#not only because of this in particular but also because of. you know. the duel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chimcess · 1 month ago

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Lady's Honor || ksj

Pairing: Seokjin x ReaderOther Tags: Lord!Seokjin, Lady!Reader, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Jimin, Lord!Yoongi Genre: Regency!AU, Strangers to Lovers, Angst, Fluff, HEA Word Count: 16.8k+ Summary: What unfolds when a gentleman's noble effort to help a lady in distress inadvertently tarnishes her reputation? He finds himself bound to protect her honor at any cost—even if it means risking his own life. Warnings: Attempted assault on reader, society at this time was very judgement, practically forced marriage, but they like one another so it's fine, everyone has a title that is different from their true names, because they're Earls and own land, Eisen is disgusting, Jin is a gentleman, mentions of sex, illusions to sex, light teasing, need for an heir, Jin has a 'My Lord' kink, kissing (scandalous at this time), pregnancy, child birth, minor character death, dueling, main character injured, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I've been trying to write in new styles and dive into different themes outside of fantasy, and so I really stepped out of my comfort zone to write this one. Rereading some Jane Austen was also helpful. Hope you enjoy.

Perhaps it was the oppressive heat radiating from the hundreds of flickering candles scattered throughout the ballroom that made him uneasy. But more likely, it was the desperate air of the young woman he’d just finished dancing with. The Earl of Rushmore felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine, a warning he couldn’t quite dismiss.

“That was ever so splendid, my lord,” Miss Rose Tyrell tittered, bouncing on her toes like an eager puppy. Every exaggerated movement seemed calculated to draw his gaze to her décolletage. “You dance exquisitely.” She leaned in, flashing a smile that he could only interpret as desperate. It turned his stomach.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied, forcing his lips into a smile that barely masked his irritation. The corners of his eyes tightened as he nodded to Sir Gerald Tyrell, her father, standing awkwardly on the periphery. With that, he made to escape the stifling encounter.

Yet just as he turned to leave, the shrill voice of Lady Tyrell pierced the air, dragging him back into tedious conversation. “My lord, we are organizing an outing to Vauxhall Gardens next week, and one of our gentlemen has had to leave London for urgent family business, leaving us one short.” She fluttered her fan with all the grace of a chicken flapping its wings. “Would you do us the honor of joining our group?”

A familiar panic clawed at him, a suffocating sensation that had haunted him through countless soirées with the daughters of ambitious families. It was as if his sordid reputation—of womanizing, reckless drinking, and gambling—had become a beacon, attracting those looking to snag a title for their daughters. The very thought made him itch with the need to flee.

“I’ll have to check my availability,” he said, the words falling from his lips with the practiced ease of a politician. “I shall send word on the morrow. Good evening, ladies.” He bowed stiffly to Miss Tyrell and her mother before making a purposeful exit, each step a declaration of his freedom.

The musicians began to play the next set, and a wave of relief washed over him as he realized he was free from the obligation of dancing with any particular young lady. The evening had thus far been a parade of vapid chatter and trivial pursuits, save for one notable exception—Miss Y/L/N.

He had heard whispers of her modest debut the previous season but had only caught a glimpse of her tonight. There was something about her, an ethereal beauty that shone through the murk of societal expectations, and a vivacious yet modest personality that intrigued him. She shared his passion for stargazing, a rare treasure amidst the sea of watercolor painting and embroidery that most young ladies feigned expertise in.

He spotted his mother among a gaggle of women and approached, forcing a smile. “Mother, I’m going to take a stroll in the garden.”

“Oh, my dear, I had hoped to present you to Miss Webber,” she said, her tone a blend of disappointment and guilt.

Resigned to the endless parade of introductions and dances, he craved a brief escape. “I shall only be gone for one set,” he promised, his voice laced with indulgence.

“Ah yes, and then you’ll disappear into the card room, and it will be impossible to find you a suitable wife. Really, Rushmore, you are two-and-thirty. It’s time you settled down and set up your nursery.”

Her words pricked at him like thorns, and he fought the urge to unleash the torrent of frustration bubbling inside. He knew she meant well; her intentions were rooted in love, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a gilded cage.

“Yes, Mother, I understand. If you will excuse me?” He nodded to acquaintances as he maneuvered through the ballroom. Stepping out onto the terrace, he finally felt the weight lift, if only slightly. The coolness of the evening enveloped him, a comforting embrace that allowed him to breathe freely.

Only the crunch of his gleaming Hessian boots broke the silence as he wandered along the gravel path that wove between hedgerows and blooms. He was weary, so utterly weary of the relentless pressure of the marriage mart. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, the sound mingling with the night air.

