#it simply IS an invitation to read into it.

[dekariosclan]

First of all, thanks for your sweet, informative and entertaining thoughts on Gale you keep sharing with us! I love reading them!

Sooooo... how do you think Gale would handle jealousy between spouse-Tav and Tara? After all, not every Tav felt instant love for Tara and vice versa, as can be seen at the Epilogue Party (which I found hilarious personally!)

Thank you!! I’m delighted to get to answer an ask about Taaaaarraaaaaaa! 🥹

I’m assuming everyone is aware of what happens during the rooftop meeting if Tav rudely decides to take the missing letters from Tara without asking?

I’m mentioning this not to throw any shade on Tara (I’m on her side—you want to act rude and steal from Tara?! Get burnt) but because Gale’s response is, I think, a perfect summary of how he would respond to any jealousy between the two:

(side note—as a cat owner myself, I can also confirm this is 1000% the most cat tressym owner thing to say, ever 😂)

I think that Gale, upon seeing a hint of jealousy from either one, would be desperate to not take sides and would try his utmost to cheerfully smooth out any tension between them. After all, he cherishes these two! His best friend since he was a child, and the love of his life. Surely he can help them see eye-to-eye?!

There might be more than one discussion over dinner, in which Gale mentions how “Tav was admiring your wings yesterday, Tara,” or “Tara was saying you did an excellent job organizing some of my rather scattered potion bottles, Tav.” Of course all of these discussions, productive or not, will end with: “And for the last time, Tara, no, I will not be shaving this beard, no it’s not because Tav likes it, its because I myself like it—”

But I also think any Tav that truly deserves to be with Gale would be decent and good-hearted enough that they wouldn’t be jealous of Tara—or at least, not for very long. Because it takes very little for Tara to be accepting of Tav! At the epilogue party, if Tav invites Tara for some tea and reassures her that she will still get to be in Gale’s life, Tara warms up immediately. Gale is her “little love,” after all. How could any Tav that loves Gale deny him that? 💜

It’s actually my personal HC that Tav and Tara are not only not jealous of each other, but actually become fast friends and bond over something that I think Gale would be somewhat chagrined about: their shared dislike of Mystra.

Imagine the commentary. The sly digs against the Goddess anytime she’s mentioned in conversation. Tara flatly stating she finds Mystra’s style ‘gaudy’. The snickering. The way that the small Mystra statue in Gale’s study mysteriously ends up broken on the floor. Gale suspiciously asking “What are you two whispering about?” and being assured it’s nothing, merely discussing the weather!

…Gale’s earring then somehow disappearing from his nightstand—where he’d placed it for just an instant!—and ending up in Tara’s litterbox.

“Oh dear, Mister Dekarios!” The delight obvious in Tara’s voice. “However did that happen? Well, we’ll simply have to get you a new one, dear.”

“Yes indeed!” Tav nodding vigorously. Smiling widely. “Clearly this was an accident, of course, so you can’t be mad at Tara, Gale. Shall we go shopping for one now?”

And Gale, his gaze bouncing suspiciously between the two of them, both looking absolutely delighted with each other, thinking that perhaps it would have been better if they’d remained enemies.

[metamatar]

look the distress described by joan didion on website favourite essay on self respect is very real, and she describes this distress of not respecting yourself with a very unsparing clarity so i really enjoy reading it for the prose. but her prescriptions are so rooted in a reactionary nostalgia that endorses the valorisation of western civilization – so much so that she describes the entirety of indigenous peoples as interchangeable with "obstacles" in your life. she locates the construction of self respect pretty directly in empire building and settler colonialism.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-year-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: "Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke about it." Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, "fortunately for us," hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnée.

In one guise or another, Indians always are.

i've highlighted the settler colonialism of this passage. "chinese" gordon here was a british colonial administrator often invited by various colonial powers to help settle unrest – king leopold of belgium actually had him hired to go to congo, that infamous site of colonial butchery but he ended up dying in khartoum before that. the very construction of his heroism is in his defence of khartoum as a british outpost against a religious - nationalist uprising that the empire actually wanted to pull out of.

[novaursa]

To Win a Princess (stolen moments)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: watchful

- Next part: coming to light

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The festival of the Mother has come to life within the walls of the Red Keep, filling its halls and courtyards with laughter, music, and the scent of burning incense. Lanterns of every color line the pathways, casting a warm, golden glow that flickers against the stone. Nobles and commoners alike have gathered to celebrate, each bowing their heads in respect to the deity, their offerings placed upon the shrines scattered throughout the grounds. It’s an evening of reverence, but beneath the surface, the usual courtly games continue, hidden by smiles and honeyed words.

Amid the throng, Tyland finds himself watching you. Across the courtyard, your laughter mingles with the music, your face illuminated by the lantern light. Though you’re surrounded by your handmaidens and other lords and ladies, there’s an unmistakable spark of joy in your eyes, a warmth that makes you shine brighter than the festival lights themselves. And for a moment, Tyland allows himself the indulgence of simply watching you, feeling his heart stir in a way that has become all too familiar.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, you look up, your eyes meeting his across the distance. It’s a fleeting glance, subtle enough to escape the notice of others, but to Tyland, it feels like an unspoken invitation. The corner of your lips lifts in a small, private smile, and before he can even process it, you turn and slip quietly into the shadows beyond the courtyard.

Tyland’s heart quickens. With a murmur of polite excuses to those around him, he slips away, weaving through the crowd with a practiced ease. The festive sounds of music and laughter grow softer as he moves into the quieter, more secluded corridors of the Red Keep. He knows the paths you likely took, the hidden alcoves and winding halls where you would wait for him. He’s barely rounded the corner when he hears footsteps behind him—footsteps that are too firm, too purposeful to belong to you.

Turning, he comes face-to-face with Daemon.

Daemon stands there with his usual nonchalant arrogance, arms crossed, his gaze holding a glint of amusement. “Well, well, Tyland. I didn’t take you for a man who would abandon a festival so soon. The Mother’s blessings are still being celebrated, after all.”

Tyland composes himself quickly, his face falling back into its usual impassive mask. “Prince Daemon,” he greets, inclining his head in respect, though his tone remains guarded. “I was simply taking a moment to find some air. The festivities can be… stifling at times.”

Daemon’s smirk deepens, a hint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “Ah, I see. Though from where I stood, it seemed like you had your eyes on something—or someone—quite specific.”

Tyland’s expression doesn’t falter, though there’s a slight tension in his jaw. “I have no idea what you mean, my prince.”

Daemon chuckles, a low, knowing sound that seems to reverberate through the empty hall. “Come now, Tyland. We are both men of the court. We both know how to read a glance… and yours was quite telling.”

Tyland meets Daemon’s gaze evenly, refusing to let himself be intimidated. “Forgive me if you read something that wasn’t there, my prince. My concerns are only for the well-being of House Lannister and the realm.”

Daemon steps closer, his gaze sharpening, probing, as though he can see through Tyland’s carefully constructed facade. “House Lannister, the realm… noble causes, certainly. But tell me, Tyland, do they account for the look you shared with my niece?” He pauses, his smirk widening as he watches the briefest flicker of reaction in Tyland’s eyes. “Or was that glance merely… incidental?”

Tyland holds Daemon’s gaze, his tone calm but firm. “I hold Princess Y/N in the highest regard. As any nobleman would.”

Daemon’s smile turns cold, predatory. “Ah, but I suspect your regard goes beyond mere nobility, doesn’t it?”

Tyland doesn’t respond immediately, choosing his words carefully. “My respect for Princess Y/N is nothing that should concern the prince, surely.”

Daemon lets out a laugh, one that’s sharp and mirthless. “Oh, but it does concern me. You see, she is my blood, and I have a keen interest in those who seek to move close to her.”

There’s a beat of silence, charged with unspoken warnings. Tyland takes a steadying breath, refusing to let Daemon unsettle him. “I would never wish anything but the best for her,” he replies, his voice firm, carrying a weight of sincerity that seems to temper Daemon’s amusement, if only slightly.

Daemon’s eyes narrow, his smile fading as his gaze turns calculating. “The best for her… that’s precisely the issue, isn’t it? Because what is best for her, Tyland? Is it a quiet life away from schemes and ambitions, or is it someone who can protect her from them?”

“I would never let any harm come to her,” Tyland replies quietly, his voice carrying an edge of protectiveness that does not go unnoticed by Daemon.

“Good.” Daemon steps back, his posture relaxed once more, though his gaze remains cold and assessing. “I’ll take you at your word… for now. But remember, Tyland, Y/N is family. And family, to me, is something worth protecting—by any means necessary.”

The threat, though unspoken, lingers heavy in the air between them. Tyland inclines his head, his tone steady. “I understand perfectly, my prince.”

Daemon’s smirk returns, though it’s devoid of humor. “Then we’ll have no trouble, will we?”

Without waiting for an answer, he strides past Tyland, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. Tyland watches him go, feeling the anxiety thrumming in his veins, the weight of Daemon’s unspoken threat settling heavily upon him.

Once he’s certain Daemon has gone, Tyland continues down the corridor, his steps quickening as he reaches the hidden alcove where he knows you wait. His heart pounds as he rounds the final corner, and there you are, standing in the soft glow of the candlelight, a hint of a smile on your lips as you see him.

“Tyland,” you murmur, relief and warmth in your voice as you reach for his hand.

He takes it, pulling you close, his face burying in the curve of your neck as he lets out a shaky breath. The warmth of your embrace soothes the stiffness Daemon left in his chest, grounding him in a way that only you can. For a moment, he says nothing, simply holding you, letting the comfort of your presence wash over him.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes meet yours, a flicker of worry there. “Your uncle… intercepted me on my way here.”

You frown, concern shadowing your face. “What did he say?”

“Nothing direct,” Tyland murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “But he knows… or at least, he suspects.”

Your gaze softens, a faint smile playing on your lips as you cup his face, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Let him suspect. He cannot prove anything.”

Tyland’s eyes close briefly, his voice filled with quiet determination. “If he ever threatens you, Y/N—if he ever even tries—I will not stand aside.”

You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, a silent reassurance in the gentle touch. “I know, Tyland. But he does not scare me.” Your voice softens, becoming a whisper. “No one could keep me from you.”

The words wrap around him like a promise, and he pulls you closer, feeling the world fall away as he kisses you. In this moment, beneath the flickering glow of the candlelight, with the festival of the Mother echoing faintly beyond the walls, nothing else matters. Not Daemon, not Otto, not even the shadow of the court’s prying eyes.

Only you.

His hands find your waist, fingers curling possessively, and he pulls you close, capturing your mouth in a fierce, unyielding kiss. The world narrows to just the two of you, your hearts pounding in perfect rhythm as he lifts you against the cold stone wall, the contrast of heat and chill sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your skin as he whispers your name, his voice laced with a desperate tenderness that only makes you cling to him more tightly.

Your hands move with purpose, parting his cloak, unfastening the layers between you with a practiced, hurried ease, as he does the same. Clothing falls away in a tangle of silks and linens, until there is nothing left but skin pressed to skin, the electric thrill of each touch amplified in the quiet seclusion of the alcove.

With a single, swift motion, he brings your bodies together, a shared gasp mingling in the unbroken kiss as you give in to the passion that has been carefully concealed for too long. His hands hold you steady, supporting you as you both move in perfect accord, each movement a silent expression of devotion and need. Soft moans escape between your kisses, the sound a gentle harmony to the faint murmur of the festival outside, yet all thoughts of the world beyond have faded, leaving only the fierce intensity of this moment.

Elsewhere, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep, the court gathers in celebration, oblivious to the secret unfolding nearby. Gwayne Hightower moves through the crowd, his expression increasingly troubled as he scans the faces around him. At last, he spots his father, Otto, deep in conversation with King Viserys. With a quick nod to himself, Gwayne approaches, his concern apparent as he interrupts with a respectful bow.

“Father,” he murmurs, glancing between Otto and the King, “forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but… have either of you seen Princess Y/N?”

Viserys’s attention, until now absorbed by Otto’s counsel, shifts abruptly to Gwayne. The King’s face registers a flash of surprise, then a shadow of concern. “Y/N? No, I haven’t seen her since earlier in the festivities. I assumed she was with the ladies… or perhaps with Rhaenyra.”

Otto’s expression is thoughtful, though a hint of curiosity glints in his eyes. “The princess is often in Rhaenyra’s company. It would be unlike her to stray far, Your Grace.”

Alicent, standing nearby, offers a gentle smile, stepping forward with a look of quiet assurance. “Perhaps she was feeling unwell,” she suggests, her tone soft, careful. “It is a lively evening, and the heat can sometimes be overwhelming.”

Viserys nods slowly, considering her words, though a hint of worry lingers. “Yes, perhaps…” he mutters, his gaze drifting across the courtyard as though searching for a glimpse of his youngest daughter. His expression hardens subtly, and he turns to Gwayne with a nod. “Ser Gwayne, perhaps you might seek out Rhaenyra and inquire after her. If anyone knows of Y/N’s whereabouts, it will be her sister.”

Gwayne bows immediately, his face a mix of relief and determination. “Of course, Your Grace. I will seek out the Princess Rhaenyra at once.”

As he hurries away, Otto and Viserys exchange a glance, each noting the unease in the other’s expression. Otto clears his throat, his voice careful and measured as he speaks. “If Y/N is unwell, I’m certain Rhaenyra would know… but it may be wise to keep an eye out nonetheless.”

Viserys nods, his gaze thoughtful, tinged with a father’s concern. “Yes, indeed. Y/N has always had a spirit… one that’s hard to contain.” He sighs softly, his tone distant. “Perhaps a little too much like her mother.”

Alicent reaches out, placing a reassuring hand on Viserys’s arm. “She is strong-willed, Your Grace,” she says softly, her gaze kind. “But she will return soon, I’m certain. The festival, after all, can be quite… overwhelming.”

Viserys offers her a faint smile, though the concern does not fully fade from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Yes, of course. She is a Targaryen, after all. A free spirit.” But the worry lingers, silent and unspoken, as he glances once more into the depths of the Red Keep, his thoughts lingering on the unseen, unknown whereabouts of his youngest daughter.

Gwayne moves through the crowded halls, his gaze intent as he searches for any sign of you or your sister. The festival’s lively sounds—music, laughter, and the hum of conversation—swirl around him, but his focus remains unwavering. At last, he spots Rhaenyra standing in a quiet corner near a set of columns, deep in conversation with Ser Harwin Strong. Her face is animated, a small smile playing on her lips, though the moment Gwayne approaches, Harwin catches sight of him and quickly makes his exit, offering Rhaenyra a respectful bow before slipping away.

Gwayne inclines his head in greeting, glancing after Harwin as he departs. “Princess Rhaenyra,” he begins, a touch of urgency in his voice, “forgive the interruption, but I’ve been sent by the King. He wishes to know the whereabouts of your sister, Princess Y/N.”

Rhaenyra’s smile doesn’t falter, though her eyes sharpen ever so slightly as she regards him. “Y/N?” She pauses, adopting a look of thoughtful consideration as if trying to recall something specific. “Ah, yes… she did mention feeling somewhat overwhelmed earlier. I believe she may have taken a moment to herself.”

Gwayne hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is she unwell, then? Perhaps I could arrange for someone to attend to her…”

Rhaenyra shakes her head quickly, her smile softening into one of reassurance. “No need for concern, Ser Gwayne. She’s merely in need of some quiet. The evening has been quite… lively.” She glances back toward the main festivities, her tone remaining light but subtly dismissive. “I expect she’ll return to the festival soon enough.”

There’s a momentary pause, a flicker of uncertainty crossing Gwayne’s face as he considers her words. “If… if that is the case, I will wait for her return.” He clears his throat, his voice softening. “I had hoped to speak with her tonight.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpens again, and for a moment, a shadow of protectiveness flickers in her eyes. She offers him a patient, slightly amused smile. “I’m sure Y/N will be flattered by your attentions, Ser Gwayne. But as I said, she is resting, and it would be best not to disturb her.”

Gwayne straightens, offering her a reluctant nod, though he cannot fully mask the disappointment in his expression. “Of course, Princess Rhaenyra. I understand.” He pauses, glancing once more toward the direction he came, as though hoping you might emerge at any moment. “I’ll wait, then, in the hope that she returns to the festivities.”

“Patience is a virtue, Ser Gwayne,” Rhaenyra replies smoothly, a slight arch of her brow adding an edge of amusement to her words. “And I’m sure Y/N will appreciate it.”

As he steps away, clearly unsure of how to proceed, Daemon strides forward, emerging from the shadows with an amused smile, his keen gaze flickering between Gwayne’s retreating form and his niece.

“Nicely handled,” he murmurs, an edge of approval in his tone as he stops beside her. “Poor Gwayne looked positively crestfallen. You’d almost think he believed he had a chance.”

