laugh while Beomgyu scowls. “Oh, are there,” Kai snickers. “It’s only the most interesting thing in Whistledown right now, second only to the continued absence of a diamond in the field of this season’s debutantes.”

Taehyun raises an eyebrow. “It’s made it into Whistledown?”

“An entire paragraph on the row they had at the last party in the country, right before the season started.” Kai grins. “I know you aren’t a fan of the gossip papers, Taehyun, but you have to read this one. I’ll send you a copy tomorrow. I can only wonder why Whistledown decided to wait until this issue to write about it, though perhaps such a sensational story needed several weeks to perfect.” 

Beomgyu scowls even harder as Taehyun laughs. “I don’t know why that woman Whistledown can’t mind her own business,” he complains. “It was a private argument.”

“A private argument in the gardens outside the host’s home, loud enough that we heard it from inside,” Taehyun says dryly.

“Yes, well, she’s irritating,” Beomgyu snaps, taking a gulp of his drink like he needs it to clear his memory. “Why do you keep asking me about her? I don’t want to talk about it, she’s infuriating.”

“You sure talk about her a lot for someone who says he doesn’t want to talk about her,” Taehyun smirks. “Also, you’re the one who tried to embarrass me first.”

Beomgyu growls. “It’s just ridiculous that she’s still angry over something from when we were children!”

“I don’t know, Beomgyu.” Taehyun shakes his head, hiding a smile. “I was there, and that was a lot of cake. And it washer birthday.”

“Yes, well, she threw dirt at me after that!”

“It sounds to me like you’re still pretty hung up over something from when you were children, too.” Kai sips at his drink, eyes glittering amusedly over the glass. 

Beomgyu just glares at both of them. 

“Alright, we’ll stop.” Taehyun snickers. “At least until I read the copy that Kai’s going to give me.”

“Read all you want.” Beomgyu rolls your eyes. “It’s one paragraph. And from the look you were giving the L/N girl earlier, that’s not even going to be the most interesting part of the paper to you.”

Taehyun blinks. “What?”

“She’s been in the papers,” Kai says. “She’s famous, remember? Whistledown gave her a whole half paragraph when she returned to town and her father announced her debut.”

Taehyun resists the urge to hit himself over the head. If he’d been in the habit of reading the gossip papers, maybe he wouldn’t have been so damn blindsided when he spoke to you at the Tillings’ ball the first time. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I always make sense,” Kai sniffs, pointedly ignoring both Taehyun and Beomgyu’s snorts. “But how is she, as a person and as a debutante? I’m quite curious as to the persona behind the world-famous pianist.”

Taehyun opens his mouth, then closes it. Takes a sip of his drink. How exactly should he describe you to people you haven’t even met? You’ve only spoken twice—does he even have the right to say anything? “She’s very sweet,” he eventually says. “A bit shy, I think. It’s interesting—she doesn’t seem to enjoy being in the spotlight, though she clearly enjoys piano and performance. But she’s very humble, and I think she’s a very bright young lady.”

“Not without her own sort of wit and charm, then?” 

Beomgyu’s looking at Taehyun in a way he isn’t quite sure what to make of, but he answers anyway. “Very much so. You would probably enjoy a conversation with her.” He smirks at Beomgyu over his glass. “She’d probably like you, against her better judgment.”

Beomgyu cackles. “Of course she would, I’m a joy to be around.”

“You’re certainly something to be around, though I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘joy,’” Kai intones, taking a sip of his drink. “Is she adjusting to London well? She was abroad for a good many years.”

A snippet of your conversation from earlier comes to Taehyun’s mind. Your admission that after spending so much time away from London, you don’t have many people with whom to have a simple conversation with, just as simple friends. “She seems to be fine,” Taehyun replies slowly. “Though she mentioned it was a bit difficult to make friends after so long abroad.” He can’t imagine how hard the season must be for you, with a family who doesn’t respect your passion and no one to really confide in. For all he teases Kai and Beomgyu, he can’t imagine navigating life without them.

“The Duchess of Hastings was in a similar situation before she married Yeonjun,” Beomgyu says, and he’s giving Taehyun that strange, discerning look that he couldn’t decipher before. “Why don’t you introduce the two? Her Grace also quite enjoys music, I think they would get along quite well.”

“Invite her to the Hastings’ gathering next week,” Kai adds. “Of course ask the duchess first, but I’m sure she’d be happy to extend the invite.”

That’s actually brilliant, and Taehyun is privately put out that he didn’t think of the idea first. The more he thinks of it, the more he’s certain that you and his cousin could be good friends. “Yes, I’ll do that,” he says, half-rising out of his chair. “I’ll write to the duchess as soon as I can.”

“Surely not now?” Kai raises an eyebrow at Taehyun’s half-standing position. “You still have the whole night, there’s no reason to leave your drink unfinished.”

Taehyun flushes and sits back down. Kai’s comment makes complete sense—why was he standing up so urgently, anyway? “Of course,” he says, taking a sip to hide his embarrassment even though it’s definitely not fooling anyone. “By the way, Kai, how are your family affairs going? Surely your uncle still isn’t trying to lay claim to any part of your inheritance.”

It’s an obvious ploy to distract from his own embarrassment but Kai thankfully takes the bait, immediately putting forth an impassioned spiel about his arguments with his uncle’s idiotic solicitor that would put any of Shakespeare’s soliloquies to shame. It’s easy enough to laugh along and commiserate with Kai’s troubles that Taehyun allows his mind to wander a little, to the thought of you and the duchess meeting, to the beautiful music that is sure to follow, to the smile that will hopefully adorn your lips when you meet another woman who appreciates music as much as you. 

“You’re smiling an awful lot, Taehyun,” Beomgyu says, bringing Taehyun’s attention back to the present. He’s smirking a little and so is Kai, but Taehyun for the life of him cannot understand why. “Did you find Kai’s story really that funny?”

“No, I’m sorry.” He sips his drink, gesturing for Kai to continue. “I just got a little lost in thought.”

Kai keeps talking, and Taehyun goes back to listening. In the back of his mind, though, he’s hearing soft melodies in the darkened corridor of a mansion, and seeing the night sky twinkling above. 

. . . . .

Maybe someday receiving callers will no longer make you feel like flying to pieces. 

Today, however, is not that day. 

Four gentlemen callers—one of them Mr. Haynesworth, with whom you almost couldn’t hide your displeasure at seeing. The other three were pleasant enough and mostly inoffensive, but by the time the fourth caller came, you were running out of ways to begin small talk and based on your aunt’s subtle glare in your direction, it had probably started to show. 

It’s somewhat amusing, if not also somewhat depressing, how bad you are at speaking with strangers. You’ve performed for royal courts and houses of nobility for years, but when it comes to carrying a conversation, you can only bumble your way through inane small talk for so long before you run out of the headspace for it. Though privately, you think that’s a little unfair—it seems only right that it would be the caller’s job to ensure the conversation kept going, since they were the one who made the call, so you shouldn’t have to put in all the effort. But based on every glare or sniff or cough your aunt sent in your direction whenever the conversation faltered, that apparently is not the case.

It’s over, though. At least you think it is—it’s nearly five and no one has showed up since the last caller left. And if it isover, that means you have no one to entertain for the rest of the day. Your governess has already promised to bring your dinner to your room, and you plan on locking yourself in your music room for the rest of the night after that.

It’s like a reward.

“The biscuits are almost gone,” Aunt Taylor says, standing up from the settee. “I will have a servant bring more.” She fixes you with a stern stare. “Don’t slouch. It is not quite five, and you may still receive another caller yet.” She then sweeps out of the room, and once she’s gone, you slump into the cushions a little more, ignoring your governess’s fretful eyes. 

As if anyone would come calling now, really. Ten minutes to five, which means hardly enough time to begin a conversation once the initial pleasantries were dished out even if someone arrived right at this second. You sink a little further into the couch. Aunt Taylor won’t be back for another couple of minutes at least. You can take at least that long to be comfortable. 

Sooner than you’d like, footsteps sound in the hall outside. You quickly pull yourself up, smoothing out your dress, and await the renewed presence of your aunt. 

Only it isn’t your aunt. You blink when a footman enters instead, a card held in his hand. “A caller, my lady,” he says, squinting at the card. “Lord Kang, Earl of Addiston.”

What?

Of course, it is then that your aunt decides to sweep back into the room. “Another caller?” she asks sharply as a trailing servant places a refilled plate of biscuits on the table. “Who?”

Thankfully, your governess has recovered from the surprise more quickly than you have. “A Lord Kang, my lady,” she says. “Earl of Addiston.”

Your aunt throws you a sharp glance. Inwardly, you wilt a little—she’ll be sure to interrogate you after this, asking you to recount every last detail of your and the earl’s conversation yesterday in the park even though you already told her everything you could remember last night during dinner—but for now she says nothing as she nods to the footman. “Bring him in, please.”

For some reason, when you stand, your heart begins to race. You force yourself to take slow, deep breaths. It may be Lord Kang, but he called with only five minutes—now less—left on the clock. Surely he can’t have much to say. 

Though, a little voice in the back of your mind says, you’d much rather talk to him than any of the four who came earlier today.

Footsteps sound lightly in the hall, thankfully keeping you from pursuing that train of thought down unsavory paths. But then Lord Kang appears in the doorway, looking as handsome and gentle and polite as he has every time you’ve spoken to him, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady as you welcome him to your home. 

“Lord Kang.” You curtsy, your smile widening in a way that comes more easily now than it has all day. “Welcome. I hope you have been well since we last spoke.”

“I have been, and it is a pleasure to see you all again,” he replies, bowing politely. His eyes meet yours and, in the sunlight streaming softly through the window, they almost seem to sparkle. “I apologize for calling so late in the hour, but I had some business I had to attend to before I delivered this to you.” He produces a small envelope from a pocket and extends it to you.

You look at your aunt, who seems equally bemused as you. “If I may ask, my lord, what is this?” you ask, feeling the smooth paper between your fingers. 

“My cousin, the Duchess of Hastings, is hosting a small party next weekend,” he says, either ignoring or not hearing the collective half-gasp in the room at the mention of the duchess. “She and the duke have just come in from the country for the season, and she is holding a gathering for some friends and family. I mentioned that I had met you, and she was quite excited to extend you an invite—she is also an avid enjoyer of music and wonderful pianist, so I am sure you two will get along very well.”

You feel a little lightheaded. Sure, you’ve performed for royalty, but you’ve never been on close terms with any of them. You were very clearly the entertainer and they the entertained, with very little chance to cross that line even if you were of a mind to. But now Lord Kang is offering you the chance to become acquainted to a duchess, just a step below royalty, and who loves music and is a pianist at that—

One corner of the envelope digs into your finger. Just a slight pain, but enough to remind you that this is real and not a dream.

A quick glance at your aunt earns you a subtle but very emphatic nod, so you look back to Lord Kang with a smile wider than it has been all day. “Please tell the duchess that I would be delighted to come,” you say. “Thank you for the invite, my lord. I do look forward to this event.”

“It is my pleasure.” Lord Kang smiles, and you don’t think it’s your imagination when you muse that it might be a little brighter than it was before. It’s certainly not your imagination when you briefly think you might like to look at that smile for a lot longer. But then the clock chimes and the smile falls, replaced by a sheepish expression. “Apologies again for calling so late, my lady.”

You shake your head. “It was no inconvenience at all.”

“Be that as it may, I will not keep you longer than the calling hour lasts,” he says, sweeping a bow. “Good day, Miss L/N, Lady Taylor. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

. . . . .

“Taehyun!”