After a few minutes, he wandered beyond the glow of the paper lanterns dangling from the trees, halting to let his eyes adjust to the enveloping darkness. He tilted his head back, searching for constellations, but the encroaching clouds obscured his view.

In these precious moments of solitude, he could cast aside the weight of his title, the incessant pleas of his mother for an heir. Here, he could simply be Seokjin, not “Rushmore” or “my lord.” He wasn’t sure how long he’d been absent, but he knew it had been long enough for his mother to send a search party to drag him back to the ballroom for another tedious encounter.

The rebellious spirit that had defined his youth flared within him. He would be damned if he shackled himself to one of these vapid fortune hunters. When he married, it would be on his terms, in his time. In a final act of defiance, he chose a longer route back, hoping to prolong this rare moment of freedom.

As he strolled, he noticed a section of the path where the stones had been disturbed and the flowers trampled. He frowned, planning to speak with Lord Min; the gardener needed a firm reminder of his duties.

He had not taken but two steps past the ruined path when he heard a rustling from the rhododendron bushes to his left. He paused, hesitant to interrupt whatever clandestine meeting might be unfolding there. When silence fell once more, curiosity gnawed at him, urging him closer.

Peering through the foliage, he caught sight of an abandoned dancing slipper, its owner nowhere in sight. He almost dismissed it, the corners of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. It had been far too long since he had shared the company of a woman who intrigued him.

But then the unmistakable sound of sobbing pierced the air, and his heart twisted in an unexpected pang of concern. The battle within him waged on, but as he took another step, he spotted a young woman crawling on the ground, frantically searching for that missing shoe.

Instinct propelled him forward. He stepped off the path, making his presence known through the rustling bushes, startling her in the process. She scrambled backward, eyes wide with panic, as if he were a specter come to haunt her. Her skirts were stained with dirt, and her hair hung in disarray, obscuring her features.

“Miss? Are you hurt?” His voice broke the tension, filled with concern.

She whimpered softly, the sound twisting his gut. What had happened to her?

Looking around, he saw no one else nearby, no lurking assailants or companions to provide solace. Crouching down, he made no sudden movements toward her.

“Please, miss, I have no wish to harm you. Do you have a companion or chaperone you would like me to summon?” When silence stretched between them, he tried again, softer this time. “Let me help you back to the ball. We’ll find a discreet entrance—somewhere hidden.”

At last, she raised her head, and he sucked in a sharp breath. How had Y/N Y/L/N ended up in such a predicament? By all accounts, she was the embodiment of propriety, not one to engage in scandal.

As he took in her appearance, he noticed the tear in the bodice of her gown, the clutched remnants of a pair of drawers that were also damaged. Rage ignited within him, a hot ember that flared into a blaze. It was one thing for a man to indulge his desires with a mistress, but to force himself on an innocent like Miss Y/L/N? That was an outrage beyond measure.

"Who did this to you, Miss Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice low, strained, as though the question had been pulled from the very depths of a dark pit within him.

She shook her head, her entire body trembling, a fragile thing caught in a tempest. "No one, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Her reticence ignited a fury in him, a volcanic rage simmering beneath the surface, but he clamped down on it. He wanted to shake her, to rattle loose the truth from her lips like a confession from a guilty soul. But he held back, aware that rage could consume him whole.

"So you mean to tell me that you've ruined your hair, shredded your dress, and torn your—" He faltered, words dying on his tongue as he caught sight of the cruel red welts marring her cheek, vivid streaks of pain that seemed to shout a silent accusation at the dark night. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of roses mingling with something more sinister—fear.

"And you did this all to yourself?" he asked through gritted teeth, the effort to contain his fury almost painful. "Forgive me if I find that scenario a little hard to swallow. Tell me who has harmed you, and I will see the blackguard brought to account for his actions."

He stood up, a sudden restlessness seizing him, his hands clenching and unclenching as he flipped the tails of his dark blue superfine coat behind him. The air crackled with the unspoken promise of violence, a storm gathering within him as he paced, thoughts colliding like thunderheads in a darkening sky. Abruptly, he stopped and pointed at her drawers, still clutched tightly against her chest. "Did he manage to...?"

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. He couldn’t voice the horrific possibility that loomed over them, and for a fleeting moment, he marveled at the violent protectiveness rising up from the depths of his heart. It felt foreign, primal.