Rhaenyra gives her uncle a look of mild exasperation, crossing her arms. “Gwayne’s harmless, Daemon. He doesn’t need your mockery.”

Daemon chuckles, folding his arms as he leans casually against the stone column. “Oh, I have nothing against the poor fool. But you and I both know he doesn’t stand a chance of catching our dear Y/N’s eye.” He casts her a sidelong glance, his tone lowering. “Though, I suspect you know exactly where she is, don’t you?”

Rhaenyra lifts her chin, her gaze unwavering. “I know where my sister is, yes. But that’s my concern, not yours.”

Daemon’s amusement only grows, his eyes narrowing with intrigue. “So protective, dear niece. One might almost think you’re hiding something… or someone.” He tilts his head, watching her intently. “Perhaps our Lady Y/N has found… other company this evening?”

Rhaenyra’s expression remains impassive, though there’s a glint of defiance in her gaze. “Whatever Y/N does is her choice, and hers alone. And I’ll not have you prying, Daemon.”

Daemon lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by her resolve. “Very well. Far be it from me to interfere.” He straightens, though his gaze remains fixed on her, a knowing glint in his eyes. “But mark my words, Rhaenyra… secrets have a way of unraveling, especially in this court.”

She doesn’t flinch, her voice calm and steady. “Then I’ll be certain to guard them well, Uncle. Y/N deserves her privacy, as do I.”

Daemon’s smirk softens, though there’s a hint of something darker in his gaze as he nods. “Just remember, Rhaenyra, even the closest of allies can become rivals… when it comes to matters of the heart.”

With that, he strides away, his laughter echoing faintly as he disappears back into the shadows of the Keep. Rhaenyra watches him go, her expression unreadable, but a flicker of determination glimmers in her eyes as she stands alone, a silent guardian of her sister’s secrets.

In the quiet intimacy of the alcove, you and Tyland find a lingering closeness as you both reach that shared, breathless moment, hearts pounding in sync, bodies entwined in the soft shadows. His hands remain on you, fingers brushing along your skin, gentle and reverent. For a moment, there is only silence between you, a silence filled with unspoken words, your breaths mingling as you stay in each other’s arms, feeling the aftermath of your passion wash over you like a warm tide.

Tyland leans his forehead against yours, his gaze tender, his voice soft as he murmurs, “Moments like this… I wish they could last forever.”

You smile, brushing a gentle kiss against his lips. “Forever is a long time, Tyland. But as long as we have this…” You squeeze his hand, letting your gaze linger on his with a warmth that speaks of promises beyond words.

For a few lingering minutes, you stay wrapped together, savoring the rare freedom this stolen time has allowed. But gradually, the sounds of the festival filter back into your awareness, reminding you of the world beyond this secluded space.

Tyland sighs, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your forehead. “We should return, before anyone grows too suspicious.”

You nod, a hint of reluctance in your smile as you help each other straighten your clothing, smoothing out the creases left by your embrace. “Yes, I suppose they’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

He chuckles, stepping back to watch you adjust your gown with a look of barely hidden admiration. “I’ll return first. Give it a few moments before you follow, so no one suspects.”

“Very well,” you murmur, reaching out to straighten his collar, your touch lingering before you let him go. “Until the next moment, then.”

With a final, shared glance, Tyland slips away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he returns to the festival. You wait a few beats, allowing your heart to settle, the lingering warmth of your shared encounter filling you with a quiet sense of contentment. Then, with a steady breath, you follow, slipping back through the hallways, your steps light as you return to the festivities.

As you emerge into the main courtyard, the brightness and noise envelop you, and you quickly fall into the rhythm of the festival once more. Almost immediately, you spot your father, King Viserys, striding towards you, his face a mix of concern and relief. Alicent trails behind him, her expression caught between curiosity and worry.

“Y/N!” Viserys’s voice is warm but edged with a father’s concern as he approaches, his gaze scanning your face. “Where have you been? I feared something had happened.”

You smile gently, offering him a reassuring look. “Forgive me, Father. The festival was lively, and I felt a bit overwhelmed. I simply needed a moment to catch my breath.”

Viserys sighs, nodding slowly as though weighing your words. “Ah, yes… I can understand that. It’s easy to feel lost in all this celebration.” His hand rests on your shoulder, a soft, fatherly gesture that makes his relief clear. “Next time, though, do let someone know, won’t you? We were beginning to worry.”

“Of course, Father,” you reply, smiling warmly. “I didn’t mean to cause concern.”

Alicent steps forward, her eyes flicking over you with a careful, assessing gaze. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Y/N. Sometimes these festivities can be overwhelming for anyone. And you looked so… thoughtful earlier.”

Her tone is soft, her words almost probing, as though she suspects there’s more to your disappearance than a simple need for solitude. But you meet her gaze with calm poise, offering her a gentle smile.

“Yes, it was nothing more than a need for some fresh air. Thank you, Alicent,” you say, your voice smooth and reassuring.

Viserys squeezes your shoulder gently, his expression relaxing. “Very well, then. I’m just glad to have you back with us.” He gestures toward the gathering. “Enjoy the rest of the evening, my dear. The festival wouldn’t be the same without you.”

With a nod, you watch as Viserys and Alicent move away, their concern gradually dissipating as they return to the festivities. A flicker of relief passes through you, your heartbeat still echoing the intensity of your recent encounter, though you manage to regain your composure with each passing second.

Across the courtyard, you spot Tyland standing among a cluster of nobles, his face a careful mask as he converses with Otto and Lord Jasper Wylde. His eyes flick briefly in your direction, a barely perceptible warmth flashing in his gaze before he returns his attention to the conversation.

Otto, standing beside Tyland, leans slightly toward him, his voice carrying a tone of practiced authority. “Lord Tyland, I trust the festival finds you well?”

Tyland offers him a polite nod. “Indeed, my lord. It’s a fine celebration, honoring the Mother as we do each year.” His tone is even, respectful, though there’s a subtle glint in his eyes that only you would recognize—a glint that speaks to the hidden secret shared between you.

Otto hums thoughtfully, his gaze flicking over Tyland with that calculating look of his. “I trust your attention has been… focused, as always.”

“Of course,” Tyland replies smoothly. “I am always mindful of my duties, Lord Hand.”

Jasper Wylde chuckles, oblivious to the underlying tension in Otto’s words. “Yes, Tyland, I hear you’ve been most… attentive lately.” He gives Tyland a friendly clap on the shoulder, unaware of the double meaning behind his words.

Tyland takes the comment in stride, his smile polite but reserved. “A man’s attention should always be directed to that which matters, my lords.”

As the conversation drifts into pleasantries, you and Tyland exchange a final, fleeting glance from across the courtyard. In that brief, wordless moment, you feel the echo of his presence, the memory of his touch lingering even as you both slip back into the roles demanded by duty and decorum.

The murmuring hum of the festival surrounds Otto, Tyland, and Jasper as they remain in a small circle near the edge of the courtyard, the glow of the lanterns casting warm light over their faces. Tyland raises his goblet, taking a small sip as Otto continues, his tone smooth and measured, though tinged with an unmistakable undertone of ambition.

“Of course, it is only natural for a father to consider the future of his children,” Otto begins, glancing meaningfully at Tyland. “And I think my son Gwayne has developed a… strong fondness for Princess Y/N. I see great potential in a match between them, aligning two loyal families in the interests of the realm.”

Tyland’s expression remains composed, though he feels a flicker of tension settle in his chest. He keeps his face neutral, listening as Otto speaks, yet a slight crease appears between his brows.

Jasper nods in agreement, his expression bright with approval. “Ah, yes, Gwayne is a good lad, Lord Otto. I can’t say I haven’t noticed him trailing after the princess on more than one occasion. Young love can be an endearing thing.”

Otto’s lips twitch in a faint, calculated smile. “Indeed. Y/N is a true gem of the realm, and her… virtues are well known to all.” He glances meaningfully at Tyland, as if to emphasize the purity and dignity he imagines surrounding the young princess. “A young woman of her standing deserves a husband who can uphold such values—protect them, even.”

Tyland, who had just taken a sip from his goblet, nearly chokes as Otto’s words hit him with unexpected irony. He quickly turns his head, covering his mouth as he struggles to maintain composure. His throat burns from the abrupt swallow, but he manages to regain himself, coughing softly to disguise his reaction.

Otto’s eyes narrow, his gaze drifting to Tyland with mild curiosity. “Lord Tyland, are you quite well?”

Clearing his throat, Tyland nods, his face carefully neutral though his heart races. “Yes, forgive me. The wine… a bit stronger than expected.”

Jasper chuckles, patting Tyland’s shoulder. “Careful now, Tyland. We wouldn’t want the Hand of the King thinking Lannisters can’t hold their drink.”

Tyland forces a polite chuckle, casting a subtle glance at Otto, whose expression remains contemplative, as though piecing together Tyland’s reaction. He can feel Otto’s calculating gaze lingering, the man’s sharp instincts perhaps sensing that Tyland’s reaction wasn’t purely incidental, not after the argument they've shared after that small council meeting.

Otto continues, his voice smooth as silk, though his tone has grown more pointed. “I was merely saying, Lord Tyland, that a young lady’s virtue is the most delicate thing she possesses. It must be… carefully guarded. I am certain you would agree.”

Tyland meets Otto’s gaze evenly, schooling his features into a look of mild agreement, though the tension in his jaw is apparent. “Of course, Lord Hand. Virtue is indeed something that should be cherished… and respected.” He takes another sip of his wine, his grip on the goblet firm as he pushes down the urge to respond more strongly.

Otto’s smile is thin, his eyes gleaming with a trace of satisfaction. “Precisely. That is why I believe Gwayne, who is devoted, honorable, and… eager, would be a perfect fit for the princess.” His gaze lingers on Tyland, as though expecting a reaction.

Tyland forces a nod, his voice steady but his words chosen carefully. “Gwayne’s devotion to the princess is… certainly evident.”

Jasper laughs, seemingly oblivious to the tension between Otto and Tyland. “Indeed! The young Hightower can hardly keep his eyes off her. I say, it’s good for a princess to have admirers. Reminds everyone that she is cherished, wouldn’t you say, Tyland?”

Tyland inclines his head, managing a small smile. “Cherished… yes. The princess should be cherished by someone who truly values her for all that she is.”

Otto’s gaze sharpens, catching the subtle emphasis in Tyland’s words, as always. “Quite. Which is why I take such care in considering potential suitors for the princess. Her future, after all, is… a matter of great importance.”

Tyland meets Otto’s gaze directly, his expression unreadable though a hint of defiance gleams in his eyes. “The princess is indeed fortunate to have so many… interested parties. But, as with all matters of importance, I trust her own wishes will be taken into account.”

A flicker of something dangerous passes over Otto’s face, but he quickly masks it, offering Tyland a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Naturally. We all desire her happiness, after all.”

The animosity settles over them, thick and charged, as each man’s words seem to carry layers of unspoken meaning. Tyland holds Otto’s gaze for a moment longer, refusing to back down, until Jasper, blissfully unaware of the exchange, clears his throat and gestures back toward the festival.

“Well, I say we enjoy the evening, gentlemen!” Jasper exclaims, raising his goblet in a toast. “To the Mother, and to the future of the realm!”

Tyland raises his goblet, his eyes still fixed on Otto. “To the future,” he murmurs, his voice steady, though the glint in his gaze speaks of a silent promise to protect what matters most to him.

Your heart is steady, though a touch exhilarated, as you slip seamlessly back into the crowd, maintaining a composed demeanor despite the lingering traces of passion that only you know.

As you make your way toward the main gathering, a shadow moves into your path, and you glance up, catching the sharp, familiar gaze of Daemon. His eyes, keen and observant, settle on your face, taking in every subtle detail—the color in your cheeks, the faint brightness in your eyes, and the way you stand with a slight breathlessness still in your posture. A smirk curves his lips, and he leans in, his tone a low murmur meant only for you.

“Well, niece,” he drawls, his voice laced with amusement, “you look… quite radiant this evening. Almost as if the Mother herself has blessed you.”

Your cheeks warm, though you hold your composure, meeting his knowing gaze with a steady, polite expression. “Perhaps it’s simply the joy of the festival, Uncle,” you reply smoothly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of any reaction beyond what is proper. “The celebration has a way of bringing out the liveliness in everyone.”

Daemon chuckles, his eyes glinting as he leans in slightly closer. “Oh, I’d say it’s something more than that. You have a certain… glow about you. It’s almost intriguing enough to make one wonder.” His smirk deepens, an edge of mischief in his gaze. “Care to share the source of it?”

You raise an eyebrow, keeping your voice steady and your expression poised. “Your imagination, Uncle, is far more creative than any reality could match. I assure you, there’s nothing more than the joy of the night.”

He laughs, a low, rich sound, clearly entertained by your response. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But, as always, you keep your secrets well.” His gaze lingers, a glint of challenge in his eyes, as though daring you to reveal even the smallest hint of the truth.

Before he can press further, another voice cuts through the conversation, firm and unmistakably authoritative.

“Daemon.” Viserys steps forward, his expression stern as he looks at his brother. There’s an edge of warning in his eyes as he regards Daemon, his voice steady and unyielding. “Leave my daughter be.”

Daemon raises his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, though the smirk never leaves his face. “Come now, brother. I was merely exchanging pleasantries with my dear niece. Surely that’s not so threatening?”

Viserys’s gaze hardens, unamused. “Find someone else to pester, Daemon. This is neither the time nor the place for your games.”

For a moment, Daemon meets Viserys’s gaze with a flicker of defiance, as though contemplating a response. But instead, he chuckles, stepping back with a sweeping, exaggerated bow in your direction. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He glances at you one last time, a lingering, amused look in his eyes. “Enjoy the festival, niece.”

With that, he slips back into the crowd, his departure leaving a faint ripple of tension behind. You exhale quietly, steadying yourself, and turn to face your father, who watches Daemon’s retreating form with a look of thinly veiled frustration.

Viserys’s gaze softens as he looks at you, concern and curiosity mingling in his expression. “Are you all right, Y/N?” he asks gently, his tone carrying the warmth of a father’s care. “I know how… persistent Daemon can be.”

You offer him a reassuring smile, grateful for his protection. “I’m fine, Father. Daemon is Daemon. I know how to handle his ways.”

Viserys nods, though a hint of worry lingers in his gaze. “Good. I’d rather he not meddle in matters that don’t concern him.” He pauses, studying you closely, as if searching for something unspoken. “But I didn’t just approach because of Daemon.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a touch of curiosity.

He sighs, his expression turning more thoughtful, yet tinged with a father’s impatience. “We’ve spoken before about the many suitors for your hand. The petitions, the endless proposals… all of it is becoming tiresome, and frankly, it’s wearing on me.”

You chuckle softly, knowing well the weight of his exasperation. “I remember, Father. I promised to introduce you to my choice once all the proposals were cleared, so that no house would be slighted.”

“Yes, you did,” he replies, nodding, though there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he looks at you. “And while I’ve respected your wish to keep it discreet, I hope you’ll introduce him soon.” He glances around, lowering his voice. “This secrecy, this waiting… it’s becoming unbearable.”

There’s a spark of amusement in your eyes as you consider his words. “Unbearable, Father? I never thought you so easily troubled by matters of the heart.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Troubled is an understatement, my dear. Your marriage is more than just a matter of the heart; it concerns the realm, our alliances, and… well, my peace of mind.”

You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through you as you think of Tyland. “I understand, Father. And I assure you, it will not be long now. Every day, I grow more certain of my choice.”

Viserys’s expression softens, a glint of hope brightening his eyes. “Then there is truly someone? A man you’ve chosen?”

“Yes,” you murmur, the warmth of your feelings evident in your voice. “And I believe he is… everything I could ask for.”

Your father’s face lights with relief, his hand resting on your shoulder, giving it a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “That is all I needed to hear. If he makes you happy, that’s all I can ask for. And when the time is right… I’ll be waiting.”

You nod, feeling a sense of gratitude and affection well up within you. “Thank you, Father. Your support means more than you know.”

Viserys smiles, his gaze filled with pride and fondness as he looks at you. “Then enjoy the festival, my daughter. And remember—when you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

With a final, reassuring squeeze of his hand, he steps back, leaving you to the night’s festivities. And as you turn back to the brightly lit courtyard, your heart feels lighter, knowing that the moment will come soon when you can stand proudly by Tyland’s side, and your father will know the man who holds your heart.

The festival is in full swing, but Tyland remains on the edges, a quiet observer as the lively gathering unfolds around him. His goblet is in hand, his expression composed and pleasant, a carefully crafted mask that betrays nothing of the secret thrill lingering beneath his calm exterior. Yet, every so often, his gaze flickers to where you move through the crowd, your presence a quiet beacon that he can’t help but gravitate toward, if only in glances.