Taehyun turns to the sound of his name, not bothering to hide the wide smile spreading across his face when he sees who called for him. “Your Grace,” he greets as his cousin comes closer, her eyes sparkling. “It’s good to see you.”

She waves a hand. “Dispense with the formalities,” she sniffs, and then they both laugh. “How have you been? Oh—remind me before you leave, but my footman will help bring some of the books I need to return to your carriage.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” he says sincerely. “I also brought some of my own books to recommend, as well as the ones you asked for. And I’ve been well, though I’ve learned that the season is rather more…daunting, than I would have expected.”

The duchess nods sympathetically. “I don’t honestly believe it’s fun for anyone,” she admits. “Except maybe the dancing. But there are plenty of young ladies this season who would be a good match for anyone, if Whistledown is to be believed. Speaking of.” Her gaze wanders to the entrance. “Is that her? The debutante you asked to invite?”

Taehyun turns around, catching sight of a familiar face, and smiles. “Yes, that is.”

You step into the room with a sort of trepidation that Taehyun sorely understands. In the moments before you see him, you look somewhat lost, your own eyes wide as you take in the whole room. Your expression seems a bit overwhelmed so Taehyun wastes no time in catching your eye, and when you recognize him something like relief seems to pass over your face. Somehow, you two meet in the middle of the fray and for one strange moment Taehyun finds himself almost breathless. “Lady Taylor. Miss L/N,” he greets, pressing a soft kiss to your gloved hand. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Please allow me to introduce you to Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings.”

Lady Taylor curtsies, as do you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she says, her strong voice carrying just a hint of awe. “I am Lady Taylor, Viscountess of Wentworth, and this is my niece, Y/N L/N, daughter of the Viscount L/N.”

“It is wonderful to meet you both,” his cousin says, beaming widely. “And especially an honor to have met you, Miss L/N. You’ve caused quite a stir in town with your own fame here and abroad.”

Surprise flutters across your expression, replaced with a sort of embarrassed pride that Taehyun finds very endearing. “Your words do honor me, Your Grace,” you say, voice soft and shy, something of a far cry from the animation you displayed during the Tillings’ ball, or during your brief promenade in the park. You don’t look frightened, though, just somewhat in awe, so Taehyun brushes off his initial concern. “Particularly since the earl has mentioned that you are a lover of music, too. You give me high praise.”

Taehyun watches his cousin laugh and blush a little, and happiness bursts in a small bubble in his chest. She’s settled beautifully into her role as duchess and into her life with Yeonjun, but she’s still looking to widen her own circle of friends after spending so long abroad. The two of you begin to converse, your own shy face animating the more you speak, and with a smile and quick excuse, Taehyun ducks out of the conversation, heading toward the other end of the room. 

Yeonjun catches his eye first. “Taehyun!” he calls, beaming wide. 

“Your Grace,” Taehyun replies, settling into the circle that includes the duke, Beomgyu, Soobin, and Kai. “How have you all been?” 

Yeonjun pulls an exaggerated frown. “Hasn’t my wife told you to dispense with the pleasantries when we are among friends?” he asks, and Taehyun laughs because yes, she did exactly that. “Come, have a drink.”

Taehyun accepts the proffered glass and takes a sip. “You really pulled out all the stops for this,” he says approvingly, swirling the amber liquid inside. 

“What can I say?” Yeonjun shrugs airily. “My wife organized this. The least I could do is help make the event a success.”

“With expensive alcohol,” Soobin deadpans. 

“Exactly.”

Next to Taehyun, Beomgyu coughs very strangely. It almost sounds like he’s saying something like head over heels, actually. Then he yelps and Taehyun looks down just quickly enough to see Soobin’s foot pressing hard onto Beomgyu’s. 

Kai and Taehyun exchange glances. Taehyun has to look away to avoid bursting into laughter. 

“Don’t worry, Beomgyu.” Yeonjun beams beatifically over his own glass of expensive alcohol, sharp eyes glinting at his cousin. “Someday you’ll find a lady who will send you into fits of apoplexy with her beauty and wit, and on that day you’ll understand. Or maybe you’ve already found her.” He adopts a thinking expression. “Who was it that Whistledown mentioned? The lady from your childhood, Miss—”

Beomgyu lets out an incomprehensible noise somewhere between a screech and a snarl, and if they weren’t in Yeonjun’s own home, Taehyun thinks Beomgyu might have jumped the duke. As it stands, though, they begin bickering, which leaves Kai, Soobin, and himself to look at each other with raised eyebrows and exasperated smiles. 

“Let’s step away from the rabble,” Soobin suggests, and the three of them drift a short distance away. “I don’t understand how I’m related to them, sometimes.”

“Well, every family has its own set of strange relations,” Kai mutters. 

“You would know,” Taehyun says, and they all snort. 

“Do the inheritance squabbles still show no sign of ending?” Soobin asks curiously. “I would have thought by now that it’s become abundantly clear your uncle has no real claim to anything your grandfather left.”

Kai rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately not. But let us not speak of it now, please. Not in polite company,” he says, indicating the rest of the room. “Join me at the club sometime, and I will update you on all of it.”

“Of course,” Soobin says, dipping his head in apology. “How about you, Taehyun? How goes the season? I know you intended to find a wife by the end of it.”

Without really meaning to, Taehyun’s gaze wanders to the other end of the room, where you are still engaged in lively conversation with the duchess. “It is tiring in a way I did not really expect,” he replies. “Taemin didn’t complain much when he went through it, at least. But…” He pauses, wondering how much to tell. “I have met some very interesting young ladies.”

Kai snorts. Taehyun flashes him a short glare. “What?”

His friend doesn’t back down, just raises one mischievous eyebrow over his drink. “Well, I just think that I would say there’s one young lady that you find more interesting than all of the others.” 

Taehyun’s ears burn. He very purposely avoids looking in your direction again. 

“Well, do tell.” Soobin cocks his head, his own eyes glinting. “And don’t spare details.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Taehyun snaps, ignoring Kai’s snicker. “I’ve been speaking to Miss L/N, is all. The pianist,” he clarifies, and Soobin’s eyes widen in recognition. “She’s a very lovely young woman. Accomplished, not just with the piano, and very kind.”

“So lovely, actually, that he asked Her Grace to invite her today,” Kai adds. 

“Which one is she?” Soobin asks, ignoring Taehyun’s hiss of you suggested inviting her first! “Is she the lady speaking to the duchess now, with the rather dour-faced woman behind her?”

Taehyun sighs in defeat and nods. “Yes, she is.”

They all turn together, and almost at the same moment, the duchess turns in his direction as well. She catches his eye and immediately starts to head his way, bringing a small group with her. Kai glances at him with an eyebrow raised, but all Taehyun can do is shrug with similar confusion.

“Lord Kang,” she says as soon as they’re near enough to speak. “Mr. Huening. I understand that the two of you have seen Miss L/N perform before in Germany?”

They nod. “It was a most impressive performance,” Taehyun says earnestly. “A lovely program, played beautifully and wonderfully well.”

“Incredibly so,” Kai chimes in. “In fact, I was almost inspired to take music lessons because of it.”

You look supremely embarrassed, but the smile on your lips is still sparkling in your eyes in a way Taehyun hasn’t seen yet. “So you are the friend Lord Kang mentioned when we first met,” you say, and Taehyun has to laugh even as Kai flushes in embarrassment. “Oh—please do not be embarrassed, Mr. Huening. Your words do me a great honor, truly.”

“You are far too modest, my lady,” Taehyun replies, and while everyone’s attention turns to him, he keeps his eyes fixed on yours. “The praise is well earned, I hope you know that.”

“Which only means that the lady should honor our humble request,” Lord Jung says, a twinkle in his eye. “We were just asking that she take a turn on the pianoforte for us. A private performance, if you will, from one of the most accomplished musicians in our society. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for many of us, after all.”

A chorus of agreement sounds from your little group and begins to ripple outwards to the rest of the room as well. People begin to turn, expectation and excitement bright in their faces, but Taehyun glances at you only to find your expression somewhat frozen. 

All at once he remembers the dark night at the Tillings’ ball, the exhaustion clear in your face and your voice when you admitted you were searching for quiet, too. Are you tired now in the same way? He subtly inches a little closer to you and whispers lowly, “You do not have to if you do not wish to.”

You look up at him and your expression clears, eyes turning soft as you smile at him. “Worry not, my lord,” you reply. “I would love to perform. I was just momentarily overwhelmed—I wasn’t expecting quite so much enthusiasm. I do thank you for your concern, though.”

Taehyun smiles, shaking his head. “You are too modest,” he repeats. “The enthusiasm is only to be expected with a name such as yours. I am excited to hear what you play for us, too.”

You don’t have the chance to refute his praise because his cousin is taking your arm and leading you to the empty piano, the rest of the room excitedly whispering behind you. Taehyun watches you sit down at the keys, running your fingers over them with an almost reverent touch, your head bowed slightly over the sea of black and white as though in prayer.

And maybe it is a prayer, Taehyun thinks. Reverence paid to your love, music—like one paying thanks to their god. The thought is beautiful, and as you straighten slightly, positioning your hands at the instrument, he can’t help but admire you more. 

He doesn’t recognize the piece you play. It’s a lovely work, the quiet melody evocative of the night and dark while short, bright stanzas bring to mind the stars, and as your fingers waltz softly across the keys, Taehyun loses himself in the beauty of the music and the beauty of you. It is not that you weren’t beautiful before—far from it, actually—but seeing you in your element, with people who clearly appreciate your work and talent, is a spectacle Taehyun knows he will never tire of watching. It isn’t just the music. It’s the way you play it, the way you move with the melody—it’s the way you embody the music with your whole being that adds to the beauty of the moment, and the loveliness that is you. 

You finish the piece to silence, everyone’s collective breath hushed as you coax the last note from the piano strings. For a long moment, even after the final echoes of music have faded away, you remain bowed over the keys, eyes closed, hands suspended in the air before they drop softly to your lap. 

The first clap hardly breaks you from your reverie. Even as the applause grows, even as you curtsy to the shouts of Brava filling the room, you still seem like you are being pulled from the loveliest dream. Briefly, Taehyun wonders what it would be like to be in that dream with you—would it be like floating among the stars, letting their soft light wash over his body, or would it be like lying on a field of green grass at night, staring up at the moonlit sky?

You meet Taehyun’s eyes and in a moment you seem to jerk awake—your smile widens, your expression brightens, and he can’t help but do the same as you curtsy again and again. All the time his eyes never leave your face, his mind never leaving the beauty of your performance. 

Kai sidles up to his ear and snorts when Taehyun barely notices him. “You are going to court her, aren’t you?” he asks without preamble. 

“Yes.” Taehyun doesn’t even turn his eyes away from you to reply. “Yes, I am.”

. . . . .

At the start of the season, you’d hoped that the daily parade of balls, gatherings, promenades, and callers would die down a bit as the weeks went on. The season itself is six months, already half a year—you really thought there would be no way that the steady stream of events could continue for so long. 

This, apparently, is not the case. 

It’s been a month and there is no sign of the flow ebbing even slightly. Even when there aren’t massive balls that the entire ton is invited to, there are still the smaller gatherings—small parties, invites to dinner, promenades in the park—and even during the events where only the women are present, the talk always seems to turn to the season, to the debutantes, to engagements and marriage, and most of all, the fact that the queen has still not chosen a diamond. 