She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the ground, a broken bird struggling to mend its wings. A small whimper escaped her lips, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. She winced as she shifted her weight to her unshod foot, and his anger flared anew. Who had she been dancing with after him? The names flooded his mind, but one stood out—a dark specter of a man who lurked at the edges of polite society.

Jonathon, Lord Eisen.

In the grand tapestry of reputation, Seokjin would be the saint compared to the notorious Viscount Eisen, a man known for treating young ladies like pawns in his cruel game. Wealthy, yes, but at what cost?

"Did Lord Eisen do this?" he pressed, the words a growl. "Did he lure you into the gardens?"

Her eyes widened, a silent acknowledgment that echoed like a bell tolling a grim fate. In the distance, a chorus of voices called her name, the urgency cutting through the night like a knife. They were looking for her, and the dread of discovery hung in the air, a heavy mist curling around them.

"Miss Y/L/N, please, let me help you back before we’re found in this position. There’s no reason to ruin your reputation by being seen with someone like me."

She blushed, ducking her head, and for a moment, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of a smile. But then, she faltered, her fragile façade crumbling. "I cannot walk, my lord. I fear I have... s-sprained my ankle."

Reality crashed over him as he realized that the chill in the air had seeped into her bones, amplifying the shivering that gripped her. With a quick determination, he shrugged off his topcoat and draped it around her shoulders, enveloping her in warmth, an oasis in a desert of despair.

"Put your arm around my neck," he instructed gently, bending down to meet her eyes. When she complied, her drawers still clutched in the other hand, he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, an echo of the strength he didn’t know he possessed. As he carried her toward the house, the softness of her body against his ignited something deep within him, a rush of feelings he was unprepared to face.

"Why did he stop?" he asked, the question an uneasy tremor in the quiet of the night.

She inhaled sharply, her breath hitching, and laid her head against his shoulder. For a heartbeat, he thought she wouldn’t answer, but then, with a voice steeped in trembling fear, she whispered close to his ear, "I fought him. I kicked and scratched... That’s when he slapped me. I think he heard you coming."

The revelation stirred a darkness within him, igniting a fierce desire for vengeance. "He will pay for this," Seokjin vowed, his heart pounding with a dangerous intensity. The very air crackled with his determination to protect her honor. She had a brother, a man more than willing to seek revenge, and yet, here he was, feeling like a moth drawn to the flame of her vulnerability.

As her head rested against his shoulder, a curious weight settled around his throat, tightening like a noose, a reminder that he had no business becoming entangled in her fate. But how could he turn away when the shadows had crept into her life, and he felt the unmistakable tug of something deeper than duty—something that felt like destiny.

What a coil! thought Y/N, a frenzied swirl of confusion and unease tightening in her chest. She had only intended to stroll with Lord Eisen along the terrace, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the manicured gardens. But when he asked about her interest in the stars, her passion ignited, and she began chattering like an eager canary, the words spilling forth in a rush, a desperate bid for connection.

Lost in her own celestial musings, she hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in direction until it was too late. The secluded part of the garden loomed before her like a trap waiting to snap shut. In an instant, the air around her thickened with a sense of foreboding, the fragrant blooms suddenly oppressive.

It was all she could do to keep her wits about her as he forced her against a tree, the bark digging into her back, bruising her lips with punishing kisses that felt like a betrayal of her very soul. She raked her fingernails down his cheek, a desperate act of defiance, but instead of pulling back, it only seemed to stoke the fire in his eyes, a dark hunger awakening within him.

She burrowed her face into Lord Rushmore's shoulder, desperately trying to will the shame of what Lord Eisen had done to her to dissipate like morning mist. Had she behaved wantonly? No, she had acted every bit the lady, hadn’t she? But the tightness in her throat mounted, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. Cursing her overactive emotions, she knew she needed a moment to compose herself before returning to the ball, to that cruel world of social masks and whispered judgments.

As they entered the lit portion of the garden, her brother's voice bellowed her name, booming through the night like a thunderclap. Panic surged in her chest, and she cast about for a more private place, somewhere she could gather the scattered pieces of herself.

"Lord Rushmore's, might we sit at that bench for a moment while I attempt to put myself to rights?" she implored, her voice quivering.

When she looked up into his eyes, she felt that same fluttering sensation that had gripped her during their earlier waltz. His eyes, an unsettling shade of green, seemed to pierce through the façade she tried so hard to maintain. She couldn't help but notice the strength of his arms, how effortlessly he carried her, as if she were nothing more than a feather. And if she were being completely honest, the way his coat hugged his broad torso and how those buff-colored breeches molded to his powerful thighs made her heart race in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Heat flooded her cheeks as that thought twisted inside her like a serpent coiling tighter, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something flicker in Lord Rushmore's gaze—a fleeting spark that vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only his mask of calm.