He takes a measured sip, bringing his attention back to the conversation at hand, only to feel a familiar hand clap down on his shoulder. Turning, Tyland finds himself face-to-face with his twin, Jason, who grins broadly, his expression one of easy, confident charm.

“Tyland! Avoiding the merriment as usual, I see?” Jason’s tone is teasing, though there’s a hint of curiosity as he looks at his brother. Beside him, a few other Lannister cousins and nobles linger, joining the conversation with casual greetings.

“Just observing,” Tyland replies smoothly, offering a faint smile. “You know I prefer to watch the festival unfold rather than throw myself into it.”

Jason laughs, his gaze sharp as he claps Tyland on the shoulder again. “Always so composed, aren’t you?” He takes a swig from his own goblet, his eyes narrowing with that uncanny perceptiveness he often wielded with subtlety. “But you’ve seemed… distracted tonight, brother. Something on your mind?”

Tyland’s response is cool, measured. “Nothing more than usual. The festival is an eventful night, after all.”

Jason nods, though his gaze lingers on Tyland’s face with a touch more scrutiny than before. They exchange a few more pleasantries, the other members of their family chiming in with lighthearted banter, but Jason’s eyes never fully leave his brother. And then, Tyland’s gaze strays, almost involuntarily, toward you, lingering for just a split second as you cross the courtyard with an effortless grace that catches his attention even from a distance.

It’s a fleeting glance, something so small that to anyone else, it might appear insignificant. But Jason notices. His expression sharpens, a glint of intrigue flashing in his eyes. Waiting until the conversation lulls, he leans closer, murmuring quietly.

“Walk with me for a moment, Tyland.”

Tyland nods, schooling his expression as he follows Jason to the side, away from the others. The sounds of the festival become softer, a gentle hum as they step into a more secluded part of the courtyard. Jason’s expression shifts, his easygoing demeanor slipping into something more discerning, his gaze fixed intently on his brother.

“Care to tell me what that was about?” Jason’s tone is deceptively light, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it, a look of recognition as he studies Tyland.

Tyland raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

Jason’s smile turns sly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “That look you gave the princess just now. To anyone else, it would seem like nothing. But I know you too well, Tyland. That wasn’t just a passing glance.” He pauses, his voice lowering, filled with the weight of realization. “You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you?”

Tyland maintains his composure, but there’s a moment of hesitation, the faintest slip in his expression that only serves to confirm Jason’s suspicions. He says nothing, knowing his twin well enough to understand that denial would be pointless.

Jason chuckles softly, his expression shifting from surprise to something more intrigued, even impressed. “I can’t believe it… the younger princess. Y/N herself. How did you manage that?”

Tyland’s gaze sharpens, his voice firm but hushed. “Jason, this isn’t a game.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it is,” Jason replies smoothly, though his eyes gleam with mischief. “But you can’t deny it’s impressive. She could have any man at court… and yet she’s with you.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “How exactly did you get her into your bed?”

Tyland’s jaw tenses, though he keeps his tone measured. “Respect, Jason. Y/N is not some conquest, nor is she some prize to be won. She chose to be with me, and I respect her choice. Whatever we have is between us, and it’s not for idle gossip.”

Jason raises his hands in mock surrender, though his amusement doesn’t fade. “Easy, brother. I’m only curious. It’s not every day one of the realm’s most sought-after women chooses a man quietly standing at the edges of the court. And the fact that it’s my own brother…” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I suppose even I have to admire your restraint.”

Tyland sighs, rubbing a hand over his temple. “This isn’t something I took lightly, Jason. We care for each other. And I would do anything to protect her.”

Jason studies him for a moment, a flicker of genuine understanding in his gaze as he sees the sincerity in Tyland’s face. “You really are serious about her, aren’t you?”

Tyland nods, his expression softening. “More than I’ve ever been. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep this to yourself. The last thing she needs is more scrutiny.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, don’t worry. I have no intention of ruining whatever you’ve managed to build with her. Besides…” He pauses, casting a glance back toward the bustling crowd. “I rather like knowing you’ve got a taste for something more meaningful than courtly games.”

Tyland’s gaze softens, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Thank you, Jason. I mean it.”

Jason shrugs, his expression turning thoughtful. “Just be careful, brother. Affairs like this… they don’t stay secret forever, especially in a place like the Red Keep.”

Tyland nods, his voice firm. “I know. But until then, I’ll protect her with everything I have.”

Jason studies him for a moment longer, then nods, the faintest glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Then you have my support. Just… make sure it’s worth the risk.” With that, he claps Tyland on the shoulder one last time, the unspoken bond between them sealing the quiet understanding as they rejoin the bustling festival.

[erogurox]

You're a bit hypocritical with the let people have their opinions thing. They dissagtand make calm responses so your opinions, and you act hostile back. I've been as polite as I can but you genuinely made my mood die when I saw a reblog from you.

So, here's a few points I do not agree with to try and get you to understand and maybe (futility, likely) help you get past your illiteracy.

The "he's just like me fr fr has trauma"

By relating to myself, I'm trying to understand a characters mindset. I relate to sunny many ways and am trying to get you to understand the irrational mindset of a child. Him having trauma never excused him, it simply just made him frantic actions more understandable. Relating to myself again, as any other analyst would, when I experienced a traumatic experience with losing someone, I also tried covering it up. It's not the same as Sunny's, obviously, I didn't commit manslaughter. But loss is experienced differently. Omori is about the different ways to cope with loss, most, if not all being unhealthy. Every character has their flaws, so you can't hate one character without hating the other. All have their flaws, and Sunny's is that he runs away. Aubrey's is that she retaliates with violence, basils is that he doesn't accept it happen, kel's in that he accepts it too early as the therapist friend, and believes everyone else is overreacting, Mari's a perfectionist and is hard on sunny, and hero goes into a depressive state for months. But the thing is, omori is also about healing. They all heal. Kel learns he needs to help his friends accept it, Aubrey learns to control her emotions and accept others differences, basil, in the good ending, has the weight off his back and is able to accept what really happen, sunny overcomes his fears and faces everything, he finally makes past his cowardess for his friends and his own well good, and while mari never had the time to heal, I'm sure she was the first to forgive sunny, knowing her character.

2. 12-year-old would not feel "at peace" upon seeing his relative's dead body

He feels at peace that he doesn't need to worry about the repercussions anymore, as he didn't see the possibility of needing to say anything about it in the future. Again, he's naive and doesn't see future possibilities.

3. he's stupid, he doesn't know what a fucking lemon is, Now that is a new one. Stupidity doesn't grant you an examption from criticism.

I was referring, literally, to him calling lemons oragnes. He is naive to the reality of situations, and often believes what he dreams about. He hasn't been in school or anything, he doesn't know how to react socially.

4. it was a complete accident, It wasn't.

Mari grabbed his arm supposedly to keep him from running away to his room. He pushes her back to get away, and mari's bad knee ("omori, slow down! I can't go that fast with my *bad knee.*) gives in, causing her to trip. He didn't mean for her to fall.

If I said every other little thing I disagreed with, I'd be writing as fast as Alexander Hamilton writing the other 50-something letters out of 70.

Alrighty, so since the user I reblogged earlier apparently doesn't want to engage in any conversation with the people they're lambasting, I'm making my reblog a separate post. I'm nothing if not willing to talk :)

learning to forgive yourself even after seeing the full weight of the consequences of your actions, and realizing that you can still be loved and relearn how to love despite everything

1) "forgive yourself" I am not Sunny, and Sunny is not me.

2) Why should I be inclined to forgive an unlikeable asshole who killed his own sister because he's too self-centered to consider her feelings, lied about it to his friends, did next to nothing to show he cares about them during the game's events (the only time he tries doing anything for anyone is when he stops Basil's suicide attempt, and even then he contemplated ditching him again as a legitimate option) and then left them after revealing he lied to them for the last 4 years while bitching about how hard it is for him to live with the guilt?

Why should I root for him? I'd love to hear a reason other than "He has trauma!" or "He's the protagonist!" or "His love for his friends is shown via the dream world he has in his head!" or an ad hominem attack.

overcoming grief and realizing the world still moves on, with or without you, whether or not you think it's fair or if you blame yourself

OMORI isn't a game about overcoming the grief of a loss. It is a game about a character who's grapping with the well-earned guilt for taking another person's life and then lying about it. Those are quite different things.

Such an argument would've been applicable had Mari actually turned out to have killed herself.

You still have responsibility over your actions, and everything you do still matters,

Which is why the gang's reactions to what Sunny's done didn't matter enough for the game to show them, I suppose.

You still can change people's lives for the better or worse even if you think you aren't worth a second thought.

Sunny changed his friends' lives for the worse. And then he left.

I really enjoy this game can you tell.

Good for you! Doesn't mean others can't point out the main character is a nasty piece of shit and the writing has more holes in it than Swiss cheese, though.

I do think some people need to retake basic literature classes or touch grass perhaps

How classy. Is it because "some people" are not reading the game the way you want them to? :)

Look. You're well within your right to shove your fingers into your ears and go "lalalala I'm not listening!" when someone tries to explain their point of view to you and you don't like it. But you can't criticize people for different opinions when you refuse to listen to any explanations.

[staytiny-dreams]

the one with the laces (k.gv x reader)

pairing: kim gyuvin x gn! reader

genre: simply fluff

warnings: none i think, bit awkward at times

wc: 600

note: super short (hopefully cute) drabble inspired by @shuaboo 's hc that bf gyuvin would tie your laces for you (super cute post go read). no pronouns used.

your cheeks flame at the feeling of gyuvin’s hand in yours. it’s such a simple gesture, but honestly you never imagined yourself in a relationship like this. public displays of affection were definitely something that you were still getting used to.

you just weren’t a very touchy feely person, and while you were becoming more comfortable with gyuvin’s affections behind closed doors, the thought of being nearly as physical with him in public made you curl inward on yourself.

you were broken out of your thoughts with a jolt when you tripped forwards, one foot having gotten stuck on your untied laces.

the cold, damp pavements invites your face forwards, but gyuvin has other plans. his hands grip your shoulders, helping you steady yourself.

with a sheepish smile, you lay your hands on top of his. the heat in your cheeks spreads down your neck and you notice a pink tint on the tip of gyuvin’s ears. guilt pangs in your chest, and you hesitate to move him. however, ultimately, with a nervous glance at your surroundings, you gently nudge his arms off your shoulders.

“thanks, gyuv.” you move to take a step forward when gyuvin stops you with an arm across your shoulders.

an affectionate, yet slightly exasperated sigh leaves him as he suddenly crouches in front of you.

your brow raises in confusion, but it only takes you a few seconds to realise what he’s doing and instantly, you too are dropping to the ground.

reaching for your untied laces, your hands collide with gyuvin’s and you look up at him with wide eyes. he pulls the laces to his side with a cheeky smile, still well within your reach, but the message was clear.

“i could’ve done that myself, you know.” you protest, reaching for them once again. gyuvin’s eyes sparkle and he grips your approaching hand gently.

“okay, but would you have?” he asks, a small smirk playing on his lips, still holding your hand. your cheeks are up in flames, your whole body in fact and you curse yourself. he’s barely even touching you, why are you reacting this way?

“uh- yes!” you state with indignance, despite your stutter.

he raises a brow, letting an amused scoff slip and laying a sceptical stare on you, his hand dropping yours and focusing back on tying your laces.

“i would have!” you sound a little more convincing this time, despite the mirth present in your tone. “just… when we stopped, not now when we’re two idiots crouched in the middle of the street!” he chuckles at your complaints, finishing up with your first shoe, and moving on to the next.

“well then stand up, idiot.” he remarks, with a light hearted tap to your calf.

a confusing mix of affront and affection rush through you, body running hot for the nth time since you and gyuvin met up this morning. an idea nags at your mind, but your heart begins pounding at the thought.

however, taking in the sight in front of you, gyuvin kneeling for you, tying your laces, a sweet smile gracing his pretty features, you make up your mind.

“fine.” and with that, heart beating out of your chest, you lean forward and press your lips to his.

he drops your laces, eyes wide for a split second before he settles into your kiss. before he has the chance to kiss back, you’re already pulling away.

“idiot.” you smile at him, shooting up to stand above him as he stares dazedly at your remaining untied shoe.

[emmg]

Hello love Can I ask for Raphael x reader where Raph actually shows love, buuut in his own twisted way? One of my fam members had autism and he never ever said those three words, but showed it in acts of service and paying attention to what you say/do aaand i was thinking about Raphael who tries to show how much he loves her(or them) but well he's not very good at this. Tav reading book- he will read it too, because he cares...just to tell her how much it sucks. She's bleeding after a fight? Throws her into his healing pool and tell her how stupid she is for the whole time he's with her and how she wastes his time, but won't leave her alone, because what if this dumb mortal drowns herself? A guy said something to her and she felt like sh*t or he touched her to make her uncomfortable? He would give her a very fancy box with big bow and smiles innocently at her ; 'Come on little mouse..open it' just for her to see somebodys hand or head 'oh..this? its this creep from yesterday' Tav wears something cheap? oh boy he would tell her everythink he thinks about this rag. She thinks he wants her to wear only expensive things, because how she looks=his reputation but the truth is he thinks she deserves only the most lavish things in her life and he wont allow her to live below HIS standards And his fav way of showing love is giving her mortal who hurt her in any way already beaten so they wont demage his precious possesion, but conscious enough so she can enjoy torturing them (for sure he does it for his own amusement more than hers)

What a fun prompt! Although, to be fair, I can't exactly make it totally healthy because Raphael isn't an emotionally healthy person to be in a relationship with so this is still a little bit dark, though definitely not awful haha.

ETA: ah crap I missed the part about x reader. So sorry about that. In my defence, I truly cannot write from second person point of view. I’m very, very sorry anon. I’ve tried before and it feels awkward to me and everything comes out… bad.

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

Sometimes she feels hollowed out, as if something essential has been scooped clean from within her. She’s not sure why she stays—or even if she’s staying at all. Maybe he’s holding her here, maybe she has no choice, maybe she lost that freedom long ago. Because you don’t walk away when Raphael is speaking; you don’t walk away when he’s watching you. And his eyes are always on her, always, always, always following.

That gaze—it leaves her feeling half trapped, half sanctified, as though caught in some dreadful, holy spell. He doesn’t look at others this way, she knows that, but that knowledge only tightens the hold, winds the snare around her. It’s nothing, she tells herself—this attention, his careful watch—yet it feels like everything, a binding without words, a noose drawing tighter, a claw sinking deeper. Time twists strangely when he’s near, spiraling into something she can’t name, and she can’t help but wonder: will his interest wane, fade away to nothing? Or will it sharpen, tighten, until it consumes her, leaving her breathless, until there’s no space left at all? 

If it does—if he closes around her entirely, if his grip becomes her world, pressing in until there’s no air, no light, only him—what will she be then?

And she’s not even sure if he cares. He holds her there, yes, but it feels like watching a game; his own personal mousetrap, an exquisite little experiment to see how far she'll reach for the cheese. She wonders if he’s simply taking what he can, drawing her deeper until he tires of her, only to discard her when he does, laughing at her fascination with him. She can almost see it—him spitting in her face, turning her out with a sneer, then pulling her back in just as quickly. He'd fuck her, taunt her, pull her close only to watch her shatter, then laugh, invite her back with a gift, something golden, expensive, dripping with indulgent mockery. 

But then there are the other things he does, things that somehow feel worse—things that make the walls seem as though they’re closing in, or maybe as if he’s drawing her into some embrace she can’t escape from. She’s not sure which would be more terrifying. 

Sometimes, when they’re in Avernus together, she finds the portals dead, the way back to her world—a world of soft light and mortal trivialities, the Gate and its grime—suddenly blocked, cut off. And it's always the same dance. She demands an answer, asks why she can’t pass through, why she’s stuck here in this burning place with him, unable to flee back to the familiar. And he only waves her off, barely looking up, irritation flickering in his gaze. He says he hasn’t the time to bother with “simple magic,” that she can wait. 

But he knows, he knows damn it, that she can barely summon a spark, let alone force open a gateway on her own. He knows she’s trapped, helpless as a moth in a bottle, wings beating frantically against glass she can’t see. And he watches her, almost bored, as she paces, her panic ripening, sinking roots in her chest. Because he knows she won’t leave, can’t leave, and he’ll let her struggle just long enough to make her feel it—the helplessness, the claustrophobia, the bitter thrill of his control, closing around her, almost gentle, almost loving.

And then, only then, he flicks his fingers, and the portals blaze open, bright and mocking, as if they’d never gone dead at all. 