You’ve heard all manner of stupidity about this last topic of gossip, and it honestly annoys you more than anything else you’ve seen during the season. If the queen hasn’t chosen a diamond by now, you’d like to say, perhaps that means she simply does not plan to. But apparently the idea of a diamond being absent for the entire season is simply unthinkable to the mamas of the ton, and so after the separation of the sexes at every dinner party you attend, you’re forced to listen to them run the topic into the ground. 

The duchess’s gathering last weekend was a lovely respite from such talk. It was a much smaller gathering, mostly friends and family of the duchy who no longer have much of a stake in the season or who have lived long enough for them not to care. You were very lucky to have gotten an invitation to it at all. It was the first event you attended that you truly enjoyed from start to finish and you walked away from it with both a lingering happiness, a possible good friend in the duchess, and a promise of a call from the lord who invited you to the gathering in the first place. 

Even now, you can’t stop the rush of heat to your face when you remember his sincere compliments after your performance at the duchess’s. The way his large eyes sparkled so earnestly, his words sweet but respectful—it is true that you have only known him for a few weeks, but in that moment, you remember thinking that with every meeting your estimation of his character only seems to improve. And it isn’t just because he is effusive in paying you compliments for your performances. Lord Kang…he sees the person behind the performer, the hard work behind the talent. Of course it helps that he is somewhat of a musician himself—you’d love to hear him play sometime—but he clearly respects the work anyone puts into their own craft, from what you gathered in the conversations you shared with others at the party. 

Before you left, he had found you again and asked, somewhat shyly, if you enjoyed reading about music history or theory. When you responded yes to both, he told you he had several volumes on the subjects in his library, and would be happy to lend them to you if you wished. 

Aunt Taylor was not pleased by your stammering reply. Neither were you. But it was such a kind gesture that it took you aback for a good few moments, and by the time you had finally managed to convey that you would love that, you felt a true mess. Lord Kang didn’t seem perturbed by it at all, though. His smile only widened, and he said that then he would have to call sometime the next week, to see you and bring them to you. 

Your governess is certain he means to court you. So do your cousins, though Aunt Taylor has forbidden them from gossiping about it as it isn’t a sure thing yet. You aren’t quite as certain as they are, but deep inside, battling with the part of you that fears marriage and its shackles of responsibility, another part of you hopes that she is right.

The prospect of Lord Kang’s call is really what keeps you going through the seemingly endless nights of dinner parties and mindless chatter, small talk made with family friends you hardly remember and debutantes who either talk about topics you don’t know or care little about, or who look like they want to be there about as much as you do. You find a few kindred spirits among those who are bold enough to whisper their disdain aloud, though, and they make the time more worth it. 

Still, when the morning of Lord Kang’s call comes, you can’t help but feel as though a new light shines on the day. Cousin Lilly slyly remarks that you look more excited than usual as she removes her toddlers from the drawing room in anticipation of calling hour, and even Aunt Taylor’s hissed instructions to sit straight or you’ll turn a perfectly good suitor away doesn’t dampen your mood much as you settle into the couch, watching servants flit about with last minute preparations. 

Just a few minutes after the clock strikes three, a footman enters the room. “Lord Kang has come to call, my lady,” he says. 

You force yourself to breathe properly as your aunt tells him to bring Lord Kang in. For once, you thank the heavens for your aunt’s beady-eyed attention to detail. While her sharp critiques may sting more than they help when directed at you, it means that the room is clean and bright. Lord Kang should find himself most comfortable when he comes in. Or so you hope. 

Lord Kang enters the room with little fanfare, but with an abundance of quiet grace that, for all your earlier nervousness, immediately calms your nerves. After the initial greetings, he remarks on the careful décor of the room and pays compliment to your aunt, who actually looks briefly stunned before she accepts his praise. You’re smiling widely by the time he turns to you—maybe too widely for your aunt’s liking, but you can’t help it—and dare you say it? His eyes seem to sparkle a little more when he looks at you. 

“My lady,” he says, kissing your hand. “I trust you have been well since we last saw each other.”

“Quite so, and I hope I might say the same for you,” you reply. Honestly, you’re quite proud of yourself for keeping your voice so steady when your heart leapt so wildly the moment his lips touched your knuckles. 

“You may,” he says, eyes crinkling with a little mischief. “And as promised, I have brought you the books I mentioned when we spoke last time. I do hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m sure I will,” you say, taking the small stack of books with delight. Their worn covers speak of frequent and fond use, you note, scanning the titles embossed on their spines. “Oh!” you exclaim, sliding one of them out of the stack. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to read this for quite some time.” You beam up at Lord Kang. “Thank you so much, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure,” he replies, a lovely soft smile on his lips. “And, please, take your time reading them. Do not endeavor to return them sooner than you’d like—I’ve read them all, so you need not rush.”

“You are most kind,” you reply sincerely. “Oh, which reminds me.” Placing the books on a nearby table, you pick up a few sheets of music from the drawing room piano. “You mentioned last time that you had not heard the piece I played, and that you found it quite beautiful,” you say, extending the music to him. “I thought…I thought you might like to have the music. If you wanted to learn it yourself.”

Lord Kang takes a moment before he accepts the music from your hand, which makes you a little nervous—what if he doesn’t care for your gift? There’s no way it really compares to the volumes he’s lent you, you think miserably, but it’s all you could think of to give in return. But then he looks up from the black notes inked on the page, and that lovely smile of his has widened along with his bright eyes. “Thank you so much,” he breathes. “This is…the most perfect gift, my lady. I hope you will not mind me borrowing it for a time.”

“Oh, do not worry about returning it,” you say, smiling. “This is a new copy—I have my own for myself. This one is for you.”

“Well, in that case, I know what I will be doing when I return home,” Lord Kang replies, and the two of you laugh. “I can only hope to learn this piece half as well as you have.”

You laugh again, hiding a shy smile behind your hand. “Again, my lord, you flatter me too much.”

“No, I fear the world does not flatter you enough.” His words are so sincere, so earnest that you momentarily find yourself at a loss for words. And it’s then, of course, that you notice you’re both still standing. You haven’t even offered him a seat yet. 

“You really are too kind,” you reply, internally screaming. “Please my lord, do sit. We have some refreshments if you should like any, and our cook can prepare others if you are feeling particular.”

Lord Kang truly does have perfect manners, you note as you sit down together. He compliments the chef, your aunt, your governess, all so quickly and smoothly you barely have a moment to bat an eye. And then, when you’re floundering a little for a way to begin a conversation, he again takes the lead and engages you easily with a question about the composer of the music you gave him. 

It’s so easy to talk to him. Not just because he’s a wonderful conversationalist, which he is, but you feel comfortable around him in a way that you haven’t felt with any of the other suitors you’ve entertained over the past couple of weeks. Part of it is your shared interests, of course, but he listens to you with an attentive and respectful air that makes talking to him so much easier. It doesn’t feel fake, the way it does with some of the other men. It feels as though he really cares about you, your interests, and what makes you happy. 

And because of this, it’s not difficult to reciprocate in kind. As he mentioned during your promenade, Lord Kang clearly loves literature. When you ask about his library, his enthusiasm about the subject is infectious. At some point you land on the topic of an author that you both have read, one that he enjoyed and you didn’t, and it sparks a lively back-and-forth that has both of you laughing in the end. You’re nowhere near as well-read as he is, and in this conversation it unfortunately shows—his opinions on the author are deep and nuanced while you struggle to articulate what it is about the writing that made you dislike it so—but he remains patient and respectful, and despite your lack of knowledge, just like when you spoke during your promenade, you never feel out of place or embarrassed. 

“You are so well-read, my lord,” you say at the end of your little debate. Your throat rasps a little from speaking so much but you hardly notice, you’re smiling so hard. “How did you come into possession of so many books, and how do you have the time to read them all?”

“Well, both my mother and father enjoy collecting books, so I grew up surrounded by them,” he replies. Of course, you think—such a love for literature must have been cultivated from a young age, just as your love for music. “I took it upon myself to read as many as I could when I was a child, and so when I went to school I quite enjoyed my classics lessons. Upon inheriting the earldom, I was pleased to learn that the estate came with a very large library that the previous lord had left.” At that, Lord Kang’s smile softens. “I’ve been spending all the free time that I can reading as much as possible. The late lord must have been collecting books for a very long time, though—sometimes I wonder if I will be able to finish them all before I pass on.”

You nod in sympathy. “I feel the same about all the sheet music I have collected over the years. I always want to add more to my repertoire, but there’s just so much in the world. I could certainly never hope to finish it all, though perhaps that is the beauty in it. The beauty in creation, I mean.” You glance at the music you gifted him, lying on the table beside you two. “I believe art is a tribute to humanity, to human emotion and empathy. People will be composing and writing throughout my life and long after my death, and to know that this beauty continues on even though I will not be there to share it…I think that is beautiful. It is a wonderful tradition, passed on through the ages, and I will always be honored to have been a part of it.”

A short silence falls after your declaration. Suddenly self-conscious, you look up to find Lord Kang’s eyes riveted to yours. “That is a lovely way of seeing things,” he says softly. “I had never thought about art before in such a manner.”

You duck your head, heat crawling up your cheeks. “Many perspectives exist when it comes to the philosophy of the arts, my lord. This is only mine.”

He cocks his head, meeting your eyes again. “And a lovely philosophy it is, my lady.”

Thankfully—or unthankfully, really—you’re saved from having to come up with a response by the entrance of your footman. “Another caller has arrived,” he says, glancing at you, then Lord Kang, then at your aunt. “Shall I send him in?”

You glance up at the clock. Already half an hour has passed, though to your mind it feels like only seconds have slipped away—certainly not thirty minutes, already ten minutes over what a normal call would be. Inwardly you curse the next caller for having come too soon—actually, for having come at all—because while you may not know him well, you’re quite certain Lord Kang’s impeccable manners will have him clearing out before the next caller comes in. 

To your chagrin, you’re right. Lord Kang quickly stands and you follow suit, still cursing the clock and the caller. “I will not intrude upon your next call, my lady,” he says, and maybe it is delusion but you fancy he sounds somewhat put out when he says this. “I have already taken too much of your time.”

“Not too much at all, my lord.” You curtsy to his short bow. “I did not realize so much time had passed, but I quite enjoyed our conversation. And thank you kindly for lending me your books. I will be sure to enjoy them.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head with an enchanting smile. “And I must thank you again for your kind gift, my lady. Perhaps by the next time we meet, I will have learned to play it.”

You grin. “I do hope so. It would be so lovely to hear you perform sometime.”

With that, Lord Kang makes his goodbyes, and you’re left to welcome the next caller. He is thankfully not Mr. Haynesworth, as you had privately been dreading, but really, you feel that any caller would have paled in comparison to Lord Kang. Lord Kim, whom you met at the last ball you attended, isn’t rude or vile or even awkward. He’s a gentleman, all things considered. But after the requisite greetings, he begins the call with an outright statement about his plans for the future, which leaves you half-floundering for a response after your previous lively conversation with Lord Kang. 

Lord Kim doesn’t share any of your interests. He barely feigns interest in your music, and though he doesn’t say it outright, you’re almost certain he would want you to give up the piano if you were to marry. Though that’s not even what bothers you the most, you realize only when he’s about to leave—it’s the fact that he didn’t even ask you about it. It’s the expectation that he seems to have that you would do what he says without question, without the respect of even considering your passions and interests when planning out the rest of your possible life together. 

Later that night you lie awake in your bed, staring at the dark ceiling as you run through the events of the day. In an ideal world, you ask yourself, if you were to be married, what would make it a perfect marriage?