He nodded once, a movement fluid and deliberate, and made his way to a weathered stone bench nestled behind a grouping of lilacs. The flowers whispered secrets in the night breeze, and she felt both comforted and exposed in their presence. With utmost care, he deposited her onto the bench before turning to stand guard, his posture protective, a fortress against the horrors she had just endured.

Hastily, she donned the torn drawers, feeling the fabric scratch against her skin, but it was better than being seen carrying her undergarments. As she fussed with the bodice of her cream chiffon and lace gown, the reality of her disheveled state crashed over her, a wave of hopelessness that threatened to drown her. The earlier magic of the evening had been shattered, leaving only fragments of what could have been.

But perhaps not completely. The thrill of being in the arms of such a handsome man still pulsed through her veins, even if he wasn’t the type a respectable girl should find appealing. The allure of a man with a dangerous reputation was like a moth drawn to flame, intoxicating yet perilous.

It was silly to think such thoughts, she chastised herself. He was merely doing his gentlemanly duty, ensuring her safe return. Any notion that he might entertain feelings for her was absurd. Besides, the gossip among the parlors of the ton painted him as a confirmed bachelor, much to his mother’s dismay.

She twisted one last piece of hair, pinning it into the mass of curls and braids atop her head. "Do I still look as though I’ve been tumbled in the bushes?" She rested her hands in her lap and looked at the Earl, who seemed lost in thought.

He took several deep breaths, and she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of the moment pressing down on them. His nostrils flared, lips pursed, as he studied her appearance, and the intensity of his gaze sent a fresh wave of heat rising in her cheeks. She cast her eyes down, biting her lower lip to keep from trembling under the weight of his scrutiny.

"Well, your color seems to have returned," he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, reminiscent of her brother's teasing ways.

"May I examine your ankle?" he asked, shifting to sit next to her on the bench.

Without waiting for her consent, he leaned down and lifted both of her feet, drawing them across his lap. A furious heat shot through her, screaming in indignation, How dare he? But as his warm hands slipped off her dancing shoe and began to probe her foot, any righteous fury fled her like a shadow at dawn.

His touch was gentle, exploring the instep, his fingers moving with a calm assurance that sent shivers racing up her spine. She hissed when he pressed on a particularly tender spot, and he nodded softly, his eyes focused and intent, then replaced her slipper without lowering her feet.

"It has begun to swell slightly, but I don’t believe it to be broken." His words were curt, almost clinical, yet they held a honeyed warmth that seeped into her bones, loosening the tension that had coiled tightly within her.

"And my hair— is it even remotely presentable?" She caught his gaze, feeling ensnared, unable to break free from the magnetic pull between them. The sweet scent of lilacs surrounded them like a fog, and even though she was wrapped snugly in the Earl’s topcoat, a chill raced through her.

For a long moment, the world around them fell away, leaving only the two of them in that secret garden, an electric energy drawing them closer together.

"Far more than presentable," he murmured, inching closer, his breath warm against her skin.

His hand lifted, tentatively brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As his fingers lingered against her jaw, she felt the weight of his gaze, a tether pulling her into the depths of something she could neither understand nor resist.

Her heart thundered in her chest, a wild drumbeat that seemed to echo the chaos of the night. In that fleeting moment, as the lilacs danced in the night breeze, the world faded away, leaving only the two of them standing on the precipice of something undeniably profound.

“Sis-...Kim! Unhand my sister at once!”

Like the fragile sheen of a child’s soap bubble, the magic enveloping them burst the moment Anthony’s voice cut through the night—a jagged shard of ice in a world of warmth. In what felt like a heartbeat, Anthony surged forward, seizing the Earl and slamming him against the rough bark of an ancient elm, his forearm digging into the Earl’s throat with a grim resolve.

Lord Rushmore's retreating form was replaced by her father, who seized her by the shoulders, his gaze sweeping over her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey. "Her dress is torn," he shouted, as if those words could mend the fraying fabric of her dignity. The sheer horror in her father’s tone twisted the knife in her gut, causing Anthony’s grip on the Earl to tighten, his elbow pressing cruelly into the Earl’s neck.

“Anthony, stop! This isn’t what it seems…” Panic clawed at her throat as she saw the search party gather, shadows converging on their secluded haven. Her heart sank, heavy and leaden, as if it were chained to the ground.

“What has that scoundrel done to you, my child?” Her father’s voice was a fierce whisper, laden with unspoken fears.