She's interrupting him, Raphael says, a nuisance he has no time for. Important matters, contracts to seal, souls to collect—real work to do, and here she is, lingering in his shadow, hovering as if she belongs, asking him to breathe life into a stupid portal. He snaps at her to leave, to stop her pestering, to get out of his sight. And so she does, shrinking back, biting her lip, retreating into her quiet corner.

But then, later—always, somehow, later—he comes to her, waking her from half-sleep as he climbs over her, pressing down with a heat that seems to burn straight through her skin. He murmurs his need, his lust, his rough, clumsy want, lips grazing her ear with words that are half-whispered, half-demanded. And she lets him, wraps her arms around his back, holds him, breathes through the rush of his hands, the awkward rhythm of his taking. 

She feels the weight of him, the feverish heat, and she sighs into it, into him, because in the Hells, everything is unbearably hot. His skin burns against hers, more furnace than flesh, and though she knows he’s hasty, heedless, that she’s just an outlet, a brief relief, she takes it. She lets herself be consumed by it, that pressing heat because here, with him, it’s as close to comfort as she’ll ever get.  

But sometimes there are moments that make her think he might care, moments she savors, drinks in slowly, wondering if they're real or merely the product of his boredom. She can never quite tell, but she doesn’t mind; she lingers on these glimmers of gentleness, holds them in her memory far longer than she should. 

Like when she’s soaking in his absurdly large bath, reclining in the steaming water with her arms folded along the edge, her head resting on cool stone, hair spilling loose behind her. She’s doing nothing at all, simply breathing in the warmth, letting the steam curl around her. And then he appears, slipping into the room, extending those long legs of his, rolling up his sleeves as he settles by her side. He doesn’t join her in the water; instead, he simply sits, a book resting in his hands, the very one she finished days ago. 

She watches, amused, as he leafs through it, the prominent wrinkle between his brows deepening with each page he turns. His expression is one of studied distaste, the kind that would be comical on anyone else. But on him, it’s strangely captivating. 

“Unhinged drivel,” Raphael mutters finally, his tone ripe with disdain. 

“Hm,” she echoes, half-lidded, watching him through the steam. 

“Why do you read this?” he questions. “I have half a mind to burn it. The sheer embarrassment of sharing the same air with it—I hardly want it in my library.” 

She smiles, faintly, eyes closing as she stretches a little deeper into the warmth. “I’m done with it,” she replies, lazily. “Do what you wish.” 

He taps two fingers against the spine. “The Duke is an absolute cretin, I must say.” 

“Oh?” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath above the water’s surface. 

“Utterly insipid,” he continues. "Such posturing, such shallow arrogance. I wouldn’t offer him a contract if he were the last soul on the proverbial platter.” 

She laughs then, quietly, letting the sound ripple through the steam. She knows Raphael is just indulging in his own particular brand of superiority, delighting in the verbal dissection, and maybe he doesn’t care for her company at all. But still, he stays, perched beside her, weaving disdainful monologues that settle like warm coals in her chest. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself pretend that he’s here for her. 

He continues, eyes fixed on the offending book as if it’s a particularly irksome insect. “The Duke’s speech in chapter five...” he says. “So very witless, wouldn't you say? Who professes undying love with such clumsy metaphors? And in the garden, no less, like a character in a tragic farce. ‘You are my sun and moon,’” he scoffs, his voice rising to a mock-romantic lilt. “‘My stars, my breath, my—’” 

He pauses, catching her wide-eyed, incredulous look. A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and there’s a glimmer of something—mischief?—in his gaze. “Oh, little mouse, don’t look at me like that. Surely you didn’t think I’d stoop to reading this… for enjoyment?”

She raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half incredulous. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he replies, with all the haughtiness of a scholar who’s just suffered through a poorly constructed essay. “I couldn’t very well leave such intellectual refuse lying about in my library without inspecting it first.” 

“Just inspecting it? Raphael, you just quoted chapter five.” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “A tragic misfortune. I assure you, it was purely incidental. I only skimmed enough to confirm my suspicions about its total lack of merit.” 

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, watching as he flips another page with painstaking precision. “Is that why you’re carrying it around?” 

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the book with that familiar, aristocratic arch of his brow. “Little mouse,” he drawls, his tone both affectionate and condescending, “you really must learn what jests are. I can’t go about explaining them every time, you know.” 

The novel is set aside.

His hand slips below the water, and she knows, he’s done talking, at least about her books. His fingers graze her skin, tracing erratic patterns. She feels his hand leave her only to hear the soft rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, sliding into the water, slipping behind her. 

His arms wrap around her even as he pushes her against the cool stone of the bath’s edge. She feels his impatience in the way his hands move—roaming, relentless, almost rough, his fingers pressing into her skin, biting, digging between the ribs, as if he can’t bear to be gentle.  

One hand cups her shoulder, anchoring her as his other hand travels down her side. It moves in a slow sweep, now a caress, almost reverent, then shifting, tracing a path with no pattern, simply moving, as if he’s learning her contours anew. His grip tightens, loosens, a rhythm that speaks of need and very little restraint. 

He dips his head, face buried in her hair, and she feels the weight of his breath, the moist heat of it on the exhale. There’s a hunger in his closeness, an intensity that borders on obsession. He’s quiet now, all the long-winded, self-important monologues silenced, his usual need to fill the space with words abandoned. 

She feels him pressing against her back, the hard, insistent weight of him, the subtle rock of his hips, and she sighs, her body folding further against the edge of the bath, yielding to him. The warmth in her chest spills out, dissipating into something intangible, and once again, she wonders: Was this all just a performance for her, or something he needs for himself? Was that little, half-sweet conversation meant to soften her, make her more pliant? Or, against all logic, did he truly want to speak to her, to share in that strange, fleeting intimacy? 

She wonders if he cares, even a little, if those sarcastic, needlessly elaborate jests of his are meant to coax a smile from her, to make her laugh. Or is it all calculated, a ploy to keep her engaged, to ensure that when he fucks her, she meets him with something more than passive resignation? She feels his fingers tighten on her waist, his breath hitch, and for a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to believe there’s something deeper beneath his touch, something that holds her in place as much as his arms do. 

There are other moments too, moments that sink into her like a sickness, twisting her stomach, filling her with a dread so deep it almost makes her want to flee, to scrub herself clean, to be rid of him. And yet, those same moments leave her feeling strangely exhilarated, a little unhinged, as though some part of her is thrilled by the horror of it all. 

Take the merchant, for instance. A two-penny swindler, trying to pass off cheap fabric as something exquisite. She spots his scam instantly—anyone with half a brain would—but he’s audacious, leaning in, voice low and greasy as he sells his lie. She calls him out, unimpressed, and he snaps, calling her a cunt. She flips him off without a second thought and moves on, thinking nothing more of it. She’s heard worse, so much worse, and just because she looks the part of a noblewoman at Raphael’s insistence doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the dirt and sweat of her own past. She knows the cheap tricks—how cloth is dyed in back alleys, stained with whatever can be found, how insect paste and a dash of alchemical solution turn cotton into “silk” for gullible morons. She’s done it all herself, seen the worst of it, and this pathetic attempt to cheat her hardly scratches the surface. 

She forgets the encounter entirely—until the next day. Raphael barely glances up from his writing, absorbed in the ink-stained pages of yet another infernal contract, when he pushes a small, ornate box across the table toward her. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge it beyond a faint, almost bored gesture. She blinks, glancing from the box to him, and then back, curious but wary, wondering if this is another one of his games. 

She takes it, hesitates, then lifts the lid. 

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a finger. Blue, bloated, stiff with the grip of death. Her stomach turns, nausea creeping up her throat as she stares at it, bile rising as the realization settles—this isn’t just some random, expensive trinket. It’s a message, as clear and cold as the dead flesh before her. 

“Oh,” she whispers, voice strangled, unable to look away from the pale digit lying in the box, rigor mortis locking it in a ghastly curl. Her hands are trembling, fingers itching to drop the box, to shove it away, to wipe away the memory of this grotesque gift. 

She looks up at him, horrified, and finds his gaze resting on her, idle, yet somehow amused. 

She stares some more, her mind spinning as she tries to process what she’s holding, what this grotesque little gift is meant to convey. A part of her wants to retch, to bolt from the room, while another, unhinged part of her feels an inexplicable pull, an urge to draw closer to him, to be entangled in whatever madness constantly hangs off his sleeve. 

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she lets out a half-laugh, shaky and weak. “That’s… not what usually comes in jewelry boxes.” 

Raphael arches a brow. “I’ve given you plenty of jewelry, little mouse. Rings, bracelets, earrings—a whole collection of baubles you hardly deign to wear. Lavaliers, circlets, gems so fine even the simpering nobles of Waterdeep would weep for them. And yet, here you sit, determined to remain a rube.” He tsks, rolling his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Mayhaps, I thought, just mayhaps, you might appreciate something different to suit that plebeian palate of yours.”

“Whose is it?” she asks, though she already knows. She feels the answer in the pit of her stomach, in the memory of yesterday’s insults and her dismissive walk away. 

He only shrugs, dipping his quill in ink. “I’m told he was a merchant.” He pauses, as if to savor the uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or was it a dockhand? Perhaps a barkeep. Truly, who can keep track of such insignificant lives?” 

She watches, spellbound in a way she can’t quite understand, as he sprinkles pounce over the wet ink, the tiny white particles catching the dim light. He lifts the paper, blowing the pounce off with a sharp exhale that sends the fine dust scattering into the air, drifting toward her. She coughs, swatting it away, a moment of reflexive frustration breaking through her discomfort. 

“So many names,” Raphael murmurs, almost to himself. “So many lives, so many inconsequential little people. It’s hard to keep them all straight, isn’t it?” 

She stares at him, a blend of revulsion and fascination churning within her. His words hang in the air, so careless, so detached, as if snuffing out a life meant nothing more to him than discarding an old, forgotten knickknack. And yet, he looks at her now, watching, as if expecting her reaction, waiting to see if she’ll recoil or lean closer. 

She leans closer, letting the moment pull her in, and he gives a satisfied little hum, returning to his writing with an air of contentment, as if the world is exactly as it should be. She watches the steady flow of his hand, the way his quill glides across the page in elegant, looping strokes, his cursive rising and falling. Her mind, however, catches on another thought, one that wraps around her and refuses to let go. 

He cares, she thinks, or at least he acts as though he does. This is how he responds to insults aimed at her, as if her offense is his to avenge. But another thought lingers, darker and heavier. He knows—that’s what unsettles her. If he knows, that means he saw, or had someone watch on his behalf, and that means she’s never truly alone, even when he isn’t there. She wonders how far that gaze extends, if he’s tracking her every step, every word, if he’s marked her movements like pinpoints on a map, an invisible tether she’s unknowingly bound herself to. 

Her hand drifts to her throat, almost absently, fingers brushing the skin there as if she might feel some hidden collar, a leash she’s been wearing all along without realizing it. But of course, there’s nothing—just bare skin and the faint, lingering warmth of her own touch. Still, the thought unsettles her, sends a flutter of anxiety mixed with something else, something uncomfortably close to… warmth. A warmth that spreads through her chest, that holds her in place despite the quiet urge in her feet to stand, to move, to walk as far as she can. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays there, leaning close, just watching him as he writes, utterly absorbed in whatever Infernal text he’s crafting. And as she watches, that warmth in her chest grows, mingling with her apprehension, a mix of dread and fascination that knots itself around her, binding her there as securely as any leash he might conjure. 

Another day, another reckoning. 

She’s a mess of bruises, skin mottled and darkened so thoroughly she resembles a patchwork quilt rather than a woman. There had been a brawl, Astarion may or may not have thrown punches he couldn’t back, and they both may or may not have drunk too much. Korrilla may or may not have been at the Caress at the same time, her wicked laughter mingling with the chaos, and now her nose is a crimson fountain, dripping ceaselessly. Even the potion Korrilla forced down her throat did nothing to blunt the ache, the slight sneer on Korrilla’s face as she half-carried her back to the House of Hope making it clear she didn’t particularly want to be back tonight. 

When she stumbles in, Haarlep just laughs, calling her a “bloody, battered fool” and waving her off in disgust when she starts peeling off her clothes. With a muttered “Ew,” he disappears as she limps toward the restoration pool, her one salvation tonight. She knows it’s usually reserved for soothing injuries from far more… pleasurable encounters, but she hardly cares as she sinks into it, wincing as the water starts working its magic, stitching up minor cuts and scrapes as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. 

She drifts, the water lapping around her, letting the throbbing recede—until a sharp yank at her scalp rips her back to the present, her head wrenched above the water. She chokes, sputtering out bloody droplets as her eyes snap open, and she finds herself staring at Raphael’s livid face, exasperation etched in every line. His hand is tangled in her hair, and her scalp stings from his tight grip. He glances down at his dripping sleeves, soaked from pulling her up, and curses. 

“What a stupid way to die,” he hisses. “Drowning in my boudoir because you’re too idiotic to stay awake.” His fingers tighten in her hair, and there’s no mercy in his eyes. “Take a deep breath now.” 

She barely has a second to react before he shoves her head under the water, his hand pressing down with unrelenting force. Her body jerks, and she inhales raggedly before he drags her up again, just long enough for her to gasp for air and catch his sharp, appraising look before he shoves her down once more, holding her under like a misbehaving dog in need of punishment. Water floods her nose, stinging as she chokes, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the pool’s edge. 

Up again, another cursory glance, and then he plunges her under once more, his grip firm, a rhythm of punishment and cleansing, as though he’s scrubbing the night’s sins from her with each forced dunk. She claws at his wrist, nails scraping against his skin, and he finally releases her, leaving her gasping and hacking as she collapses against the pool’s edge, water pouring from her lungs in a desperate, wheezing cough. 

She realizes then, as she shudders and coughs, that the blood is gone; her nose, once a mess of numb throbbing, now feels raw but whole. She clutches the pool’s edge, head bowed, catching her breath as the water stills around her. Raphael just stands there, dripping, sleeves ruined, as he observes her. 

“Well,” he mutters, flicking water from his fingers with a faint sneer, “at least you’re less of a mess now.” 

He hauls her from the water, pulling her sodden form from the boudoir and away from the rumpled heap of her clothes. His eyes drift over them—the plain tunic, the uninspired trousers, the scuffed leather boots—with a look of disdain so pointed it almost makes her wince. 

“An offense to beauty itself,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though the words slap her just the same. “These… things.” His lip curls. “They will burn. They’re an affront to my eyes, and my patience is wearing thin.” 

His gaze slides back to her face, catching on her bruised nose, and he tilts her head with the care one might give a very expensive artifact. His fingers are unhurried, methodical, as he surveys her battered skin. “I don’t keep unsightly things, you know,” he says. “I like my things beautiful. It’s why I collect them—why I keep them close.” 

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his tone shifts to something almost conversational, a careless elegance in his words that sets her nerves alight. “Tell me, little mouse,” he begins, fingers tapping idly on his thigh, “shall I lock the door?” 

She feels a shiver run through her, her voice faltering. “Which… one?” 

He tilts his head in mock contemplation. “Why not all of them?” 

“Raphael…” she starts, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say, or if there’s anything to be said at all. 

Unhurriedly, he begins to strip off his clothes, each gesture carried out with an almost ritualistic elegance. He slips out of his doublet, casting it aside with a look of mild annoyance. “Your doing,” he sighs, smoothing an imaginary crease before discarding it. “This fabric—fine enough to silence even the heavens—ruined by your negligence. It cost more than you could dream, more than most would spend in a lifetime.” 

She watches, stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination, unsure if he’s preparing to fuck her or simply indulging in the strange meticulousness of his undressing. Each cufflink is unfastened with almost absurd care, each tie released with the same flawless precision she knows so well. The clothes fold neatly under his hands, smoothed and arranged as if they were sacred relics, and though part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity, she knows better than to test his patience now. 

Raphael pauses, shirt open just enough to reveal the line of his throat, his collarbone stark against tan skin. His eyes pin hers and his voice takes on a melodic, almost regretful tone. “Perhaps if I lock you in,” he murmurs, “you might refrain from throwing yourself into every pit of squalor in the Gate, seeking out any hand willing to smash that face of yours.” 

“No one seeks that, Raphael,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “It just… happens.” 

He snaps his fingers with a sharp, final click. “Yes, yes,” he echoes, almost as if humoring a child. “And doors just… lock themselves.” 

[aliceintheworld]

PURE ATTRACTION | JJK | TATTOO ARTIST

Pairing: TattooArtistJungkook X NaiveReader

Summary: " I shouldn’t be watching a man undressing, especially not from the house next door."

Warning: Fluff, kiss, impure thoughts, conversation about sex, masturbation, doubts and more doubts.