No conflict. Perfect understanding of one another, and perfect respect. But really, those are impossible demands. You’re not sure any marriage would be perfect without conflict, anyway—such a relationship sounds awfully like a domineering husband and submissive wife, which you hope to fully steer clear of. 

But understanding and respect, even if not perfect, doesn’t seem like it should be so unattainable. Marriage, you think, should be a partnership. And a partnership implies a mutual respect for one another, no? And maybe the definition of respect varies from one person to another, but for you, it involves a consideration of your interests and how deeply they play a role in your life. Because for you, before now, almost your entire life was music. You can’t—won’t—give it up just to play a role in society. So is there anyone who might give you that respect?

The answer is obvious already. 

You sigh, rubbing a thumb over where Lord Kang kissed your hand earlier in greeting. He certainly seems to be the ideal, at least for you. Your mind returns to your avid conversation, and his complete attentiveness to you. 

Few people have listened to you like he did today. Your mother did before she died, and sometimes your governess does, but not many others. You need that, you realize. You need someone, or something, to hear you—it’s partly why you poured so much of yourself into the piano when your mother passed, because it felt like only the instrument could hear you and understand your pain, your grief. That is what you need in marriage. In partnership. 

And, you think, remembering large eyes and a soft, wide smile, there’s only one person you know who seems to fit this ideal. 

. . . . .

“You look like you’re having quite a lot of fun.”

Taehyun turns from where he’s been staring at the drink table for probably a little too long. “Yeonjun? I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

The duke picks up two glasses and hands one to him. “We weren’t certain if we were going to come either. The duchess decided last night that she wanted to get out of the house for some time, so here we are. ”

Taehyun nods. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen the two of you out much since you returned to town.”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks since we returned,” Yeonjun defends. “There was and still is much to sort out, and unfortunately I have to return to the country next weekend to supervise the removal and fixing of some of the farmers’ equipment.” He sighs. “I hate responsibility.”

“It will all be fine, I’m sure,” Taehyun comforts. Yeonjun and his wife are two of the most capable people he knows; he’s certain they will be alright no matter what challenges they face. “Join us at the club tomorrow afternoon,” he offers. “Kai, Beomgyu, and Soobin will be there too.”

Yeonjun brightens immediately. “I will be there.” Then he squints his eyes into a mock frown. “Are you all now meeting without me? Is it because I’m old, and married, and jaded now?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Taehyun snickers into his drink as Yeonjun’s pout deepens exaggeratedly. “No, we just met up a few times when you were still in the country. You’ll be included in every invite now, I promise.” He pauses. “Though of course if you are busy, you are under no obligation to come.”

“Thank you very much.” Yeonjun grins, that eye smile that drove so many debutantes insane appearing on his face. “But enough about me. Now about you.” He fixes Taehyun with a stern eye. “I thought you were looking for a wife? You won’t have much luck with that, staring at this array of drinks.”

Taehyun makes a face. “I think many of these mamas want to find their daughters husbands more than I want to find myself a wife,” he mutters. 

Yeonjun nearly chokes into his drink. “That’s certainly one way to put the issue,” he coughs out, recovering. “Though I heard from Beomgyu that there is already a lady you have decided to court?”

“…Yes.” Taehyun narrows his eyes. “How did you know that? I only told Kai.”

“He says he heard it from Kai, so I think we know what happened there.” Yeonjun shrugs as Taehyun sighs. “Apparently you didn’t say it was a secret.”

He didn’t. But all the same… “He’ll be the death of me, someday,” Taehyun mutters. “But yes, I have someone in mind. Miss L/N. You met her a couple of weeks ago, at the gathering.” He pauses, then decides he may as well just be out with it. “I’ve been calling on her since.”

“That is wonderful to hear,” Yeonjun replies sincerely. “Is she here tonight?”

“She said she would be.��� Taehyun glances around the room. “I specifically asked, because we keep seeming to miss each other at all the other balls. If I’m there, she isn’t, and if I’m not, she is.” They share a little laugh. “I haven’t been able to find her here since I arrived, though.” He gestures helplessly at the drink table. “Hence…”

Yeonjun makes a little ‘o’ of understanding. “I see. And you do not want to dance with any of the other debutantes?”

“I already have,” Taehyun says, glancing at the bustling dance floor. “I’m just…tired, I suppose.” He tries to smile. “You know how it is.”

He doesn’t, not really. In the year since Taehyun gotten to know the duke, he’s come to the conclusion that Yeonjun is like Taemin when it comes to things like this—ever social, ever happy to entertain and be entertained. But also like Taemin, he understands that Taehyun is different, and tires of these things much more easily than he does. “I understand,” Yeonjun replies sympathetically. A little glint enters his eye when he sees something just behind Taehyun. “If you’d like, I can cover you for a bit. So you can find some quiet.”

Taehyun casts a glance back. Sure enough, a small group of mamas and their daughters seem to be eyeing him and the duke. “That would be most appreciated,” he says gratefully. 

Within moments, Yeonjun has skillfully engaged the group of ladies in conversation and has also managed to snag a hapless Wooyoung into joining him, leaving Taehyun to slip past the throng. As the rooms grow less crowded and the corridors quieter, he takes a deep breath, reveling in the silence. 

Only it isn’t completely silent, even in this empty room. If Taehyun listens carefully, he can catch a hint of a melody that isn’t just the remnants of the orchestra fading in from a nearby corridor. 

Within moments, he’s heading down the corridor, a smile curving his lips as he searches for the source of the music. 

He finds the room with a little difficulty, following the sound of your performance down corridor after corridor. When he finally stumbles upon the slightly cracked open door, Taehyun is reminded of the second ball of the season, where he heard you that first time. He didn’t know it was you then, but he certainly knows it is you now. It helps that this is a piece he’s heard you play before—it’s a lovely Mozart sonata you performed when he called on you a few days ago—but your style is also so distinctive that even though Taehyun has only heard you play a handful of times, even not knowing the piece, he’s almost certain he would still know it was you. 

Taehyun smiles just beyond the room, leaning closer towards the open door. He won’t disturb you—even though he aims to court you, he would never trap you into a proposal by having someone catch the two of you alone together. He just wants to listen. And perhaps, when you’re finished, he’ll be able to catch you when you return back to the party, and you two can share a dance. 

It’s strange that in all the times you’ve met, the two of you have not yet danced together once. Taehyun aims to rectify that as soon as he can, if you will allow it. 

And allow it you will, he thinks. He’s certain he’s not the only one who has noticed how well you two get along. You must have felt it too, just as you must also have seen by now that he is quite interested in you.  And he’s almost sure that you are interested in him too, if your shy smiles and sweet words are anything to go by. 

Closing his eyes, he leans closer to the music. A brilliant sparkle of notes swirl under your fingers, the melody leaping with a joy that lingers in his ears and widens his smile. Cheerful and sweet, though there’s a noise that doesn’t sound right entering the piece. It’s strange—it sounds something like—

Footsteps?

Taehyun quickly ducks into a nearby empty room, praying no one saw him. The low conversation of the small group continues without interruption and he breathes a sigh of relief. They keep coming closer, though, and he thinks he can hear the voice of Lady Arina Park telling Her Majesty—she brought the queen?—that she must see the Gérard painting in this room, it’s quite famous and apparently not a fake—

Holding his breath, Taehyun watches them enter the room where you’re playing. But the music doesn’t stop, not just yet. He almost smiles—it’s not hard to believe you would be so lost in the melody that you wouldn’t notice a small group of people entering the room—but that smile freezes in place when the queen makes an exclamation and the music ends abruptly. 

Taehyun swallows. This might not be good. The queen can’t be pleased that you would avoid a ball to play the pianoforte—maybe he can help, just enter the room and act surprised to see everyone. He could easily claim he was curious about the music. 

He edges into the hallway just in time to hear you apologizing profusely. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was only taking a small pause from the ball—”

“Because you delight in your endeavors.” Taehyun stops short when he hears the smile in Her Majesty’s voice. He should leave—from her tone, you are probably not in trouble, which means it’s better for him not to be here. He wouldn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping on Her Majesty. Still, though he can’t help but hear the queen’s words as he takes soundless steps down the hallway. “Someone who performs not for me, but for themselves. Brava.”

That, Taehyun can agree with. Yet while part of his heart leaps in happiness for you—it is, after all, no small feat to impress the queen—another part of him remembers your desire for quiet at the Tillings’ ball and wonders what the queen’s attention might mean for an introverted woman like you. 

You mumble something that he doesn’t quite catch. And as Taehyun steps down the corridor, he hears the queen speak again, pleasure clear in her tone. 

“A performance that sparkles,” she declares. “Just like a diamond.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :) Note: part 2 will be posted in three days, on June 17 at 8pm EST :)

[megantheestallion-ismypresident]

I only have eyes for you

Human alastor x black! jazz singer

Sumarry: Before alastor ended up in hell in his human life, he fell in love with this jazz singer, and he fell deeply in love with her before he died and ended up in hell.

● Alastor was very infatuated by you when he first heard you sing on the radio. He loved your voice so soft and soothing. He is a big fan of you and your work.

● You were a famous jazz singer in New Orleans, Louisiana. You were the life of the party. Everybody wanted to be you. Men wanted you. You were eye candy in your day. Alastor heard about you, the streets of Louisiana were talking you about you so he was interested in you.

● Alastor has been to one of your shows before just to watch you sing in person. He thought you were so beautiful and elegant. your glossy red lipstick made you look stunning, I mean, his favorite color is red~. He wanted to smear it off and kiss you hungrily as he marks you and your body, your tight red dress that hugs your curves perfectly.

●"She's really good, isn't she? She's got a voice of an angel." Some random man told Alastor as he drinks his champagne but still was looking at you.

● "She is quite a gal, pure talent and beauty." Alastor smiles as he looks at you up on the stage, which caught your attention as you wink at him, making him stare at you in awe, he only had eyes for you.

● There have been women who wanted alastor's attention. I mean, he is the most famous radio host in New Orleans, but no one knows his sinister side... oh, how dumb these people were. A lot of women wanted his attention. None of them stood out to him until he saw you, on his radio shows he would play your music and can't help but sing to it and enjoy your voice, he truly had his eyes set on you.

● Everyone applauded your performance as every cheered, threw roses at you, as you smile and blow kisses to the people in the audience, as you left the stage.

● You were off the stage as you were going to the bar for a drink, he had to talk you he was infatuated by you. Alastor got up as he walked with confidence as the charming man he is.

● "My,my, my, that was a lovely performance, quite the show." Alastor lightly grabbed your hand as he kissed your knuckles, making you flustered. "Why, thank you, alastor, I'm also a big fan of you to as well. I love listening to you on the radio. You really know how to catch people's attention." You said to the alastor as you drink, you champagne, as his ego was boosted by your compliment. "Why thank you, mon Cher, it's nice like a lovely famous star noticing me." Alastor said as he took a sip of his liquor.

● I've always been a big fan of you and your charm it's quite sexy. No wonder why the ladies like you." You winked at alastor flirting with him, as he felt his dick twitch, alastor is a gentleman he doesn't think about things or feel such thing around other women, but you were a different story.

● You and the alastor clicked instantly. You laughed, drinked, and danced all night long. He was truly in love with you, and you were in love with him. Then, later on, you Two became an actual couple, which caught a lot of attention. I mean y/n the most famous jazz singer with alastor the most charming famous radio host of course people were gonna talk.

● Some women still flirted with alastor knowing he was with you, alastor love how cute you were seeing you angry but obviously he would never put you against another women for his love he'll never be unfaithful towards you he is of course a gentleman.

● Alastor would stop by your performances hearing you sing as he would smile at you and would smile back... he was truly your biggest fan.

● You would stop by at his job bringing him coffee, as you listen and watch him doing his job, and you would join and sing for the whole world to hear, and he would join in.

● Alastor had admitted that he is a serial killer. At first, you were surprised, but you didn't care. You loved him, whether he killed or not, and you still loved him, and that will never change.

● Alastor loved flauting you around to other people showing them you belonged to him and only him, being the egotistical bastard he is he would boast and brag about having you and being cocky towards men who wanted you but can't because you were with him

● Your sex life in the bed is amazing he made you fulfilled again, and again, and again until your screaming his name.

● Alastor has a blood kink he loves biting you and sees blood drip as he sucks it he loves to see you in pain as he hears your cries. The pain he inflicts your heat, which pushes you towards the edge. He loved to see you squirm and whine he finds quite adorable.

● Alastor loves marking your body. He marks you everywhere, but he loves marking you on your neck so people can notice his "masterpiece." You would panick, not wanting people to notice the mark, but Alastor finds it amusing and would kiss the marks on your body. "Don't shy away, dear. These marks show who you belong to, and you look quite ravishing." Alastor gives his charming smile, making you melt.

● He finds joy in pleasuring you the way you moan in pleasure. He loves being in control he let's you be in control time from time, but He's the one mostly in control it shows how powerful he is, and he most likely claims you.

● He is really skilled with his tongue, very skilled making you cum atleast 3 or 4 times. You would pull his hair in between your thighs, screaming loudly. He's very animalistic, but he's a gentleman. He's really caring after sex, an aftercare God.

● Period blood doesn't faze him he has no issue eating you out when you're on the time of the month while you're bleeding. He enjoys it since he's a cannibal, the blood entices him making him cum before you as he groans.

● He doesn't really moan, but he will groan and stutter sweet things in your ear and some deep groans.

He truly loves you he only had eyed for you, his darling doe.

[janus-cadet]

Not an Hazbin card, for once. Let's welcome a new fandom, with the first occurence of Critical Role in the whole ass deck: Percival de Rolo, as the Eight of Pentacles!

He's my new blorbo, must protect at all cost. I'm still quite new to the fandom, however, and I've only seen the animated serie- therefore, my explanation for the choice of card, conveniently placed under the cut, will be based on Tlovm only.

The Eight of Pentacles Upright is, above all, a card of apprenticeship and mastery. You are working hard to improve your skills, be it in gun-forgery, or less lethal activities. Your life may have been changed recently, pushing you to apply your sheer determination and concentration to master the new skill you are learning, to perform the new task you set yourself to fulfill; let's just hope that for you, reader, said life change only came in a change of work, and not in an entirely traumatic experience. You are a diligent and hard-working person, applying yourself fully to whatever is the centre of your attention (revenge, maybe?). As you do the same task over and over, building prototypes after prototypes, no matter how many misfire, you work your way towards mastery of your craft, and through perserverance and unwaring attention, through smoke and iron, you create success.

The Eight of Pentacles encourages you to keep doing what you are doing, as you will eventually achieve your definition of success. But it also brings a caution: don't forget to work on yourself, too, as the unhappy state you might find your life to be in will only improve if you improve on yourself, not only on your skills, to be the best person you can be.

Which is why the Reversed Eight of Pentacle comes as a warning. You are focused on creating perfection, on achieving your full task, no mercy, no compromise- to your own detriment. You're losing sight of the better picture by losing yourself in the obsession you have for the task you pursue, or the skill you're trying to learn. This obsession is getting in the way on you ability to adapt, change, heal. You are now working so hard on this project, to the point it may consume you (quite literally, in a certain someone's case), but it's not leading to the desired outcome. Maybe it's not getting down fast enough; all the same, you're feeling frustrated, angry at your lack of progress. It's time to step back and ask yourself if you are indeed focused on the right things, or if you need to shift your focus to bring yourself back to the most important course of your life.

And maybe, do that before going all murdery at your friends, shooting at them like a madman, because you fed the demon inside of you for too long.

And that's it for today! I hope you enjoyed it, I definitely did. Peace out, guys.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi Raven! Besterd fox maen is comin' XD

Onto the event! Since I know it'll happen, gonna beat everyone to it: Headcanons about Tsum!Fellow and possibly a Tsum!Giddle~?

Curiouser and Curiouser.

Fellow Honest

What’s this? A marketable (and sentient) plushie made in his own likeness? Of course Fellow’s going to nab his tsum self and try to auction it off for a quick buck! … But somehow, it always comes back to him and an angry customer comes with it, accusing him of scamming them.

Other scams Fellow and his tsum pull together include him distracting a target while the tsum fishes in their pockets for valuables, running a roadside show (come watch the tsum bounce and twirl its cane), and selling a spell that brings inanimate objects to life (pretending to demonstrate with the tsum). They walk away with a decent amount of cash for their efforts.

Tsum!Fellow has the smallest pair of glasses you ever did see. It doesn’t always wear them, but whenever it does you notice it is trying to read a teeny tiny book upside down and lecture.

Tsum!Fellow stares at its larger counterpart when he has food on him. Fellow will insist it’s HIS grub and that the tsum should get its own, but soon enough he caves and breaks off a small piece for his little buddy to enjoy with him.

Like Fellow, the tsum loves apples! If you give it a fresh fruit, it’ll zoom around it in circles, shaving away at the flesh until there’s nothing left but the core. (Epel has deemed it an apple-eatin’ termite.)

Normally the tsum is docile but it puffs up at anger when it’s looked down on (particularly by rich or influential people). When that happens, tsum!Fellow swells really big and proceeds to crush foes with its great size.

Tsum!Fellow knows how to make a quick getaway. When there’s someone chasing after it, it throws sand or dirt (or even confetti or glitter from under its hat) in their face before skedaddling. It’s not above using cheap tactics if it nets results!

Tsum!Fellow gets all sparkly-eyed when it sees a stage, whether it’s on TV or it’s a real one. It gets excited and tries to hop on to put on a performance of its own!

There’s something a little childish and carefree about tsum! Fellow. It loves hitching rides in pockets or on heads, treating them like their own amusement park rides. It also loves seating itself on toy traits, boats, and cares, imagining itself traveling the world and having grand adventures!

Tsum!Fellow is quick to cozy up to anyone it thinks will benefit it. For this reason, you’ll see it snuggling up to dorm leaders, the staff, the headmaster, even you! It nuzzles against your hand and makes puppy-dog eyes until you melt in its flimsy hands.

While Fellow mends his suit and pants, tsum!Fellow likes to dive in the fabric and swim around in it. It gets in the way of his work, so Fellow fishes the tsum out and appoints it the role of being his pincushion. (The tsum is very grumpy about this and they get into a whole squabble about it.)

Gidel

It’s rare to see tsum!Gidel by itself. It’s normally tagging along with tsum!Fellow as a minion or a helper in some of its tricks. If the two are ever separated, they’ll both appear slightly distressed and will try to seek the other out.

It’s curious about so many things. Tsum!Gidel bounces around in a hyperactive manner, making it quite difficult to contain. It displays a special interest in school, hopping among stacks of books and forgotten pencils, scaling them to see how high up it vanishes climb.

Gidel and his tsum self can communicate effectively, despite neither of them being able to speak. They’re great about reading body language and anticipating what’s to come next from the other. It’s almost like they’re finishing each other’s sandwiches sentences.

Tsum!Gidel is very clumsy. It’s a normal occurrence for it to fall onto its face or to roll and roll until it makes contact with something sturdy. It doesn’t quite have its footing down yet…

Of course, it comes with its own little hammer! The hammer seems light and makes a little squeaky sound when tsum!Gidel bonks the back of your hand with it.

When the tsum gets scared, it scurries into Gidel’s oversized sleeves. It won’t come back out again until it’s completely sure the danger has passed. (Occasionally you’ll see it poking its round little head out and checking the area.)

It attempts to tie Gidel’s laces for him since they’re tend to be loose. Unfortunately, the tsum ends up getting knotted in the laces and Gidel has to spend 20 minutes untangling the poor thing!

Gidel didn’t realize the tsum was sentient at first. He popped it into his mouth thinking it was a bread roll or a fancy marshmallow. The tsum had to squirm and fight for its life to escape the jaws of death!

They’re study buddies! Gidel and his tsum copy down letters of the alphabet together, then exchange notebooks and check each others’s work. It’s harder for Gidel to understand tie tsum (maybe on account of the notebook being so small), so he takes the mantle and tutors his new buddy.

Sometimes the tsum takes on a size closer to that of a stuffed plushie. In those instances, Gidel fiercely hugs them close. There’s a comforting sensation in owning an item for just pleasure, not solely for one’s survival—the life that Gidel is so used to.

Tsum!Gidel assumes a bigger form and allows Gidel to use it as a pillow at night. The boy had never been able to sleep on something this squishy and soft—is it really okay for him to fall asleep like this?

[vigilskeep]

hi harker :) your post about the M!American VA for the Inquisitor being underrated & F!British VA being your least favorite had me wondering:

what are your opinions about the deliveries of all 4 VAs? as in, do you think there's some specific areas where each shines and/or falls flat in? or specific character archetypes they play well? (no worries if you don't really have an opinion on this tho ^^)

small disclaimer that i haven’t played the whole game with the majority of these so i am totally open to discussion from those who have

female british VA is my least favourite. like i say she does better in plot moments and i quite like the venom she puts into it when she’s angry but i can’t get over how really gratingly bland she sounds in casual conversation/when asking questions. she did not bring the effort for that and it’s so much of the game that i can’t let it slide. good for upper class characters who are a bit stiff and maybe a little socially inept. though actually, fun to play with f!cadash and probably also f!adaar (haven’t tried it) just because the voice itself by nature puts a different spin on those less traditional backgrounds for it

male british VA is okay! another posh one. he always sounds a little wry and amused, which comes off kind of emotionally disengaged. which is good in light scenes and for a certain type of character, but when the feelings should actually hit and he should get angry or upset, a lot of the time i don’t think it quite connects

american female VA is... also okay. i really like the basic sound of the voice and i think it’s very versatile in terms of character type. i also don’t think it had any super amazing moments that stuck in my memory to come to mind. kind of the opposite of the british female VA’s strengths and weaknesses i guess? but can i say i really dislike the assumption in some fan spaces that this voice is only usable for dwarves and qunari as if the actress isn’t literally a human woman like 😭 so weird. i loved her as my lavellan. to me, generally suits a more cool and experienced character

american male VA is easily the best experience i’ve had so far. listening to him do casual conversations is like... wow he is truly the only one of these four who showed up to work every day and actually performed rather than simply reading the lines off the script lmao. he comes off a little more gruff/aggressive overall imo. i do find his deep voice weird coming out of a tiny elven frame if you’re going for a lavellan but it’s not that strange. i still can’t fucking believe he’s zevran

overall i do not think the voice acting is that good in inquisition and i don’t think it’s the fault of the voice actors. from the way lines are often slightly misread compared to what it feels like the line’s intent must have been, or are sometimes just tonally bizarre for the scene, i get the impression the cast had very little direction and were left to do a lot of guesswork on their own

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I am politely asking for a bit more on Königs son the angst is so yummy 🥺

König loves his baby boy... Until it starts to talk.

He absolutely adores the baby when it’s born, he can’t sleep at nights because he has to go and check if the boy is still breathing in the crib. König loves to hold him close and rock him in his lap, wants to give him baths and even changes the diapers, is so invested in the little chubby nugget that it’s a bit perplexing to see him so babbly cuddly towards someone who isn’t this poor Prince’s mother.