A/N: Here I am. As a thank you for all the wonderful comments, I will post two chapters today. (To be honest, I already have some stories in mind, but I want to finish Pure Attraction first, so I need to do it a little bit faster.) Keep interacting and voting. Don't forget: VOTE! It brings engagement and more motivation for the author!

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Chapter 8

I wave to my mother inside the car, as she reverses in front of our house and leaves, driving down the street of our neighborhood. Eunji works at a medium-sized company and travels a lot for a few months of the year, when she needs to present a new project. It's not new to me. I am used to being alone for some days; what makes me think, however, is Jungkook. I look at my neighbors' house out of inertia, seeing him at the living room window, reading some book. He notices me, opens a mischievous little smile, and waves, winking. My cheeks burn with his attention, and before I can embarrassed myself, in any way, I close the door and quickly step inside.

I still can't believe what happened last night. It feels like an unreal dream. If I didn't have marks and hickeys on my neck and breasts, I would have accepted that it was all a figment of my imagination and that Jungkook and I didn't end up together. I feel scared because I don't regret it and want it to happen again. I don't know where I'm getting myself into, and each time we meet, I sink deeper and deeper into this situation. I feel apprehensive because what I feel for him, I've never felt for anyone else. His kiss when he said goodbye, his dark and big eyes on mine... Just remembering it makes me shiver.

I start to organize myself because I need to take a look at the thrift store. It's been a while since I last went there, and I don't know how is doing. My day goes by quickly, and I return a bit earlier than expected because the movement wasn't very good. I attended to three customers, and only two of them bought something. I climb the stairs at home, tired and hungry, my stomach growling because I didn't even have lunch. I throw myself on the bed and close my eyes, not caring about the heavy clothes I'm wearing. I could sleep even in a costume, that nothing would disturb my sleep. I take off my sneakers with my feet and sigh, relieved to be home.

A few minutes pass when I feel fingers on my thigh, lifting my denim skirt towards my intimacy. I jump up, startled, when I see Jungkook on his knees on my mattress, his face close to mine. He laughs, noticing my surprise, doesn't say a word, and simply kisses me, brushing his lips against mine. I savor his taste in my mouth, silently asking him to deepen the caress and use his tongue with mine; however he pulls away, gives me a peck and another, before standing up completely.

"I could call the police." I joke, brushing the short hair from his face. The haircut is not much different from the previous one, but it makes him look more handsome, if that's even possible.

"I do everything with consent." He mocks, lying down beside me.

"I didn't give you any consent to come into my room. How did you get in?"

"The open window was very inviting. I couldn't resist." He shrugs, smiling.

"Why did you come here?" I raise my head, focused on his rosy lip when he pouts.

"I came to get you." Jungkook says, stretching on the bed. He lifts my right leg, caressing my skin. "And that's not a request."

"I don't even know where you want to take me." I comment, swallowing hard. I laugh a little, feeling the tickles from the tips of his fingers. "And I'm tired. I worked at my mother's store and at the library. And today is Tuesday. I'm dead."

"Your mother went traveling, didn't she? Enjoy it while she's not home."

"How do you know she traveled?" I raise an eyebrow, curious.

"She told my mom some time ago." He shrugs, as if it's simple.

"She only told me last night." I growl, irritated. My mother always does this, telling me her plans always at the last minute.

"I thought you knew. That's why I came here. When the king is in the castle, one cannot court the Princess. Everyone knows that."

"In this case, I would be the Princess?" I laugh, finding it funny.

"Yes. You are definitely Rapunzel. Have you noticed that your life is literally living in a tower?"

"I'm touched."

"It's serious. Come with me." Jungkook asks, whispering, squeezing my thigh. I smile knowing that, the way he asks, I'll never be able to say no. I sigh and roll my eyes.

"You convinced me. Tell me where we're going."

"It's not a very surprising place." He speaks carelessly; suddenly, his cheeks turn red, and he pinches the lobe of his ear, embarrassed. That makes me even more curious. I wonder what he plans, and even though I'm tired, I nod and get up from the bed.

"Alright, you made me curious. But I'm hungry and need to eat something before we go." I say, wrapping my arms around his neck. I kiss his lips in a quick peck, tasting him. A voice in my head tells me I shouldn't act so affectionately because I'm not his girlfriend –or anything like that –but the way Jungkook responds quiets that voice and reassures me it's ok to touch him like this.

"I'll order something for you to eat." He smiles simply. Before I can argue, he crouches down, takes my foot, and pulls off my sneaker. I watch everything, worried and fascinated, relaxing my leg so he can finish the task.

I really like Jungkook. I've admitted that, and it's not very hard to notice. I did things with him because he makes me feel confident in my own skin, and that does me good. He is funny, talented, kind and sarcastic, and even though I don't know him well, the things I know about him make me admire him. The problem is he might still love his ex, and I don't know how far I can unleash my own feelings. I'm afraid of having too many expectations and ending up frustrated and disappointed. He treats me very well, but does that mean he reciprocates what I feel, or does it just mean he is a gentleman who knows how to take care of a woman?

"Done." He says, finishing the knot of my shoelace.

I smile at him gratefully and feel his hand holding mine as we walk down the stairs. I lose a bit of my smile, seeing our fingers intertwined, but I say nothing. I promise myself that I will enjoy the moment and keep my paranoia to myself, for now.

"Are you really not going to tell me where we're going?" I ask when we reach the sidewalk. He shakes his head and laughs before stepping away.

"No. You'll have to wait a little." He replies, opening the gate to his parents' garage. I stand still, waiting for his car when I'm surprised to see Jungkook on a motorcycle, with another helmet on his right arm. I open my mouth, totally impressed, looking from end to end at how huge the thing is. Now I understand why Mr. Jeon was worried, when he mentioned his son's mean of transportation, last night at dinner.

"Shall we?"

"I've never been on a motorcycle." I comment weakly, afraid of falling before I even get on the back.

"Everything has a first time." Jungkook bites his lower lip, watching me mischievously. My face heats up when I remember he said the same thing to me, when I sucked his dick in my room.

"Jungkook, how long have you been riding this thing? Did you pass your practical test on the first try?" I ask, sarcastically. He laughs, rolling his eyes.

"I promise you will come out alive from this." He guarantees with cynicism. He stands up, turns around, and goes behind me. "I'll tie your hair up, wait a bit."

I wait patiently while he holds my rebellious strands and ties them with some elastic. Jungkook takes the helmet from his arm and looks back at my face. He seems super focused and serious, furrowing his brows and making sure my head is indeed protected. He gives a little smile and sits on the motorcycle, waiting for my turn. I am a bit awkward, not quite sure where to support myself, but Jungkook doesn't mind and holds my leg so I can settle in securely. I wrap my arms around his waist, and with my heart racing, I wave between his shoulder and neck.

"We can go." I confirm, uncertain. Almost at the same moment, Jungkook revs the engine and takes off down the street at speed. I hold on tighter to him, tense. I hear his laugh and know he did this on purpose to tease me. I hit his arm, pouting, and sigh, feeling the nice end-of-day breeze.

It's scary, fascinating and a fantastic moment. With the motorcycle rolling, I can follow the sunset, which transforms the blue sky into orange and the usually polluted air, into something purer and cleaner. It's a feeling of freedom, enjoyable and terrifying, the same I have every time I'm with Jungkook. I hold on tighter, happy for the new experience I'm living.

It doesn't take long before the motorcycle stops in the city center. Things are quite busy, with people walking from one place to another and the stores bustling with customers. I can't remember the last time I came here, even though it's so close to my house. I get off awkwardly, and Jungkook follows right behind, taking off his helmet.

"It's here." He smiles happily, pointing behind me. When I turn around, there's a large sign saying "GOLDEN TATTOO" with Jungkook's name, on a seemingly new and well-lit wall. "I managed to finish the renovation today, and I wanted to bring you here to see the place. You'll be the first person to come."

"It's perfect!" I sight, impressed. I'm left speechless as he opens the bulletproof glass and enters the place, as if he were familiar with the environment. It's different from what I expected, with gray-painted walls, plants everywhere, and illustrated designs in large frames. It's a place I would feel comfortable in, even if I came alone. "Did you decorate it?"

"Yes. These last few days, I worked with a design team to organize everything the way I envisioned it. It took a lot of work, but I think it's finally all ready."

"It's very beautiful." I smile, touching one of the frames on the wall. It's a tattoo of an eye, apparently feminine and brown. It's so realistic that it feels like it's looking in my direction. I analyze the drawing so much that Jungkook laughs, lowering his head.

"Did you like it?" He points to the frame, smiling. I nod, touching the picture.

"It's spectacular."

"I drew it." He explains, coming up behind me. My heart skips a few beats when his arms wrap around my waist, and he presses his mouth against my ear. My spine freezes, and I get all goosebumps, from the last strand of my hair to the tips of my toes. "Come here, I want to show you something."

He pulls my hand and guides me to a room with white walls, some utensils and machines that, even as a layperson, I know are for tattooing. It's a very clean and sterilized place, with masks, disposable gloves, and colored inks in a glass and wood cabinet. The almost obsessive organization doesn't surprise me. When I saw Jungkook's apartment some time ago, I realized he likes everything very well organized, and his workplace wouldn't be any different. He sits me on the waiting sofa, and I observe some drawings in a black folder on the coffee table.

I don't know many people with tattoos, and I've never taken the time to appreciate this type of art, but I like what Jungkook does. He creates realistic designs, but most of them have fine and delicate touches. It's interesting to get to know another one of his sides that makes me more enchanted by him every day. I glance at my phone, thinking of my mother suddenly. I shake my head, determined to expel my restlessness. All these worries don't matter right now. She's out of town, and I need to stop tormenting myself about her. Jungkook appears at the door, almost as if he knew I was lost in thought, and smiles at me, mysteriously.

"What do you want to show me? I'm almost going crazy with curiosity." I confess, excited. He smiles, holding a roll of plastic wrap in one hand and raising a tablet in the other.

"I'm going to end your curiosity now." He says. "It's nothing special. I'm just going to do a tattoo on myself."

"What? Another one? Didn't you do one the day before yesterday?" I exclaim, opening my mouth in disbelief. He laughs at my surprise, as if he had said the most ordinary thing in the world.

"I've done tattoos on myself a few times; it's not a big deal. And I have to take advantage because the healing time is always restrict with food."

"Don't you feel pain while doing it?"

"I do." He confirms, shrugging. "But it's not unbearable, and I can stay still the whole time."

"Are you some kind of masochist?" I tease, watching him. Jungkook wraps the plastic around the tattoo machine and on the bench beside me without pausing.

"It's a nice pain." He smiles slyly, licking his lower lip. "It's almost like when I spank your butt. Don't you feel pleasure when there's a bit of it?"

"Jungkook!" I reprimand, my face burning with embarrassment at the question. He really has no scruples. And neither do I, because I hate to admit it, but I actually enjoy it when he spanks me.

"Some types of pain are bearable and nice to feel. You should try it." He suggests, sitting beside me.

"No, thanks." I decline. Just the thought of a needle piercing me, makes me anxious.

"Scaredy-cat." He mocks. He raises the tablet and shows me the drawing. It's a pink, reddish flower. It's a beautiful and interesting drawing, but apparently painful if done by oneself. I grimace, pitying him.

"What does it mean?" His face turns red suddenly. He looks at his hands and bites his lips, thoughtful.

"It's the flower of my birth. The tiger flower." He diverts his gaze from mine, leaving me confused.

"What is it?" I ask, laughing. Generally, I'm the shy one in the relationship.

"It's nothing; it's just that... it means 'please, love me.' I think that phrase is so beautiful and, at the same time, so sad."

"Please, love me." I repeat, testing the words on my tongue. It really is sad but touching. I wonder, however, why he chose that tattoo. "Are you sure you can handle it?" I question, worried, somewhat skeptical. Jungkook turns completely to me and narrows his dark eyes, looking at me.

"Of course I can. Don't doubt my abilities."

"I'm not doubting." I explain, putting my hands in front of my body to defend myself. "It's just that it's a drawing with many details. It's normal for you not to be able to do something like that in a short time. It's already seven."

"Let's make a bet?" He suggests, brushing his hair from his face. I get excited about the proposal, nodding my head.

"Sure, why not? But what can we bet on?"

"If I can't finish the tattoo in two hours, you choose something for us to do together." The dark-haired boy explains, running his fingers on my thigh. A shiver runs up my spine as he trails his fingers on my skin, slowly lifting my skirt with ease.

"Do something together? Like what?" I frown, curious. He smiles, this time wickedly. His hand goes from my thighs to my neck, pulling my hair back. He entwines his fingers in my strands and caresses my scalp with his thumb. A breath of arousal escapes my mouth, beyond my control.

"Anything. You decide."

"And if you win the bet, you do whatever you want with me?" I tease, laughing at my own question. Jungkook doesn't deny it, however, looking at me with a serious expression that, if it weren't for the situation, would disturb me.

"I already know what I want." He says in a husky voice. "If I win the bet, you touch yourself in front of me, like I asked you to."

"J-Jungkook! I can't do that." I choke, shaking my head. I would die of embarrassment. I've tried a few times to touch myself, I confess, but I never succeeded. I always felt awkward, as if something was missing. As if I were a complete weirdo for even trying.

"Are you already thinking about losing? That's not how bets work."

"I've never bet on something like this." I laugh ironically, trembling. His hand releases my hair but doesn't stop touching me. He slides his palm further down and caresses my stomach, which bubbles because of him. I'm so entranced by his touch that I can't stop him and let Jungkook slip under my shirt, heading for my breasts, covered by my bra.

"Think of the other side. If I lose, you can do whatever you want with me." He argues quietly, giving a small smile.

I start imagining what I would do with him if I won the bet. I'm not very creative, but something that really excites me would be to bring him to the edge just like he did with me last night. He denied my orgasm, and I want to do the same with Jungkook, over and over again. Of course, I would have to be very confident, and I don't know if I could achieve my goal, but I think it's worth a try.

"Alright. I agree." I nod nervously. He approaches with a sideways smile and tucks my hair behind my ear, before closing his eyes and kissing my mouth.

I wrap my arms around his neck and deepen our kiss, massaging his mouth with mine. I bite his lower lip, only satisfied when I hear a rumble from him deep in his throat. He smirks between caresses, stops, and attacks my neck, licking my skin and leaving a thin trail of saliva. Weeks ago, I couldn't even imagine a man without clothes in front of me, and now all I want is to suck him off and feel him come in my mouth, just like last night. I still remember the result of his pleasure flowing down my throat, and my desire to repeat everything we did makes my brain intoxicated. I'm completely lost in wanting this man.

"A kiss to seal the deal." Jungkook grunts and pulls away, his mouth swollen. I try to continue the kiss with the excitement eating me from the inside out, but he smiles and stops touching me completely. "I have to start this tattoo if I want to win the bet."

Jungkook stands up and sketches the rose on a piece of paper. My head disconnects from reality while he begins the work. I pick up my phone for a few seconds and see the time passing. I would be more worried if my mother weren't out of town. I leave the sofa, needing to pee, and open a door marked for the bathroom. I take care of my business and look at myself in the mirror. My face looks apparently normal, if not for my flushed cheeks and red lips from the kisses. I splash a bit of water on myself, and when I feel calmer, I return to the tattoo studio. The machine works continuously, and Jungkook seems submerged and engrossed in his task, furrowing his brows, totally focused.

I shouldn't have accepted this bet. Jungkook has several tattoos, and it's obvious that his pain tolerance is high. I know he will win. The way he remains silent and effortlessly pierces his own skin tells me that sooner or later, I'll have to fulfill the difficult challenge. I bite my lip, watching the drawing of the flower being completed as the minutes pass. It's a very time-consuming process, but minutes fly. I am so relaxed and still that I could almost fall asleep listening to the buzzing of the needle.

"Y/N, I ordered food for both of us." I hear his voice suddenly. I jump a bit because I didn't notice he was talking to me, lost in my own head. "I hope you like pasta."

"I really like it, thanks." I say, shaking my head. I'm really hungry.

Before long, someone rings the studio's doorbell. Jungkook even tries to get up to answer the delivery person, but there's no way I'd let him go outside when he's so focused on his own work. I go outside and grab the food bag, seeing that he ordered beer, pasta, fries, and a can of Diet Coke for both of us. I'm happy to notice, in such a simple gesture, that he remembered I don't drink alcohol. My mouth instantly fills with saliva.

"I think you're not going to win the bet." I comment, sitting back on the sofa. I separate my food from his, tasting the delicious vegetable sauce that is the most tasty thing in the world. At least that's what my stomach thinks, given how hungry I am.

"I'm almost done." He brags, still tattooing himself. He passes a paper to remove the excess ink from his skin and raises an eyebrow confidently. "I can't wait to see you touching yourself."