But when the boy doesn’t need him so much anymore, when he starts to show independence and express his own will, starts to walk and run and hide and talk back to him, it makes König uncomfortable.

He’s not in control anymore, he’s not needed. He’s the one who’s always away, he’s the unfamiliar face, the stern voice, the “strange man”, the one who makes the boy look angry or afraid. He becomes the bad guy.

It’s not bullying if his own son doesn’t prefer him, König knows it. But it still hurts to feel like an alien in his own home. It feels like a personal insult to be the last choice once again.

König’s son sees his father as a judge, a tyrant, a competitor because every time he’s home, mum’s all hearts and smiles. The parent who’s supposed to represent the whole world to our Prince suddenly becomes weak and clingy and needy.

And for what? For some big foreign man who stares him down as if he’s nothing but dirt under his boot. Asks him if he’s been nice to mum and if he’s helped her with the chores. When mum’s not in hearing distance, König tells him he shouldn’t trouble her with his crying and whining... If he’s nice and behaves, König will bring him toys from his “work trips”.

He rarely brings any because “he couldn't find anything”. Mum is the one who gets foreign delicacies, perfumes and the like. König’s son soon understands it doesn't matter how well he behaves because it will never be enough.

In his dreams, he tries to kill König every now and then. The old bastard only laughs. He laughs, even in his dreams because he’s weaker than him, not a threat at all, only entertaining when he gets mad… He laughs and just won't die.

Mum comes first, always. Whatever she says is the law. Whatever she wants, she shall have. The way his father worships this woman is eerie, disturbing, and invokes so much jealousy that König’s son is not sure who he’s even supposed to be jealous of. This stupid fucker or his mum who seems to lose brain cells every time this dick returns home and disturbs their peace?

Girls are both Madonnas and whores to him after he has watched this tyrant become a babbling, spineless mess over an upset woman. The world quakes everytime his mum is unhappy because her happiness is paramount. The only time he has seen König in tears was when his mum refused to talk to him one evening: the argument was about him, of course, and how König should apologize to their son, not to her. It takes manipulation and a passive aggressive lioness to make König say he’s sorry, but it does nothing to help the situation, quite the contrary. Who would give a fuck about a forced apology?

König’s son becomes a covert people pleaser who feels lonely wherever he goes. He’s a mama’s boy whose father seemingly hates him, an angel and a demon in one man, someone who believes his worth is measured by the things he achieves in life. How well he performs, how much money he makes, how independent he becomes. With women, another one always bites the dust, with work, he never seems to find his passion. And wherever he goes, whatever he does, nothing is ever enough.

The only way for these two to find a common ground is if the poor Prince manages to settle down with some patient, loving woman who gives him a child. A grandson or a granddaughter would make König fold and become a babbling mess once more; he's so pathetic and harmless with the baby that no one can be angry at him even if they wanted to. König would kill anyone and everyone who tried to hurt his family, even a blind man can see that.

Reconciliation happens slowly but surely, even if it's another kind of hurt to see the old man give this child all the love his son would've begged his knees bloody for. But beggars can't be choosers (and apparently a king's son has no crown), luckily König becomes softer in the head as he ages so a time may come when he thinks back on what he's done and finds the balls to wholeheartedly apologize. Might demand a touching family Christmas dinner and some whiskey though.

[covetyou]

🤭 reader is def borrowing condoms from Dieter (she spent so long debating with herself but she also really wanted Frankies dick). But would Dee be curious and follow to see who she's with? 👀 Maybe try to invite himself to join, or hang out outside the trailer? 🥵💦

Would this morally dubious clown follow someone to watch 'em do the nasty? I think we all know the answer here 😌

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Frankie Morales x fat contortionist f!reader (x Dieter Bravo) rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: voyerism, jealousy, bi Dieter, protected PIV, recreational drug use/reference, Max Phillips makes another cameo word count: 1.2k summary: When the trailer's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'.

A/N: Dieter's POV. takes place after for one night only and fools just wanna have fun.

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Bravo had evaded Max by the skin of his teeth - no sooner had his trailer door shut behind him, running around the back pulling his pants over his dick and balls, and Max was there in the clearing, shouting bloody murder for him before pounding on the door. Before any more inaccurate accusations and threats to his life could be made, Bravo the Clown had snuck away into the night, seething.

This was his night ruined.

The condoms were one thing, but this being a family friend show? Psh, his ass it was. He watched greased up men sliding against each other on the regular, and there was that married couple who practically eye fucked each other whenever they performed. Not to mention you, Sparkles, with your ass hanging out every show as you twisted and bulged and looked so damn sinful he'd had more than one back stage wank over the years. Nothing he did was any less family friendly than that and yet here he was, getting chased down by an angry mob of one simply for wanting to relax a little before a show. And maybe a bit during too.

And after, not forgetting the joint still clutched in his fingers. He'd have to find somewhere more discreet to smoke it now that he had Max hot on his ass, but first he needed a light. His was still on the floor of his trailer, because of you.

Maybe that's why he finds himself walking toward your trailer, it being your fault he's currently without a light after all. He knows you like those stupid little candles, a complete fire hazard in a place like this if you ask him - one knock and the whole polyester spectacle is going up in a cloud of sequins and smoke. It's not at all because he knows what you're doing in there, without him. Not at all. He respects you. He could absolutely, totally leave you to your privacy.

It's not his fault if he's concerned for your safety when he hears your incoherent screams from some way away. He's not going to knock of course, but it doesn't hurt to just check in through the window, does it? It's what any good friend would do. A little rocking trailer should never deter anyone from checking in on their friends.

Okay, so maybe it's rocking quite a bit by the time he gets there, sneaking under one window to get to another he knows is right by your bed. Your screaming and moaning is even louder here, right by the open window. He can hear a wet slapping noise too, and before he lets his imagination run wild, he pokes his head up to look in through the open window and straight at the spectacle in front of him.

And holy fuck, it doesn't disappoint.

You're getting absolutely rammed from behind, your thighs jiggling and shaking with each thrust from the man behind you. His face is pinched, staring right down to where he disappears into you over and over, and the rippling of your ass against his thighs. You're scrambling up and down and up again on your forearms as you try, and fail, to take the intensity of it, your voice rising an octave every time he buries himself in you, until he inevitably hits the factory reset and you make a deep, keening groan before starting all over again. Dieter knows that noise - he makes you make that noise. It's the noise you make when your toes curl and you're about to make a mess all over everything. Like right now, your toes curling over and over in a way he's never seen, because he's never seen it from this far away before.

And, fuck, this is jealousy, isn't it? That should be Dieter in there, fucking the ever living daylights out of you. Instead he's stood on the other side of the window looking in at a man that should be him, but is definitely younger and fitter than he is. Still, he doesn't see what this man has on him - messy hair, a little pooch of his belly just like Dieter, scruff on his jaw. Entirely unremarkable, if you ask -

Until that man pulls out fully, unveiling his cock before slamming it home once more.

Suddenly, he's jealous of both of you. Jealous of him for getting to fuck you - and in your trailer too. You'd only ever let him in there once, and it was maybe the most comfortable he'd ever been. And jealous of you for taking that monster of a cock that, quite frankly, should be too much for one person to take. You could take a hand (and a half, on a good day) of course, but fuck, had you never heard about sharing?

Dieter shared his condoms with you, and now you were keeping this all to yourself. What he wouldn't give to be in there, lying next to you as you got fucked to oblivion by this guy you seem to have picked straight from the crowd. He'd quiet your screams with his cock in your mouth, or let you suck on his balls while he waited his turning for a fucking. Even better, he'd lick your pretty cunt while that cock demolished your hole, just so he could taste both of you at once.

Still, the best he can do is watch the condom, his condom, on the man's cock as it slides in and out of you - the closest thing to being between the two of you he'll be - while listening to your screams as they hit a crescendo. Your tits swing beneath you, your belly rippling with the force of the fucking you're receiving. The mans fingers - the asshole - are digging into your plush hips, sinking into the fat there and holding on for dear life, likely leaving bruises that Dieter will have to see for days and try not to get hard about.

The man grunts and groans now, telling you how perfect you are and how hard he's going to come, because you're so, so, so perfect - Dieter fucking knows. He knew it first.

Then, you're coming. Shaking, and moaning, falling forward onto your mattress with your hips still held in the air, making a complete mess of your sheets in the process, screaming Frankie into the air, your trailer positively fucking rattling now as the man - fucking Frankie - finds it in himself to go even harder, battering your cervix so deliciously painfully that he knows your eyes are rolling in your head, even if he can't see them.

And it's over, and everything is still again, and the quiet feels so very loud as you sigh and giggle into fucking Frankie's mouth, and he pulls that massive cock, dripping, out of you and throws away his fucking condom.

His joint is crumpled in his hand, Bravo the Clown's search for a light fucking useless now, just as the symbol of his fucked night falls to the ground outside your trailer ready for you to find in the morning.

Family friendly his ass.

[deliciousbasementtrash]

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist: Dexter Soy

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. You have been asked by Bruce if you are working with the very people he fights against.

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, mentions injuries, sexual language

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part 11: Honesty

“How many villains have you helped in the past? And are you helping them now?”

Everything for me stopped at that moment. Having Bruce’s eyes on me, a certain type of panic filled my chest. I had to mentally remind myself that he was not my father and he was not going to hurt me. That didn’t stop my pulse from racing. It didn’t stop my mouth becoming dry. It didn’t stop the fear that ripped into me so brutally that my hands shook. I picked at the skin around my nails, the stinging pain made me focus. 

I could play dumb, but there was no way Bruce fucking Wayne wouldn’t see right through that. I could deny the accusations and demand to know why he would think that. I could quit and save myself the trouble. 

Or I could do the scariest thing of all… tell the truth. 

Gotham City: 14 Years Ago

I looked across the table at a man who didn’t feel human. He felt closer to a demon, a devil, a monster. He felt truly vile. His eyes were dark, empty, and joyless. He had a smile carved into his face, but I knew it would never meet his eyes. It took everything in me to remain neutral and heal him. 

He had several cuts along his arms, but they were in various positions, various angles, and various lengths. They were random. 

The creature must have noticed me staring, “Little girl, ask me how I got these cuts!” His voice was shrill, and he cackled when he noticed I flinched. When I didn’t say anything he laughed harder. His hand snaked out faster than I could pull away. He gripped the nape of my neck and pressed his forehead to mine. His skin felt loose and cold. It felt undeniably wrong. His dead eyes stared into mine. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, or blink, or move, or scream. I couldn’t do anything. I was at his mercy, and I knew he had so little of it. 

“I said ask me!” He screamed at me and pressed his forehead harder into mine. 

“H-How d-did you g-get those c-cuts, sir?” I asked, unable to keep my voice from trembling. 

The creature released me. I had to fight the urge to turn around and run away. How could my father leave me alone with this man? He had to know I wasn’t safe. I knew he didn’t care about me, but I thought he would want to at least keep his golden goose alive. 

“The Bat gave me these cuts! He and I, we have a repertoire you see. We enjoy playing cat and mouse. And you see little girl, we like to play rough. It was my turn to be a mouse! Gotta keep the relationship fresh! Would you like to be the mouse or the cat?” 

The question felt like a trap. If I answered mouse he would treat me like prey. If I answered cat he would demand I perform violence to prove myself as a predator. The longer I took thinking about it, the more impatient and angry he got. 

“Neither,” I answered honestly. I willed my tired body to heal him faster. 

“Ah ah,” he tsked, reprimanding me, “that is not part of the game. Pick one.”

I have played mouse my whole life. I was sick of being weak. I was sick of being used. 

“I’d want to be a fucking dragon. Not a cat. Not a mouse. I want to breathe fire so I can tell men like you to fuck off and leave me alone. I want men like you to be scared of me,” the words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. 

The Joker tilted his head like he was seeing me for the first time. He smiled at me and began laughing so hard he wheezed. 

“You have a lot of work to do then, little mouse.”

With that, the clown got up and left. The second he was out of the room it felt like I could breathe again. I swallowed hard. 

Tonight was the night. I couldn’t do it anymore. Despite everything the Joker was the one to finally spur me into action.

I ran to my room and lifted up my loose floorboard. I grabbed the cash I had stolen from the safe. I grabbed my go bag. And I ran. 

Gotham City: Present Day

I told Bruce everything. I told him every minute detail. I told him about my mom, my dad, and everything that happened in my life. 

“So, to answer your questions: I don’t know how many there have been, but it has been a lot. And no, I vowed the day that I ran away that I wouldn’t heal another villain again. And that I would never be– I will never be a pawn for someone else.” I would never be a mouse again.

Bruce stood quickly and moved around his desk. He stood before me large and brooding, and then he knelt. 

“I am so sorry, Y/N. You don’t deserve what has happened to you,” his dark voice became surprisingly soft. “And I am sorry for doubting you.”

I felt my eyes start to burn, and I roughly blinked to rid myself of the potential tears. 

“Does this mean I still have a job here?” I laughed weakly. 

“Yes. I value honesty and loyalty above all else.”

I nodded and rose on shaky legs. I left the room without another word. 

I took the elevator down to the Batcave. My nerves felt frayed and split open after reliving my past with Bruce. I needed a distraction. I needed to hit something. 

The elevator doors split open and revealed that I was not the only one who wanted to get a workout in. Dick and Jason stood in the middle of the training mat. Both were shirtless and sweating as they swung fists at each other. For a moment, all I could do was watch like a wide-eyed pervert. 

Jason’s body was riddled with a myriad of scars. I saw evidence of burns, lacerations, gunshots, and of course… the autopsy scar. Dick also had his fair share of scars but it was about ¼ the amount that Jason had. 

Dick had the body of a gymnast. His muscles were lean and lithe. He was built for fluidity and speed just as much as strength. 

Jason was built like a fucking brick house. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and every inch he was covered in thick roped muscle. His physique looked like he had been carved from marble. He was unforgivingly hard and defined. I couldn’t help myself as I stared longer. Despite his size, he kept up with Grayson. For every punch or kick Dick threw at him Jason ducked or blocked accordingly. When he moved to hit back he put his whole body behind the punch. I could see it in the way his thick thighs and hips rotated.  

Jason landed a particularly hard hit on Dick’s shoulder. Dick winced and held up a hand. 

“First: owe that hurt, jackass. Second: I want a break,” Dick said in a sassy tone that made me snort. 

Instantly, both of the men swiveled their heads toward me. I tried pretending like I wasn’t watching them, but something in the gleam of their eyes told me they knew it… and maybe liked it.

Jason smiled at me so brightly that it made my heart clench. 

“Hey, you. Where did you go?” He asked. 

I approached both the boys, “I had to have a meeting with my boss.”

Dick winced, Jason straightened up. “What did the old bastard want?” Jason asked. 

“Information, as per usual,” I replied. It was hard to focus. Jason was dripping in sweat. A bead had run from his forehead, down his face, and ran over his Adam’s apple. I had to force my eyes back up, so I wouldn’t watch it trail lower. 

Jason smirked at me and took a step forward, “Are you ogling me, Y/L/N?”

I could feel my cheeks heat, “Not at all, Todd. I’m just taking in the physical condition of one of my clients.”

Jason laughed, and leaned forward, “Such a good little nurse, aren’t we?”

I rolled my eyes, “Don’t worry I assessed Grayson just as thoroughly.”

Jason’s eyes darkened slightly, “Oh, I doubt that–”

“Okay well, I feel like an awkward third wheel. I’ll leave you guys to it,” Dick said, as he practically ran into the elevator. Before I could rebut his claim the doors were already shut. 

I returned my focus back to Jason and I saw his eyes trail the burn on my cheek and the bruises on my throat. His demeanor completely changed. He became ramrod straight. Every muscle in his body was tense. Even a muscle in his jaw tightened. 

He ran a finger parallel to the burn, “How are you feeling?”

Like I got my ass kicked, “Fine.”

“Be honest,” he practically growled out. 

“Sore,” that was an understatement but I didn’t feel like voicing my pain. Every time I did that with my father he would just tell me to suck it up and stop being a complainer. 

“You’re more than sore. I know you are.”

I shrugged and that seemed to anger him more. I ignored it and redirected the topic. 

“Spar with me?” It was more of a demand than a question.

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If I missed anyone please let me know <3

Author's note: You guys are so slay, ily all <3 Thank you all so much for your kind words, comments, messages, and interactions!! They inspire me to keep writing. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, thank you again <3

Hashbrown Cam!

[newkatzkafe2023]

You know that scene where Monkey King sniffs one of the elixirs and he turns back into a baby monkey?

What if that were to happen again with a female Y/N but this time, it takes longer for him to turn back to normal? So while your waiting for that to happen, your basically being a mother figure feeding him, playing with him, cuddling him, and just keeping an eye on him to makes sure he doesn’t get himself hurt. I do also see him trying to pick up Stick but it’s too heavy for him so you would have to take Stick away from him for the time being. And when you go to take a nap and baby monkey is nuzzling his face in your chest cuddling you(I also imagined you falling asleep like that and your just combing your fingers through his hair and back), THATS when he turns back to normal and he’s just laying there with his face still in your chest cuddling you trying to process everything.

Too goddamn cute!!!😩💖💖💖

BABIES 🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩

(Lmk Wukong) This is what happens when you don't clean up you crap now. Sun Wukong is a baby again. He spilled an old elixir that he forgot he had. Now he's a baby monkey, a surprisingly quiet baby monkey. He's May be quiet but he is certainly curious And because of that nature he gets lost very easily and you have to go and find him. But it's kind of okay because he makes up for it with a loving nature. When he's back to begin an adult He's super embarrassed about the whole situation when you explain it to him. And your relationship change the bit because of how motherly you were to him. On the brightside You have black mail in the form of baby pictures😈.

(NR Wukong) Man you thought he was a handful as an adult. Now look at him he's a bigger troublemaker as a baby well at least he's cute. He spilled an Elixir and now He's back to being a kid. But he's kind of a sweetheart and has retain some intelligence. He likes to pull pranks and loves to get cuddles and makes you laugh all the time. He does silly performances for you so you would laugh more But you always make sure it's nothing dangerous. When he's an adult He makes you promise not to tell anybody about what happened. Which you agree for his sake What about the baby pictures you took???🤔🤔🤔 Oh well What he doesn't know won't hurt him😏😏😈😈

(HIB Wukong) your really beginning to think that he was always grouchy because look at his face. He was a grouchy baby and picky when it comes to food. If something is not made of certain way he'll accept , he's not gonna eat at all. And sometimes you feel like he's Judging your whole entire existence. But other then that He seems to be more emotionally intelligent at this stage as he quick to conform you, pigsy, or the kids. When he's an adult he avoids the topic until you ask him if he were to want more children which causes him to pass out all over again.

(MKR Wukong) (Oh man I don't know if yall remember that one spongebob episode with the rotten patty in the cage😬) Well This is the best way to describe baby Wukong. He is Mean, Feral and Unpredictable and a absolute nightmare with the monk and The pilgrims. He growls and Bites and Fights and Spit There is no figuring out how to Tame him. Interesting enough the only one he listened to is you. If he gets angry or cause trouble , you come and calm him down and lightly scold , but explain his transgression. So he trust you And looks for your approval. Downside is He is the jealous type and doesn't like other people being around you. Luckily when he becomes an adult The only thing you have to worry about is his Mood swings.

(Netflix Wukong) OH LORD HE' SO CUTE!!!! But man, is he clingy. Now he was messing around and spilling something magical and weird. He's a handful, and quite Destructive that's for sure, but he usually uses his Cuteness and innocence to wiggle his way out of a punishment. You still scold and Reprimand him but he never did anything serious our very bad So you never did more than that. When he Gets back to normal He begs and plead you not to tell anybody about what happened. Which is fine and all But how do you tell him, that after everything you want to have Cubs???😥🤔🤫

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG👼

[pianokantzart]

Something I love about the Mario movie is how is basically squashed any kind of ideas of Luigi being jealous of Mario from the get go that fans have come up/theorized throughout the years.

The whole “Luigi is jealous and tired of living in Mario’s shadow” has no leg to stand on when it comes to this movie.

In fact, Luigi is actively the one singing praises towards Mario, he knows that his brother dreams big and has a big heart, he knows his brother is amazing and he loves him for that.

Does he have low self esteem? Absolutely. But there is absolutely not a single bit of jealousy/envy towards Mario, Luigi loves and adores him far too much to ever be jealous and angry at Mario, someone who means the absolute world to him.

Oh don't you get me started.

Too late, I’ve gotten started. YOU ARE SO RIGHT. The movie did to theories that Luigi's “bitter and jealous” what it did to theories that Mario’s an antisocial asshat.

There are two things I can point to that are to blame for the theories that Luigi is bitter and jealous:

The description of his Negative Zone final smash from Super Smash Bros. Brawl:

"Luigi's final smash. As exotic music plays, he performs a dance befitting a sorcerous incantation. A barrier envelopes him, negatively impacting all in his area. Random effects include getting launched, sleeping, moving in slow motion, tripping, fainting, and losing attack power. This technique is a reflection of the dark side he embraced in his brother's shadow."

2. His characterization in Paper Mario

But there’s like… almost 40 years of games to glean from. You can literally pick and choose whatever you want to form any sort of theory (like a certain internet man did when arguing that Mario is an animal abusing sociopath). But 99% of the games show about as much evidence that Luigi is bitter as they do that Mario is a bad person– none at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

As for Paper Mario, it's the only time Luigi is directly characterized as envious... NOT jealous. He still loves his brother and sees him as worthy of the praise he gets, but he feels bad being stuck at home, and desperately wants to be brought along for the adventure– to have his opportunity in the limelight. But Paper Mario is kind of its own thing, established to be a separate universe from the mainline Mario games. In the Super Mario Brothers RPGs– which delve deeper into the bros character while remaining more aligned with the classic "canon"– the dynamic is quite the opposite! Mario dives headfirst into danger while Luigi desperately avoids it unless there is no other choice. In Super Mario Brothers Superstar Saga he tries his darndest to not be taken along for the adventure, confident that his brother can handle the task.

But one consistent across the Mario games is Luigi being the underdog of all underdogs; unlucky and clumsy, the butt of the joke, and constantly undermined. Naturally this causes people to get defensive of him– get angry for him, and project their feelings onto the character himself.

But tHEN WE HAVE THE MOVIE!!!!

Nintendo is given a chance to craft Mario and Luigi into fully fleshed-out characters with motivations and backstories, not just plucky videogame personalities for people to project themselves into, and boy oh BOY did they knock it out of the park.

While Mario is still a headstrong hero with a never-say-die attitude and a heart of gold, everything he does is for his brother. Mario has insecurities about feeling small and wants to prove himself to his father, but in the end his love for Luigi is his main motivator. Mario can handle being threatened, made fun of, and told he’s crazy, but if you want to truly hurt him, tell him his actions are hurting his brother. Try hurting Luigi directly, and Mario will tear you a new one.