"That's not going to happen." I guarantee with a certainty I don't have, blushing and taking a sip of the soda. It's refreshing, going cold down through my throat.

"Let's see if it won't. Do you really think I'm going to miss the chance to watch you masturbating?"

"Jungkook..." I mumble, covering my face. "Don't you have any shame? Stop saying those things."

"Don't worry, Y/N." He smiles, confident in his victory. "You still have a reasonable amount of time to get used to the idea."

"Focus, Kook." I change the subject; my heart races just imagining myself in that situation. He falls silent and bites his lower lip, looking at me from head to toe with such hunger that makes me nervous and excited. I swallow my food as he returns to tattooing, wondering if he will really finish the drawing in time.

And he does. Of course, he does. In the end, after one hour and forty-five minutes, Jungkook has a new complete drawing on his right arm, along with other tattoos that adorn his body. I finished my food just in time to see him ending everything with mastery and calm, as if he wasn't worried about our bet. His hungry eyes find mine, and I know exactly what he wants. I swallow hard, squeezing my thighs together.

"I think I deserve my prize since I won the bet."

"Y-yes." I respond, trembling. My heart beats loudly in my chest, and I have to breathe deeply to finally realize that I don't feel fear, not even a hint of hesitation. All I feel is lust and desire. A longing to have him closer, to touch him in his rawest form. I sigh, watching him stand up and walk calmly towards me, like a predator; a lion eyeing its prey. I shrink back on the couch, small, now that he is standing. His knee sneaks between my legs, and separates my thighs before he squats down, and brings his face closer to mine.

"I don't want you to touch yourself here." He whispers, like a secret. His dilated pupils when he gazes at my mouth. "In my apartment. In my bed. I want you there."

Ask for a TAGLIST in the comments.

@ane102 @joonwater @ttipa

[izzymissi]

BOOKWORM Chapter 1, Daniela Dimitrescu x FemReader Slowburn Romance fic. 🥰💕🥰

Any feedback or Suggestions are appreciated!!

As the days in Castle Dimitrescu wore on, you found refuge in its grand, dimly lit library. It was a place untouched by the cold stone walls outside, warm and inviting with rows of endless books that whispered of lives, lands, and mysteries far beyond the reach of the village. You’d been a maid here long enough to know that silence and discretion were your safest companions. Yet, in the solitude of the library, you allowed yourself to indulge in the fantastical worlds nestled between the dusty pages.

You were drawn to romance, to tales of knights and hidden love that swelled with longing glances and trembling hands reaching across dangerous divides. Each evening, after your duties were done, you would steal away to this secluded corner, tucking yourself between the towering shelves with a well-worn novel. And it was in these quiet moments, bathed in the soft amber glow of the reading lamp, that you felt a rare sense of peace.

What you didn’t know was that Daniela had noticed your little routine long ago.

Daniela Dimitrescu, the vibrant, fiery, and notoriously mischievous youngest daughter of Lady Dimitrescu, rarely went unnoticed herself. She had a certain energy that crackled around her, a grin that was both charming and intimidating, and a boldness that left others stumbling. Yet even with all the attention she could command, Daniela craved something else—something that, perhaps, lay hidden in the pages of the books she so often wandered off to read. When she saw you, the castle maid, repeatedly disappearing into her favorite spot, the spark of curiosity soon grew into something else entirely.

At first, she simply observed. She’d peek around corners or catch the faintest glimpse of you, head tilted down, lost in your reading. But after a few weeks, she was itching to see what kind of person could lose themselves so completely in a book.

One evening, she finally made her move. The library was quiet, and you were entirely unaware of the quick, eager footsteps approaching behind you. Absorbed in the pages of a particularly intense romance, you didn’t notice her shadow fall over you until—

“Oh, you little bookworm!” Daniela’s voice broke the silence, making you jump. You looked up to see her grinning down at you, hands on her hips and eyes alight with mischief. “I knew I’d find you here! What’s that? Romance? Ah, I didn’t peg you for a romantic, but I like it!”

You felt your cheeks heat, embarrassment flooding you at being caught. “I… didn’t hear you come in, my Lady,” you stammered, frantically closing the book, but her hand shot out, catching your wrist with surprising ease.

“Oh, don’t be shy! Let me see!” she demanded, pulling the book toward her. “Is it some steamy forbidden love story? It is, isn’t it?” She looked back at you with a wild grin, her face mere inches from yours as she tried to get a better look at the cover. “Ohhh, I see! You really like these stories, huh?”

“Yes, my Lady,” you mumbled, your cheeks burning even more under her gaze. But she only laughed, a warm, delighted sound, and let go of the book, though she didn’t pull back from you. In fact, she seemed entirely too pleased by your shyness.

“Well then!” she announced with a grin. “Since I’ve caught you, I demand to know why you’re always hiding out here reading alone! You could’ve told me sooner, you know. I’m dying for someone to read with me!”

The idea of sitting beside her, reading with her, was thrilling yet terrifying. “I… I didn’t know you enjoyed reading, my Lady.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Of course I do! You think I just sit around all day? Besides, I bet I could recommend a few books that’d knock your socks off,” she said, nudging you with her elbow as if you were sharing some sort of inside joke.

“Maybe we could read… together?” you ventured, heart pounding. The look of excitement that spread across her face was instant, her eyes wide with a mixture of delight and mischief.

“Oh, you’re on!” she said, practically bouncing. “Starting tomorrow, I’m dragging you in here with me every night. And don’t think you can weasel your way out, because I’ll hunt you down if I have to.” She was grinning, her fingers tapping excitedly against your arm as if already picturing all the stories she’d share with you.

And so it began. In the evenings that followed, Daniela would wait for you by the library, greeting you with the same irrepressible enthusiasm each time you arrived. She’d grab your hand, leading you to the armchairs by the fireplace, practically pulling you down beside her, her eyes already shining with excitement for the next story. She’d insist on sharing passages with you—laughing, poking your shoulder, and reading with exaggerated drama that made it impossible not to smile along with her.

You tried to keep your heart steady, but it was nearly impossible with Daniela’s hands brushing against your arm, her laughter echoing so close to your ear, and her leg casually pressing against yours as she leaned over to read what you were reading. She was bold, unafraid of the touches and gestures that sent your heart racing, and entirely oblivious to the effect it had on you.

[hanamukes]

Uika and her inner monster, Doloris

Admittedly when I first watched It's MyGO and Ave Mujica 0th, I didn't really think much of Uika. She and Doloris are presented as such vastly different entities that my brain kind of glossed over her, because I don't tend to go crazy for characters who are presented to us as always being bright and warm. Even when the last episode aired and I saw her undergo the transformation from Uika into Doloris, it still hadn't fully set in for me (though perhaps this is simply because I was busy losing my mind in excitement about seeing Ave Mujica at all as well as the sequel announcement).

But reading the interviews that came out after the anime finished airing completely changed that. Uika is Tomori's opposite in every regard? She has a secret so intense it made her voice actress stand out of her chair and yell when she heard it? I need to know more! What on earth could this seemingly kind character be hiding?

I've been keeping a close eye on her content ever since, and it's slowly making me feel insane. So, in anticipation for the anime, as well as their 4th concert which will happen in December and thus give us even more Doloris lore, I wanted to compile a post on the both of them in which I will present my various thoughts and theories.

Doloris

Uika is, in the most literal sense, Doloris' actress. This could perhaps lend to many believing that Uika is not Doloris, or rather that Doloris is not Uika. At the same time, I want to pose a very simple question.

Who came first: Doloris or Uika?

Timeline-wise, Doloris came first. Can Uika even exist without Doloris? Can she be who she is without us immediately recognizing her as being Doloris? What came first was not "Doloris is a puppet persona Uika plays as on stage," but rather it was "Uika is Doloris from Ave Mujica." This was their intent; to introduce Doloris to us, and then to introduce this girl who has an identical design to her in the anime, who is seemingly her exact opposite. What weight could Uika's scenes hold, if not to tell us that she will later turn into the monster known as Doloris? On her own, without Doloris, what does Uika represent?

Doloris herself talks about wanting to be seen for her true self. Is Uika Doloris' true self, or is Doloris Uika's true self? Which is it that they want us to believe? Which one does "Uika" want us to believe? Which one is Sakiko, or perhaps Oblivionis, trying to convince us to believe? Who is "Uika"?

Our introduction to this character was not a Sumimi scene, or her consoling someone, or a frame of her smiling, or of her expressing her love for music. It was this.

This creepy, disturbing montage of Doloris, covered in blood, inviting someone into her cult. Inviting you into her cult. Inviting you to dig deeper.

Though if you want to go even further back, I would argue our first, true genuine introduction was Black Birthday itself.

You see, I don't believe there's any true and correct way to interpret Ave Mujica's songs. The songs are whatever you make of them. That's part of the insanity of Ave Mujica; of never having a proper answer, of always wanting to dig deeper. So I won't say this is that correct reading, but rather one of the infinite possibilities. That said, after watching the intermissions from their concerts as we currently know them, I can't help but feel their first 6 songs perfectly tell the story of Doloris. It goes something like this:

Black Birthday: Doloris' rebirth into her true self. The dyeing of one's purity into corruption. Finally being able to see what was once unseeable (perhaps the light in the pitch black darkness, which she discusses a lot in their stage plays). It's a disturbing birthday party welcoming the new her.

The Two Moons ~Deep Into the Forest~: Now reborn, she finds herself lost in a forest. The play sequence in the last episode of It's MyGO feels reminiscent to this song; Doloris straying into a forest (Loft Moon), while Oblivionis ridicules her, and yet she's so beautiful she cannot take her eyes off her despite the pain of having her heart torn asunder. The song even has imagery describing candles lit on a table, which we can see in the anime rendition of this scene.

Choir 'S' Choir: She's slowly giving in to the insanity of Ave Mujica. This song reminds me a lot of Perdere Omnia; when she finally stops her denial and begins to understand why the others wish to destroy the world. She's letting herself become an esquire, a fallen angel if you will. She hears voices screaming at her, and she knows she's being hunted down, but she keeps dancing anyway. She's testing out her new abilities.

God, You're a Fool: This song represents her inner doubts. What exactly are they fighting for? For whose sake? Why do they have to be in this situation to begin with? If God wasn't a fool, surely everything would be fine... right?

Mas?uerade Rhapsody Re?uest: She's decided she no longer cares about anything. No longer cares how corrupted she becomes, no longer cares to hide her dark feelings. She's just going to fully embrace it all, she's going to let herself be taken by the shadowy jesters. The mask is a part of her now.

Ave Mujica: With her mask as her skin, it's her turn to lure others in. She's going to corrupt you. She reassures you that those with masks will fulfill your any wish, and that even though this is a place of no return, don't worry, there's nothing to be scared of.

It's interesting, because while the songs can apply to anyone (the other dolls for one, and perhaps even the listeners themselves), I can't ignore the parallels between the story these songs are telling, and the story of Doloris as we've seen in the concert intermissions. (Regarding the Utopia single and the ELEMENTS series, those songs were written more to fit a specific narrative, and I don't think they apply to the dolls themselves as directly. That's just my own personal take on them though and is why I won't be analyzing them here)

As for the intermissions themselves, there's a lot going on in them and much of Doloris' dialogue isn't about herself, but I want to go over some general observations:

Doloris uses 僕 (boku). This is significant because she's the only one who has a personal pronoun that differs from her actress; Uika uses 私(watashi). Ave Mujica songs use 私 (watashi) as well, though I don't think this means much in the context of Uika or Doloris because it's just for formality (if anything, it's interesting because it's an inverse of Uika's narrative opposite, Tomori; who uses 私 (watashi) in her daily speech but 僕 (boku) in her songs). That said, in Quaerere Lumina, there's a segment where "Doloris" switches to 私 (watashi), which many found haunting because it almost felt as if those words came from Uika herself, and that she switched back to Doloris after speaking vulnerable words from her heart.

She uses 君 (kimi; "you") in an interesting way. In Perdere Omnia, this referred to Oblivionis. In Veritas, however, she uses this repeatedly in the context of "someone" who she wants to be reborn with. It's someone who extended a hand to her, and who took her mask off her. It's someone she wants to be with for the rest of her life, just the two of them. And at the end, she uses it in reference to you, the audience, who will surely attend their next concert. Who is it that removed her mask? Oblivionis, or us? (Like many things in Ave Mujica, my own interpretation on this is that it's probably Oblivionis, because at its core, this is a yuri band, and Oblivionis is in fact someone who we've seen accept Doloris for who she is)

Each doll has a specific thing they focus on: Oblivionis stands her ground despite everything but also talks about finding things pitiful, Timoris is logical and an observer who wants to be acknowledged, Amoris talks about her lost love and boredom, Mortis talks about peace and quiet as well as the beauty in death. For Doloris, the thing she highlights that the others don't is us watching her slowly spiral into insanity, and particularly as of Veritas, her sense of her own body (as well as this attachment to someone else, as mentioned above). She sees herself as an empty shell, which is true for the others as well, but on top of this she has a fixation on her mask and the relationship it has with her body. It's her skin, and simultaneously, if you remove it, below that you'll find her true, perhaps ugly self. It means a lot to her that someone could love the her that exists without the mask. (Is this intended to be foreshadowing for the relationship between Doloris and Uika, and which of the two of them is her truest self?)

Doloris is an embodiment of insecurity, and simultaneously, she's a ferocious monster when she performs. Rico Sasaki herself claims that she feels like Doloris possesses her when they hold concerts. Her voice is cold, bitter and pained; it's a far cry from Uika's speaking voice, which is so warm and comforting. She is plagued with sorrow, of which she would rather die and be reborn than have to deal with. Her ideal world is simply one of being together with the one who accepts her in all of her ugliness.

Uika

There's a sort of trend to Uika's scenes: when she's around someone else, she waits for them to talk or express emotion before she matches their energy, and when she's alone, she drops the happy idol facade. The very first time we ever see her, she's doing just this.

This is also apparent in two other (coincidentally Sumimi) scenes, where the same thing happens in each: Uika is matching the energy of who she's talking to, but the second she's separated from them by a door, she has an almost empty expression on her face.

(The fact this has happened for both Sumimi scenes, when Uika has so little screentime so every second we see of her is supposed to be precious, has me really wondering just how much she likes her "dream job." Also, I wonder if this is a coincidence: immediately after both of these shots, she looks at her phone and sees Sakiko on her screen which cheers her up (the first is an old text, the second is a phone call))

It's something that on its own feels a bit deliberate, but when you take a certain intermission from their concerts into consideration, it really does become something you can't ignore.

This is the one part of the concert intermissions in which Doloris uses 私 (watashi). This is what many interpret to be Uika's words.

To put this simply, she feels as if she's an empty shell who has to match the energy of the people around her. When nobody is there to give her something to react to, she reverts to that husk. This is exactly the vibe I get from a lot of her scenes in the anime.

(I talked in depth about these two scenes in my Taki&Uika writeup so please do check that out for my thoughts on them, but to recap for this context: it's interesting to me how she looks so "empty" until she reads Sakiko's message (and feels seen by her, thus breaking her out of that state; I also want to mention she never messaged Sakiko first despite having her phone number, which to me is such an explicit example of her feeling like she doesn't exist unless someone else contacts her first that you may as well have a bright red arrow pointing at it), and on the right we can see her matching Sakiko's energy)

And actually, she almost implies as much to Mana directly.

"It's easy for me to sing when I'm with you, Mana-chan." On the surface, this just seems like something she's saying to make her excitable partner happy, to show agreement even though she's exhausted and not nearly as excited as she is. Mana reacts, calling it a compliment. But is it really? Her wording here is deliberate: she can only sing well because she's with her. Because she's being seen by someone else. Watching all of their scenes, I can't shake the feeling that Uika would not "shine" as an idol without Mana by her side. Immediately before this, Mana's happily waving and thanking the filming crew while Uika gives them a more heartless nod. Uika's appeal as an idol is that she's "cool" (this is written on her character bio), so it's not that I would expect her to match Mana's energy in that sense (who's appeal is her energy)... but I do wonder what she would be like in this context without Mana, given she already seems rather tense even with her. (Here's an easily missable clip of her sighing the second she's alone)

What about her comforting Tomori? Surely that was the one scene where she was acting of her own emotions? And what about when she talked to her in the final episode? It's not as if she was matching Tomori's energy 1:1! She reached out to her on her own!

And maybe that's true. However, consider this: that happened after she got Sakiko back in her life. Is an empty husk still just a shell if the one who's there to look at her―and bring her to life―is by her side now?

Let's take a closer look at these scenes though, shall we?

The planetarium. Uika was there to look at the stars, which are reflective of her childhood memories with Sakiko. Then, she finds Tomori, who she recognizes as being from Crychic (because she attended their concert a year ago). I could believe it if she sat next to her because Tomori looked upset; Tomori has subtle facial expressions yes, but it's pretty obvious when she's hurt. She decides to sit next to her, but her seat won't recline (I've seen people point out that she's been there before, so she surely would have known how to put the seat down; I think this is very funny and could be true, though I do want to point out Tomori said "this seat works like this" and Uika was sitting in a different seat than we saw in episode 8 anyway). Tomori helps her and they make indescribable eye contact briefly before they go back to watching the stars.

Then she kept an eye on her when they left and caught her on the stairs. Pretty standard stuff. From the get-go though, she was matching Tomori's energy. This is really subtle and more obvious in motion, but when she's asking if Tomori's okay, Tomori's head dips down twice, and each time Tomori's head dips, Uika's dips down a second or two later to match her.

If it was just once, I wouldn't think anything of it, but twice? Why is she studying her reaction this closely to the point of replicating it?

Then this happens, and I'll just leave my commentary from a year ago because it still applies:

Uika stares at Tomori and the Crychic photo that she saw on their social media comes to mind. She focuses in on Sakiko and Tomori... but moreso Sakiko. This kind of goes under the radar as it comes across as her bringing up stars because she knows it's something Tomori clearly likes and thus could be a bridge of conversation between them, so to speak, but I can't shake the fact that thinking about Sakiko was what prompted her to start talking about the stars she can see in Tokyo. Sakiko, who she was separated from for so long and who she was only able to reunite with in Tokyo.

(As a side note before I continue, this conversation makes me wonder how familiar she is with Tokyo. I'm not well-versed in Japan's geography nor do we really know anything about Uika's personal life, but I do know she lived on an island as a kid because she says Sakiko visited her island. It's also her chat icon)

Another easily missable detail, but when she picks up Tomori's notes, she waits a second for Tomori to give "consent" (via eye contact) before she continues talking. I'll also just mention here that I do think Uika meant what she said about singing being something that conveys someone's heart, and I feel like this was the most honest she was in the entire show.

Moving on to the episode 13 confrontation. I'll be honest, this whole interaction is very weird and as I'm typing up this post I'm still not sure what to make of a lot of it.

Once again, Uika is in the planetarium, this time in the same seat she was in for episode 8 before she met up with Sakiko (starting to see a theme here). Then she spots Tomori and grabs her shoulder, calling her Tomori-chan. Tomori seems confused so she checks that it really is "Tomori" and says they met there before. She does the same thing she did in episode 10 where when Tomori shifts her head, she shifts hers too while she's talking to her.

I like this shot because it feels like she instantly goes into "handsome" mode when she realizes this girl is a fan of "Sumimi's Uika."

This is where this interaction gets weird, because Tomori says she doesn't know who Uika is, and Uika responds with... "I'm glad she doesn't." Huh? Even Anon herself says "Huh?" out loud here. I could not possibly give you an explanation for why Uika would be "glad" that Tomori doesn't know who she is. Why is she trying to get close with her if she doesn't care that Tomori doesn't know her?

Then she asks if Tomori's song worked and Tomori says yes. It still feels like she's trying to gauge her feelings (but for what?). Then she claims she doesn't know Tomori, they just "met at the planetarium before." Anon seems pretty weirded out still. Then she changes the subject and asks if the two of them are in a band. When Anon shows her her phone, which has all the band members listed, she stares at it for a second before asking if she can follow.

(Anon's face being cut off here is interesting to me given this is from Uika's point of view, and really what could be so interesting in that photo?)

The length in which she stares at it makes me think this is likely how she learned MyGO exists, though I can't really piece together what she gets out of this aside from knowing what band Tomori is in. Then she asks if she can follow them and leaves. The whole interaction feels so pointless yet so deliberate: we didn't get closure on Taki's character arc in this episode, but we got this scene of Uika following MyGO's social media account? I'll be interested in seeing how this is relevant later on.

Oh, and the most important part of this scene: Tomori never told Uika her name. Anon is visibly weirded out by this. Of course, this scene is also followed by another shot of Uika not having to match anyone's energy, looking stern as she seems to whenever she's by herself. (She's looking at Crychic's social media page and commenting on how Tomori is from Sakiko's old band, by the way; how did she pull that up so fast? She just sat down?)

Uika and Tomori are narrative opposites. The director for the anime stated that Uika is her polar opposite in every regard. Ricochi also pointed out that while Tomori's songs turn her human, Uika's turn her into a monster. Their episode 10 confrontation was intended to be them meeting before the Ave Mujica ball gets rolling, so to speak, in order to allow them to contrast greater when the sequel comes out.

In general, what I make of Uika's cheerfulness is it's reflective of something Ricochi said in regards to Ave Mujica as a whole: like the moon, she can't shine on her own, but when others look at her, a light glistens from her. It almost makes me wonder if she wanted to become an idol in order to, like she said in her introduction clip with Mana, "make others feel better too" with her songs, at an attempt to mask the fact she can't shine when she's alone herself.

Those are the biggest points I wanted to articulate, so below I'll drop some other observations.

Regarding the flashback scene of Uika and Sakiko as kids... Uika is blushing here when Sakiko is not.

Normally I wouldn't think anything of this, because that's just how the models are (for instance, Sakiko's casual clothes model seems to always have the blush regardless of her mood, while Oblivionis of course doesn't; Uika's model also doesn't have a constant blush), but this scene was hand drawn. It's more deliberate. I don't want to insinuate that this implies Uika cares more about Sakiko than Sakiko cares about Uika because I don't think that's what they meant here at all, just that these specific memories may hold different meaning to Uika than they do for Sakiko. Perhaps more importantly though (and even less obvious) is that Uika's hair looks longer in the shot of them looking at the stars than it was for their meeting and the bug catching. It makes you wonder how much time may have passed between those two memories. (I do recognize this may have just been a continuity error of sorts, but she is wearing a different outfit too)

In Sakiko's conversation to Nyamu, she hints that she got Uika for her band because of Sumimi's popularity. This is interesting to me because in episode 7, she absolutely... glares? at the Sumimi music video.

...Which makes you wonder how she really felt looking at it. In any case, I don't think it was just for the fame because you don't exactly call somebody and tell them to help you forget everything if it's just for the money. That's a pretty intimate thing to ask somebody, and especially for Sakiko who up until then had been actively avoiding speaking anything from her heart. We also know that Uika does the lyrics for Ave Mujica, so we can truly only make guesses as to what transpired between their talk and the final episode...

Oh, also, when Sakiko calls Uika, she blushes. Which feels pretty notable to me when seconds beforehand she was in "cool, kind of broody idol" mode.

As for the last episode...

When Nyamu asks if she can go to Uika's place, she says yes! It makes you wonder how close she is with everyone by this point, and also what her home life looks like.

This one is sold on the voice work, but she sounds super happy to get to see Sakiko.

This also happens at the end of the episode, when she asks if she can ride the train home with Sakiko despite the fact she got there in a cab. I wrote my thoughts about this here, but it is interesting to me how it implies she might not know about Sakiko's home life at this point.

For this line, it's not lost on me how similar this dialogue is in reflection to what Doloris says in their stage play immediately after; with Oblivionis talking about them being dolls, and Doloris questioning her every word. It's as if she'd turned into Doloris the second she put her mask on...

Tying it all together

What's striking to me is that in all the trailers for the Ave Mujica anime―which by all means will be where we learn more about Uika―we've only seen one shot of her.

The rest have been Doloris. From this we can presume that the doll lore from their concerts will be relevant to the actresses, we just don't know to what extent.

It's scary really, because... seriously, even if Uika does feel like an empty shell, there's more to it than just that. And despite all of my analysis up until this point, I have not a single clue what her actual deal could be. Even after I post this, I'll continue to watch her scenes over and over, trying to piece things together with what little we have right now.

I'll be very interested to see both Doloris and Uika in the upcoming anime, and in what ways the lines between them are blurred.

[tsams-and-co-memes]

Ok, discussion time

I have multiple blogs here, and sometimes people like tagging me in things, which I'm 100% ok with. You can tag me in memes, art, videos, shit posts, whatever you want, and I wouldn't mind a single bit

Lately though, I've been getting tagged in posts that walk a very narrow line between open discussions and drama/arguing/confrontation/general negativity. I won't name any names, but this is a thing that's been happening

I prefer to keep things on my blogs lighthearted and easygoing, since drama tends to hit me pretty hard whenever I get dragged into it

That being said, I don't like to be involved in drama. I don't like associating myself with it, I don't like discussing it, and the only time I'll deal with it is in tlaes/teaps/tsams on YouTube. I'm here for the lore and to have a good time, and that's it

Please do not tag me in any posts that could be perceived as overly dramatic, genuinely hating on specific characters, angry ranting about whatever, or just general negativity

These are all things I do not subscribe to, and if I'm tagged in these, all tags will get ignored, more than likely. I simply don't want to participate in anything negative

I WILL participate in open discussions about lore stuff, of course, but if you wanna have these conversations with me, I'd politely ask that you use tone indicators, since I tend to read things weirdly and I get confused sometimes, and the last thing I want is to get invited into an open discussion and have my brain suddenly tell me that everyone's angry

[sherlockchallenge]

Hello and welcome to the November Challenge. The prompt for this month is onion.

Have fun! Before you start please read the rules & FAQ - you can find them at the top of the page or here.

Reblog for signal boost and don’t forget to invite your favourite artists and writers to take part :) If you enjoy the challenges, please consider leaving a small tip via ‘buy me coffee’ - thank you <3

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(Remember you can still enter the previous challenges as there are no deadlines. Also, if you have an idea for a future prompt, the askbox is always open and waiting - see FAQ for details)

IMPORTANT: Don’t wanna miss a challenge? Simply send me message and I will notify you every month via messenger when a new challenge comes up! :)

[andorology]

Sanguinity: Chapter 3 a rebelcaptain regency au

“But I would venture to say,” Bodhi added, “that there are times we cannot choose the people who will become part of our lives; one day they just enter and stay there—providence itself decides for us.”

“Well then,” Jyn said, “let us hope that in doing so, it is due to its benevolence, and that the people it chooses to grace us with will enrich the village.” She then briefly thought of the Andors, and found herself scouring the crowd, hoping to spot the sister. As for the brother, she did not know exactly what to look out for yet.

____

Everyone attends the Rook ball. Jyn hosts, seizes her prospects, and finally meets Cassian for the first time. Sparks fly.

Read Chapter 3 of Sanguinity below the cut, or check it out on ao3! Rating T.

The days passed by so gently, as though time floated along the easy winds of the spring. Friday came upon Endor Village like the quiet dawn, and before everyone knew it, the Rook ball, the first event of the season, finally commenced. 

Just as the last drop of daylight faded from the sky, Mabayar Hall received its first carriage, which transported the visiting Donwells—Sir Donwell, his wife Mrs. Donwell, and their ward, James Donwell. Soon the hundred other people that had been invited to attend followed, which included, among a few other persons of importance, the Ersos, Philip Krennic (without his father, who had to be away on an important meeting), and to the curiosity of everyone present, the Andors.

About an hour into the merriment, Jyn had been quickly pulled aside, for Bodhi’s particular want of her counsel on the matter of the chandelier. 

“I do not see what you have been worrying about, Mr. Rook,” said Jyn as they both stood by the corner of the ballroom, straining their necks to look at the fixture overhead. Streams of wax had already trickled down from the candles, their warm light softly fractured by the crystals. “I think it’s just right—neither ostentatious nor gauche.” 

“As long as you are sure,” Mr. Rook said. “I thought the same myself, but I do not want to stir conversation about its being too much or too little.”

Jyn looked at her friend, her expression mirthful. “For a gentleman whose reputation has already been established, you certainly still do worry about what others regard of you.”

Bodhi, chuckling, replied, “I know you are above forsaking me, Miss Erso, if I threw the worst party in the world, but I am not sure the others will be as tolerant of such failings.”

“If that is the case,” replied Jyn, “which I highly doubt it would be, then the only failing on your part would be consorting with the wrong company. Sensible friends would know that there are much worse blunders than a dowdy chandelier to reserve such sentiments for. Perhaps it is simply a matter of choosing the people with whom we are to be.”

“And I have,” Bodhi agreed. “For you are my dear friend.”

Jyn smiled.  

“But I would venture to say,” Bodhi added, “that there are times we cannot choose the people who will become part of our lives; one day they just enter and stay there—providence itself decides for us.”

“Well then,” Jyn said, “let us hope that in doing so, it is due to its benevolence, and that the people it chooses to grace us with will enrich the village.” She then briefly thought of the Andors, and found herself scouring the crowd, hoping to spot the sister. As for the brother, she did not know exactly what to look out for yet. 

“But I believe it has not renounced us thus far,” she finally continued after her failed attempt, “for our village is made up of do-good sorts of people, and I hope that whoever will enter it now will be the same. Which is why I beseech you, good friend, not to distress yourself.”

“You are right.” Bodhi nodded. “I do not believe anybody in this town has done or will do anybody anything in ill will, and over a trivial matter, no less.”

“I believe not, indeed.” 

Just then, a man from across the room came into their view, with a light head of hair and an easy, airy strut.

Bodhi leaned in closer to Jyn to try and direct her gaze. “Look, it is Philip.” 

Jyn, suddenly feeling alert, scrambled to spot the man in question from the crowd. “Oh.”

Bodhi then waved his hand in the air to capture the gentleman’s attention. “Mr. Krennic!”

The man’s face instantly lit up into a lopsided smile the moment he took notice of them. Jyn watched him, the object of her rather bizarre feelings for the last couple of weeks, pace towards their direction in big, perky strides. 

“Miss Erso!” he called out. “Mr. Rook!” 

When he stopped just before her, he gave her a curt nod, which Jyn cordially returned. 

“Mr. Krennic,” she greeted. “I hope you are having a good time this evening.”

Philip grinned. “I am, now that I’ve finally spotted you two tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Bodhi asked, suddenly anxious. “Have you not been enjoying the ball?”

Philip laughed. “Oh, not because you have hosted a terrible one, no. I cannot imagine ever offending you and Miss Erso on that point! No, I have just been dealing with an important matter with Sir Donwell.” 

This roused Jyn’s curiosity, for she very much liked Sir Donwell. “I hope he is all right?” she inquired. “And Mr. and Mrs. Donwell, too.” 

“Oh, yes, quite all right,” Philip easily assured her. “They are as healthy as ever. They are playing cards in the waiting room, James with them. No, we have only been discussing certain matters—” here he stopped himself “—but forgive me, I need not trouble you with the dull specifics, as I imagine you two have this party to preoccupy yourselves with at the moment.”

“Speaking of,” Bodhi said gravely, his eyes directed towards a footman who fast approached them, a somewhat panicked look on his face.

“A matter in the kitchen, sir,” he said before Bodhi pulled him in for barely audible whispers. Just then, he requested to excuse himself from Jyn and Philip, effectively leaving them both alone together as he followed his footman outside the hall, and towards the kitchen downstairs.

The gentleman Jyn was now left with then beheld her with a beamed up expression. Jyn tried to pay it back with her own polite smile. 

“So, Miss Erso,” he said, “you look like you could use a refreshment. Might I get you some?” 

To this Jyn had no objection; she was beyond parched. Together, they snaked through the crowd until they reached the table topped with all sorts of confections and liquor. 

Philip ladled some punch into a cup and handed it to Jyn. “I must say,” he said as he now arranged his own drink, “I am glad to have finally run into you, Miss Erso. I have been meaning to call on Vallt Park, but as I’ve been busy, I haven’t been able to.”

Jyn swallowed before responding. “Ah—it is no problem. I am sure Mama and Papa will be glad to receive you there should you find the time again.” 

This seemed to delight the gentleman. “You shall see me soon, then.” 

To this, Jyn only responded with an affirming nod.

Philip took a sip of his drink. “So tell me, have you been studying still?” 

This finally sparked Jyn’s genuine interest. “Oh, yes, actually. I’ve been reading up on Southern English flora.”

Philip’s eyes lit up. Enthused, he remarked, “That sounds incredibly fascinating, Miss Erso.”

Jyn felt a small smile break across her face, realizing that the subject being brought up was helping ease her nerves. Infused with more confident energy, she said, “It really is. Though, when I went to the shop the other day, I found that there were no pamphlets on the subject at all.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Well, there are books, yes, but I do not imagine them to be as accessible, for they are either too thick or too advanced. A pamphlet, in my opinion, makes it easier for anyone to be more interested in botany, for it divulges information in tidbits. You can choose one that simply interests you, and from there you can begin to nurse a deeper enthusiasm for your preferred niche. I thought it a shame, really, when I discovered it.”