In return, everything Luigi does is for Mario! Lu’s not the willful ball of determination and gusto that his brother is– he has always been nervous, softhearted, and sensitive, which is why he lets his brother lead the way. Luigi’s not living in Mario’s shadow, he’s thriving off of his confidence! He recognizes Mario as his best friend and greatest source of strength, and will follow him absolutely anywhere.

There is no sense of Mario being treated like the beloved star of the show while Luigi gets the short end of the stick. They are both downtrodden, both learning, and both dependent on each other. It's not just Super Mario, it's the Super Mario Brothers, who equally inspire each other to be the best version of themselves.

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Prompt request- 6 and 18?

6. Why are you completely drenched?

18. Is he always like this?

I hope you like this!💜

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

The store was quiet tonight. Usually, it was filled with young teens trying to decide what movie to watch or young couples in search of a good flick to put on. Now, it was quiet. The only noise audible was the static coming from the dozen television screens showing clips from several movies.

It was weird for it to be so quiet on a Friday night, but in all honesty, I couldn't really be bothered. Maybe if it stayed this quiet, I could go home early and have some time for myself. I sighed as I leaned on the counter, staring at the boardwalk. The sign on the door clearly said open - on the right side, I checked that one twice already - and even the door was propped open. The boardwalk itself was quite busy, but hardly anyone even looked towards the store. I sighed as I flipped through a magazine, finding the reason: some big-time artist was performing down the beach. That explained a lot. It would also mean that afterwards it would get busy.

"Jesus, you look like a walking depression!"

I looked up with an annoyed glare. Paul stood in the doorway, blocking any potential customer from entering.

"I do not. I look like an exhausted and bored customer service worker."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

I laughed, causing him to grin. He stepped into the store, a loud sloshing sound following him with every step he took. I frowned, looking at him.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." He shrugged. I looked at him, then at his clothes and realised in the bright light of the store that he was soaking wet.

"Why are you completely drenched?" I asked, slightly panicking. Max would not be happy with this...

"I fell in the ocean."

"You fell? In the ocean?"

He nodded, jumping up to sit on the counter. I quickly pushed him off, earning an annoyed 'Hey!'.

"No, listen - you get the whole store wet, and I am the one that gets to clean it and gets to deal with an angry Max."

"He wouldn't get angry with you."

"He would, Paul. Either get out of the store or help dry everything off."

"I'll go!"

With that, he left, leaving a long wet trail behind. I sighed as I searched in the back for a mop and a bucket. That asshole. Sure, I was no longer bored, but I preferred being bored over cleaning up someone else's mess. I found the mop in the corner of the broomcloset and made my way back out on the floor. With an annoyed and tired sigh, I got to work, quickly cleaning up the wet footprints.

"Have you seen Paul?"

I jumped, almost kicking the bucket I'd used to empty the mop in over the floor. David stood in front of me.

"Hold on," I said as I grabbed the bucket and placed it on the counter, quickly calming myself down. It was a miracle how someone who wore that kind of boots could make so little noise.

"Well?"

"Yeah. He was here."

"What did he do this time?"

He must have picked up on my mood - although that wasn't that difficult to do. I motioned towards the - clean - wet floor and the mop leaning against the counter.

"Is he always like this?" I asked. Surely, he wasn't, right?

"Chaotic and an asshole?"

"You said it, not me."

"He is."

I nodded. It was good to know that I wasn't anything personal anyway.

"He's also very adamant to visit you every night."

"I see all of you each night." I countered - they always came in to bother Max.

"He comes in for you."

"Why?"

"Ask him. Not my thing to tell."

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "You're just as much an asshole as he is, you know that?"

David just grinned, a sudden unpredictability in his eyes. "I'm worse, darling."

I shivered. "Well, if you do find Paul, could you tell him to come back?"

David nodded as he lit a cigarette. I decided not to mention anything about it. That was a Max problem - if he didn't want anyone to smoke in his store, he should enforce that rule with the most problematic customers, and not the customer service worker working for a minimum wage.

He left the store, and I finished cleaning up Paul's mess. It got me wondering, though, why was he so adamant about coming here each night and talking to me? None of the other boys really paid much attention, but Paul? Besides the obvious tomfoolery in his act, he was quite sweet. One time, he'd gotten me dinner when he realised I forgot to eat. He always checked up on me, even stepped in one time when I had a difficult customer. And I always did like to see him. It did cheer me up. It did make me feel more relaxed. So, I thought to myself, if he comes in here and I ask him why and he tells me he likes me - maybe I actually like him too?

[thisismeracing]

King of my heart | extras | Mick defending Yn from a mean journalist

Summary: Mick has media duties with Mercedes this week and one of the tasks happened to be a podcast interview with a new F1 show. They also happened to mention Yn, but Mick did not like the way they talked about her, and he wasn't about to let someone downplay her during a live interview, not in front of him.

Word count: 1.4k (got carried away again, sorry lol)

A/n: @flowerchild-96 sent me this idea, bringing up a scenario about Mick defending Yn. I did some adaptations, and voila, here you go, yet another Komh extra. I hope you guys like it, even if it's a bit different from the original idea. And thank you, Flower, for requesting this piece <3

A/n2: This is set when Mick and Yn are already together.

A/n3: This can be read as a stand-alone, but it's better when you've read the series.

Warnings: curse words; angry!mick; typos - not proofread.

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Mick is tired.

He’s been doing Sim work every spare time he got, and some days it went as far as him staying until after midnight in the factory. Add this to the fact that he hasn’t been seeing Yn that much, she’s been busy with work as well, and most of the time they’re getting are during the weekends when all eyes are on them.

No-Yn and no sleep have proven to be a very stressful combination, so maybe that’s the reason why he found himself trying as hard as possible not to be rude or dry on his answers. It was work, it doesn’t matter if he had been asked the same question thousands of times, just the other day, or the minute prior, he had to answer it as if it was brand new, and he had to be polite, that last part was on his nature. 

However, defending those he loves is also in his nature, and Mick's ears perk up when one of the guys, Jack, mentions Yn.

He doesn’t know how the guy managed to bring her up when the topic was cars and the last performance Mercedes had, and Mick tries his best to keep his expression neutral, first because he doesn’t want to be rude, and second, because it’s a live podcast. The cameras are on him, just like the big microphone is in front of his face, half of the fans are probably watching the live, and the other half that is not will surely watch it soon. They will analyze every move he makes, and the last thing Mick wants is to bring more attention to his family and friends. 

“We saw recently that Lewis’ sister is attending races as well,” that itself was already problematic considering they had just talked with the Merc media manager and she listed the subjects that could not be brought up, Yn was there, of course. She didn’t want that kind of attention, and everyone always did their best to keep her safe and respect her wishes. It was even more infuriating when Jack kept going, “Do you think she distracts the crew by being in the garage? Would you say she’s a liability to Lewis or more like a lucky charm?” 

Oh, and didn’t Mick finally understand the saying “he was so angry, he saw red”, because he quite literally had to close his eyes after the whole question was sputtered. 

How the fuck did that guy came up with such a shitty thing to say? 

Mick saw how the second host was embarrassed for his mate, he saw the way the Mercedes PR manager eyed him a bit taken aback, he saw and heard everything, yet his mind did not think twice before putting his body to action. His brows furrowed, the blank expression he had quickly turned into one of unlucky surprise and anger.

“Excuse me?” Mick eyed the mand up and down before letting out a humorless chuckle. “Is this supposed to be a bad joke or?” 

“I was just thinking, because Lewis’s sister is-”

Mick interrupted before Jack could go any further and make him angrier, “I think the first problem with your question is that you keep referring to Yn as “Lewis’ sister” when she has a name and had a career before their relationship as siblings were outed in the media. It is stupidity to resume her as Lewis’ sister and only that. Yn is a talented and famous business woman, she has her own brand, and she made her connections without needing to use her surname,” he’s so angry he could go on all day, he sees the way the Mercedes PR seems to struggle on what to think about his words, sees the way Jack starts to get red, and franquily Mick just wanted to tell that guy to fuck off and leave that interview, but he had to make his point clear, and he would defend Yn. To hell with media and the outcome of it all. So mick went on, “Yn was Yn before Lewis. It’s different with me because I came after my father, we were tied since forever, and everyone knew it, but Yn got famous without anyone knowing she had Hamilton bloog, she used her mother’s name, she kept herself from publicly interacitng with her brother and celebrating all his wins, she sacrificed a lot, so don’t come to me and talk about her erasing all her work and effort to get where she is now. Put some respect on her name.” 

“You seem a bit stressed about the way I voiced it, I’m sorry.” 

“Of course. We’re talking about my friend, and even if she wasn’t a friend, it’s insensitive to talk about someone like this in a live broadcast when that someone did nothing wrong and it’s not even here to defend herself.”

Jack coughed a bit embarrassed, and the second host could only smile awkwardly, “We’re really sorry, Mick. Jack just happens to be a huge Lewis fan so it’s always ‘Lewis this and Lewis that’ he ends up forgetting everyone else,” he gulped and tried to downplay it.

Mick directed his narrowed eyes to his water bottle, opened it and took a swing before nodding briefly. He was done with that interview, and he knew everyone else were too. It only took three more questions, not so rude as the last one – thankfully, for the podcast episode to be finished. He kept his cool, but Mick knew his expression was probably still uninterested and annoyed, his body language sure showed how his guard was up, arms crossed on top of the table, head tilted as if waiting for Jack to try and mess with his girl again, as if silently daring them to even mention Yn’s name. 

When it was over, Mick had a brief talk with the Merc PR who told him that she personally loved how he stood up for Yn, and reassured him that they would work a plan so that the podcast interview didn’t spill more on Yn or him.

The drive to the hotel was quick, however, his head was pounding, his body tense, it was as if his tiredness had doubled the size after the events. Immediately upon getting inside the elevator he decided to go to Yn’s room instead of his, Mick did not take the time to think that maybe she was sleeping, or busy, at least not until he buzzed her room. Just as he was aabout to pretend he never set a foot on her floor, Yn opened the door. 

“Hey, mouse,” she breathed, a small smile in the corner of her plush lips. 

Mick felt his body melt, half of its tension dissipating with just one look at her angelical face. Yn was wearing one of his shirts, part of her curls messily tied on top of her head.

“Hey,” he faltered, still not sure if it was the best idea to ring her bell without a warning. 

“Are you gonna keep staring at me?” Yn bantered, reaching for his hand and bringing him inside before closing her door. 

The hotel room smelled like her. Her perfume, her lotion, her hair products. Mick closed his eyes, took another deep breath trying to see if the her scent would caml him a bit more. 

“I’m sorry-”

“It feels nice to be your friend-” 

They said at the same time and it was a only a beat before both were laughing. Yn’s word were clearly a joke about how he said she was his friend. She had watched everything, and she didn’t seem mad about his outburst. Mick felt partly responsible for how the media was digging up her life after they were seem together, and he knew this interview would probably give them more amno to keep going about “mickyn”, he was relieved Yn seemed to pay no mind to it at the moment. 

“I think I talked too much out there, I’m sorry, babe,” Mick started, but Yn shook her head. She got on her tip toes, hands going around Mick’s neck, his face now only inches from hers.

“Thank you for standing up for me,” she whispered, and he gripped her waist bringing her body close and hugging her, his head on the crook of her neck, her hands playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “It’s great to be friends with you, just please make sure I’m the only one who can do this,” Yn joked when Mick faced her, and smashed their lips together in a tender, but also giddy kiss. 

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