Philip nodded thoughtfully as he seemed to ponder on this. “I see. Yes, that is truly a shame. I myself have learned a thing or two from pamphlets, and so concur with you there.”

“More people ought to write such publications,” continued Jyn, “for I imagine, if written well, they would attract a good number of readers. I know for certain it would attract me.”

“They really ought to, yes.” Then, quite passionately Philip added, “It is regrettable to know that our great botanists have not yet found the sense you have long already had, Miss Erso. I am of hope that one day you shall finally find the pamphlet you seek—on every shelf, in every shop and library, and in all of England.” 

Jyn watched him curiously, not at all insensible to the warm, if not fervent approbation he had given to her opinions. 

“I must say,” she remarked, “I appreciate that you not only see my point, but also acquiesce to it, Mr. Krennic.” 

Philip chuckled, swirling his drink. “I do not think there will ever be a time where I would not, if I’m being honest.”

Jyn knitted her brows. “Do you mean to say that you do not intend to ever disagree with me?”

After giving it some thought, Philip shook his head, his mouth down to a pout. “No. I do not find myself doing it.” 

“Forgive me, Mr. Krennic, but that is absurd.” Jyn let out a sharp chuckle, characteristic of both incredulity and amusement. “What if I had been wrong? What if I had said there ought to be more pamphlets on the various methods of killing wildlife instead? Would you still take this opinion for yourself, merely because I had said it?” 

“Well,” Philip explained, “if you did so to the best of your judgment, then you would be right, I still probably would.”

Jyn laughed in disbelief. “What if nothing else could have informed it but my lunacy?” 

Philip smiled. “But you are not lunatic, Miss Erso. Nor did you say those things.”

Jyn beheld Philip in quiet amazement. She shook her head. “You esteem my opinion too much, Mr. Krennic. I hope you do not mind my saying so, but I sometimes think you’re too agreeable. Too agreeable for anyone’s good, in fact.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Philip enthralled.  

Jyn smiled. “Had I not known you for a while, I would totally suspect it.”

To this Philip did not reply, only laughed.

“Well,” Jyn posed, “must I, Mr. Krennic?” 

Smiling, Philip said, “Forgive me. I do not mean to come off as sycophantic. If I seem like it, well, that is only because I regard your opinion with utmost value. You have, on several occasions, shared your wisdom which has hardly failed you. Not to mention, too, that you have always had a delightful disposition, which makes it difficult for anybody to disagree with.”

“But I do not mind disagreement,” insisted Jyn. “In fact, I prefer it, for I believe there is a fundamental difference in being correct because someone told me I was, and being correct because I was able to prove that I was. I find the latter to be more fulfilling, and above all more purposeful to the pursuit of knowledge.”

Philip grinned. “I suppose I’ll just have to agree to disagree.” 

At this, Jyn could not help but muse again. But before she could say anything in return, a voice from somewhere behind her suddenly exclaimed:

“Miss Erso!”

Jyn spun around and saw there, filing through the crowd, the petite figure of her recent acquaintance, Kerri Andor. Behind her she pulled by the forearm a man of middling height and a dark head of hair. The black coat and matching waistcoat beneath that he wore made him stand out from the crowd—Jyn could only but stare. 

From the distance she vaguely saw his features to be similar with Kerri’s. That was when she instantly surmised that he must be her brother. 

Cassian Andor.

“Are those the Andors?” asked Philip, straining his eyes to spot them in the crowd.

“It would seem so,” replied Jyn, suddenly nervous. 

Soon Kerri and her companion stopped to meet Jyn. “Miss Erso, I finally found you tonight!”

Jyn smiled and gave her acquaintance a bow. “Good evening, Miss Andor. I’m glad you made it.” 

“I made it a point to, of course. I am immensely enjoying myself; you host quite a party! Nothing like the perfect opportunity for us to induct ourselves to the village.” 

Jyn’s eyes then flitted to the man behind her, noting the blank yet vaguely curious expression on his face. Though she privately remarked that she had seen stone statue faces more animated than this, she also thought, even more privately, that the features that made it were not so unpleasant to behold. 

For a brief moment their eyes met, at which she quickly looked away. 

“Some introductions are in order,” said Kerri. Addressing Jyn she said, “Miss Erso, I’d like to finally introduce you to my brother, Cassian. Brother, meet Jyn Erso—” then when she realized that Jyn also had a companion herself “—and er…”

“Philip,” quickly intercepted Philip, a gleeful expression on his face. “Philip Krennic. I am a long-time friend of Miss Erso’s.”

Jyn curtsied, addressing Cassian. “Mr. Andor. Nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Endor Village.” 

Cassian, a vague scowl now forming on his face, stiffly returned the greeting, and with significantly less gallantry. “Miss Erso.”

Jyn frowned.

Philip took a step forward. “It is great to finally meet you Miss Andor, Mr. Andor.” He offered Kerri a smile, and reached out a hand to Cassian. 

Cassian just stared at the hand being extended to him, with seemingly no intent to take it. It took Kerri to lightly nudge his arm with her elbow for him to finally take it, though with a most visible reluctance, which, to Jyn, was just as bad as not receiving the handshake at all. 

She found it odd, if not impolite.

“So,” Kerri said, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Mr. Krennic. Your name sounds familiar.”

“Hmm, you might have heard of my father,” replied Philip, “or my grandfather, for that matter. If you are involved in the affairs of shipbuilding, then it is likely. We invest in the trade, you see.” 

“Ah, that must be it,” said Kerri, not quite convinced, but nodding. “My brother here briefly had some solicitor work done in that arena.”

“Did he now?” asked Philip, interested.

Kerri stared at her brother, expectant. Upon observing his general snobbish disposition, it was apparent to Jyn that Cassian had no desire to indulge the question, but when he registered his sister’s application, he finally said in a very clipped tone, “Yes, I did.”

Jyn—and Philip too, it seemed—expected him to supply the statement further, but a few seconds passed, and no such elaboration came. 

Jyn was beginning to find no excuse for such impropriety. 

To this, all Philip could say was, “Ah. Well, I suppose there’s no point in discussing such droll matters on an occasion such as this, am I right, Mr. Andor?” He laughed, then turned to Kerri. “So, Miss Andor, have you danced tonight yet?” 

At that, Cassian’s frown seemed to deepen. 

Kerri, however, remained oblivious to this. “I have not yet, actually,” she answered. “We’ve just arrived.”

“Well then,” said Philip, “I hope you allow me to be the first to receive the honor. My friend Miss Erso is already quite tired to even dance once—” he glanced at Jyn with a charmed smile “—so I entreat you, Miss Andor.” 

He extended his hand. Where the brother had received such a gesture with total repugnance, his sister, on the other hand, took it with a light, easy grace. She glanced at her brother, and Jyn could tell by the intensity of their locked gazes that they were amounting to an unspoken disagreement. 

Kerri would come out the winner, for ultimately, Cassian broke his gaze away first, and his sister, half-smiling, joined Philip to the dance floor triumphant. 

As they commenced their uptempo waltz, Jyn suddenly became too aware that she now stood alone with the brother, and it would seem that neither she nor he were willing to break the air of awkward silence that hung about them. 

They stood side by side, facing the ballroom floor. Jyn tried to glimpse a side-eye glance at him (who she realized considerably towered over her) only to find that he was also trying to do the same. Immediately he shifted his gaze towards his sister on the dance floor, a quiet indignance constant upon his countenance. 

Too intrigued to ignore such behavior, Jyn finally spoke. “Are you not enjoying the party, Mr. Andor?”

To which, Cassian replied in a dismissive tone, “I had much rather be back at the house than be here.”

“You are liking Lah’mu Hall, then,” muttered Jyn bitterly under her breath.

Cassian did not respond.

She cleared her throat. “So, how has settling in been?”

The solicitor still did not respond. A few moments of silence passed without either one or the other speaking. 

Jyn now took full offense for this impoliteness. “It’s true what has been said about you, Mr. Andor," she said pointedly. "You really are frugal in conversation.”

This finally elicited some type of reaction; Cassian turned his neck to face her.

“You might as well have been absent during our acquaintance,” Jyn continued, “for you did not much talk at all.” 

After a few moments of him just staring at her, he finally spoke. “Well, Miss Erso, that usually happens when I find myself with company that does not warrant it.” 

Jyn’s eyes widened, her mouth hanging open. “Excuse me?”

Cassian turned his face away and again returned to his silences. 

Jyn could feel her blood begin to boil. “My, Mr. Andor,” she said in a tone of mockery, “have I not been interesting for you—not even enough to earn your basest civilities? Well then, forgive me for my insufficiency in meeting your expectations, so early into our introduction, no less.” She shifted her feet so she faced him. “Do enlighten me. When I had greeted you earlier, should I have already inquired into discussions of the suffering British economy, or the current uprisings and massacres following the calls for reform, or perhaps the long-standing question of parliamentary suffrage—not only for men, mind you, but for women, too?” 

Cassian looked at her again, during which he seemed to be now carefully and intently observing the features of her countenance. He remained unflinching, however, in his indifference. 

“Because I would have, Mr. Andor,” Jyn continued smugly, “but I had a feeling I should not have with you. And I was right.”

They then both found themselves in a staredown, with Jyn noticing, despite her budding abhorrence, the deep brown of Cassian’s eyes. 

The look on his face began to change; his mouth slowly broke into a small, dry smile. 

“Do I amuse you?” demanded Jyn.

Ignoring this question, Cassian said, rather sharply, “So, it’s true what has been said about you, Miss Erso.”

“What?”

“You have been given liberties much more than is due yourself.”

Jyn glowered. “For a man who so terribly wants to be interesting, that is a rather blasé predilection. I ought not to be given liberties? Why, because I am a lady?”

“Because it haphazardly bloats your self-importance,” answered Cassian. “And it is begging to make itself known to everybody.”

Jyn laughed dryly, so audibly that it captured the attention of a gentleman within her vicinity. “Now I’m unworthy of your conversation and self-important. Come on, Mr. Andor. You can try to be more unsubtle in showing your displeasure.”

“I am not displeased.”

“Oh I had much rather you were, if I’m being honest. I would hate to think this is your natural state.”

“What would that be?”

“Perpetually unpleasant.”

Cassian smiled coldly. “That does not offend me, for I do not imagine anybody pleases you much.”

“So says the man who has not shown a single sign of delight upon our introduction.”

Now Cassian motioned himself so that he now faced her. “Why?” he asked. “Have you just not, before even meeting me, already had presuppositions about my character? Why should I be glad to meet someone who already has prejudices against me? You’ve just admitted to having them.”

Jyn scoffed. “Not that I have to clarify my position to you, Mr. Andor, but I had actually hoped to make a pleasant acquaintance with you tonight, as your sister and my father have attested to your good character. And yet as I face you now, I admit I am lost, for I do not see a single modicum of pleasantness in you. You accuse me of prejudice, and yet you do nothing now to prove it wrong. You cannot hope to absolve yourself of my opinion if you are so solidly fixing it to me as fact.”

That was when Cassian stepped closer, bridging the considerable gap between them much shorter. Gravely, he said, “I do not believe I have to prove myself to you.”

“Clearly, you do not.” Jyn laughed. “But it humors me so that I seem to have so severely irked you—and without my even doing anything. What could I have possibly done to warrant myself a treatment of such boorish manner, Mr. Andor? Or are you just so dreadful that you make it a point to be mean because you can be?” 

Cassian scoffed, which made Jyn roll her eyes. 

“Is that all you can do?” she challenged. “Grunt and mumble and brood?”

Cassian slowly shook his head. “Clearly you are so caught up in your own head, so lost in your own perfect little world that you fail to see the answer to your question as it stands, plain as the day.” 

“What?” Total bewilderment overtook Jyn’s countenance, for she had absolutely no idea what he meant. 

She could hardly believe it. What an incredibly obnoxious man! What a truly ill-natured being for the new owner of her childhood home, and above all, her new very close neighbor! It quickly occurred to her that his arrival, as it turned out, did not signify a pleasant addition to the village; it only signified that he would plague it with his total lowliness.  

“You truly surprise me, Mr. Andor,” she snarled. “I did not know anyone could be so unlikeable as you. And yet, as it stands, I suppose I find endless repose in the revelation that I had been right about you all along.”  

Cassian let out a sharp gust of air through his nose. “Does that make you feel better about yourself? Being right?”

Jyn shrugged, and erected herself to a proud stance. “It very much does.” 

Just then, the waltz had finished, and Jyn saw Kerri walking back with Philip, a smile on both their faces as they laughed about something funny. Briefly they joined Jyn and Cassian, and they became a party of four again. 

“That was splendid,” Kerri beamed, addressing her brother.

Philip, in observing Jyn’s grim expression, asked, “Is something the matter, Miss Erso?” 

Jyn, who had been looking at Cassian the entire time, finally broke her gaze to address Philip. “No, Mr. Krennic. Not quite.” 

“We must leave, Kerri,” suddenly spoke Cassian, meeting his sister’s eyes.

“But I would like to talk some more with Miss Erso,” Kerri said. 

Cassian seemed ready with a reason against their staying, but Jyn, unwilling to give him the satisfaction, went on ahead and said, “I’m afraid I have to attend to something myself, Miss Andor. I am required there now, as a matter of fact. I only waited for you to finish to properly excuse myself.”

Kerri looked disappointed. “All right,” she said, uncertain. “Well, I at least hope to find you again tonight, if you would please. I have much I would like to talk about with you, Miss Erso.”

Jyn tried her best to nod and smile reassuringly. “I hope so too.” 

She gave Cassian one last look before she finally gave everyone a parting bow, turned on her heel, and walked away.

For some time after that, Jyn tried to spend a good few minutes on casual conversation with guests, but her irritation had gotten the best of her that she did not understand a single word they had said. 

So she made the decision to head down to the kitchen instead. But before she could even reach the stairs, Bodhi had already found his way up and was on his way back to the party. 

He met her in the hallway. “You look irritated,” he observed with concern. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Jyn, her fists balled so tightly her fingernails could rip through her glove and pierce her palms, replied, “I met Mr. Andor.”

Bodhi’s face turned cautious. “And…was he not to your liking?” 

“More like I am not to his liking, Mr. Rook, which I suppose, yes, makes him not to my liking.” She took a deep breath through her nose. “He is beyond improper, and not to mention hopelessly self-important!” 

“What?” Bodhi replied, incredulous. “That is impossible. I wouldn’t have recommended him to Mr. Erso if he was. I mean, did he not like him, too?” 

Jyn threw her arms in the air and let them fall back down against her thighs. “Well then, it would seem that he made a special, particular exception for me to this boundless agreeableness you speak of. I find it hard to believe that we talk of the same person. I am telling you, I have never met someone so unpleasant!”

Bodhi watched as Jyn paced back and forth in an attempt to dispel her anger. He had never seen his friend in such a state of distress over anybody before. “Miss Erso, you seem really agitated by him.”

“He is, without a doubt, the worst person I have ever met in my entire life,” she proclaimed with conviction. “I do not care if we are neighbors; I should hope to never see him again. For if I do, I shall hate him forever. And that is a promise, Mr. Rook.”

Jyn would soon remember, of course, that she would soon see Cassian again, when he would finally fulfill his commitment to calling on the Ersos at Vallt Park a few days from now.

[philyuri]

i've said before that they were leaning more and more into the "plausible" half of the plausible deniability scale but like. this is It. genuinely this is It for me. spending an entire video creating stories that are NOT explicitly romantic or sexual, do not feature kissing or traditional love declarations, but ARE about dan and phil self inserts committing to living and dying together no matter what.... AND QUALIFYING THESE STORIES AS STEAMY ROMANCE? CALLING THESE SELF INSERTS PRINCE LOVERS? yeah. yeah. that's it. that's genuinely it for me. insisting that these stories are love stories is just. yeah man lmao there's nothing else to say!!!

[goldkirk]

I don’t know how to explain any more clearly that it doesn’t MATTER if it seems legitimate to you. You have got to fact check every single headline and post and claim on the left just like you need to do on the right.

The left is NOT immune to misinformation and rushed reporting. And the more emotionally polarizing or shocking the talking points, sound bytes, and headlines are, the worse it is and more frequently it happens.

Learn to verify through multiple independent sources. If you can’t do that, you can’t trust it.

If you have to wait extra hours for the real information to come through vetted channels—NOT just one individual somewhere everyone links to, and not just one single media source either, EVEN if it’s a major news network—thats just how it has to be. What news outside of genuine local disasters near you TRULY needs your outrage and post-sharing in the next hour specifically?

Misinformation works best by not seeming like misinformation and by fitting in with the rest of what you already expect to see. It doesn’t help anyone to not be able to recognize and avoid the stuff.

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[mephoj]

late night chat