To his credit, the Earl of Rushmore merely grasped Anthony's arm, a desperate attempt to stave off asphyxiation, doing nothing to fight back against the encroaching storm.

In moments, the terrace teemed with onlookers, the whole ballroom spilling out into the moonlight, the murmurs and gasps igniting an electric buzz that thrummed in the air, each sound a reminder of their encroaching doom.

“Anthony, summon the carriage and fetch your mother,” her father commanded, voice clipped and taut.

Anthony nodded, stepping back, the heat of anger still radiating from him. He straightened, eyes ablaze, locking onto the Earl with a fury that promised retribution. “This isn’t over, Kim. We’ll speak tomorrow at Parke’s.” With that, he turned and stormed off, leaving chaos in his wake, people scattering like leaves before a gale.

The music from the ballroom swelled, Lady Min's voice announcing the supper dances, a cruel mockery of their plight. In mere moments, the crowd thinned, but it was clear that The Honorable Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of Lord and Lady Y/L/N, and The Earl of Rushmore would become the latest gossip—a scandal writ large against the night sky.

By dawn, Parke’s gentleman's club buzzed with wagers, bets slung like daggers as men debated Lord Rushmore's fate: Would he indeed find himself shackled in matrimony? How quickly would he wed Miss Y/L/N? And would her brother, Mr. Y/L/N, take the Earl’s life for this affront?

“Tough lot there, ol’ chap,” Lord Newton said as Seokjin strode past, his voice laced with mockery. “Too much trouble for a bit of muslin, wouldn’t you agree?”

Seokjin turned, ready to unleash fury, but two strong hands—one muscular, the other wiry—restrained him, anchoring him before he could lash out.

“Save your fists, Kim. There’s nothing to be gained from boors like Newton,” Namjoon, Lord Halston, his cousin, interjected, grounding Seokjin with his steady presence.

The fight ebbed from Seokjin’s body as Halston’s words sank in. Jimin, Lord Whitmore, gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before releasing him, the trio turning from the cowering Lord Bolton as they slipped into a more private parlor.

Both Park and Halston had witnessed the disastrous ball, no explanation needed for the morning’s stirrings around the betting book. Seokjin had already divulged the details of the night’s chaos, though in truth, it mattered little. Reputation was a delicate thing, and in the eyes of the ton, he’d become the villain in Miss Y/L/N’s tale.

“Will you go make your addresses to her father?” Park asked, his tone serious.

“I fear I must,” Seokjin replied, frustration twisting in his gut. “Blast it, I never meant to land myself in this mess.”

“Come now, Kim. The chit seems biddable enough. She won’t put up a fuss if you want your freedoms, will she?” Halston suggested, shaking open the daily news with a flourish.

Seokjin groaned, raking his fingers through his hair, the weight of propriety and duty pressing down on him. “That’s not how the Kim men are bred. Blast!” He tapped his fingers against the table, cursing the moral fibers woven into his being.

A light touch on his forearm brought his attention back. Park’s finger pointed to the door, signaling an approaching visitor. Seokjin looked up to see Anthony Y/L/N enter, flanked by two unfamiliar young men.

“Kim,” Anthony greeted, his tone frosty.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” Seokjin replied, offering a curt nod, the air thickening with tension.

“I’m here to settle the matter of my sister’s honor.”

“I assumed as much. I assure you, I’ll speak to Lord Y/L/N and Miss Y/L/N tomorrow.”

“Did you compromise her on purpose? What was your design?” Anthony stepped forward, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

Seokjin sighed, rising from his chair, emboldened by the silent support of his friends. “I did no such thing. Did she explain what happened?”

“She did, but you should have known better than to be caught in such a position with her—especially with her appearance in such a state. You knew that tongues would wag, and wag they have.”

Seokjin could see Anthony’s fists clenching, breath coming in sharp bursts, his face a mask of barely-contained fury. He’d heard whispers of Anthony’s quick temper but had never imagined standing on the receiving end.

He took a step closer, his finger jabbing into Anthony’s chest. “See here, Y/L/N, I’m prepared to offer the protection of my name and title to your sister. What would you have had me do? Walk away and leave her vulnerable? If I hadn’t intervened, Lord Eisen would have ruined her reputation, violated her very person.”

The words struck a nerve, twisting Anthony’s expression into one of frustration and disbelief.

“Her reputation will be salvaged,” Seokjin pressed on, “and in a few weeks, another scandal will eclipse this one. What more do you want? Will you have your pound of flesh, too?”

They stood nearly nose to nose now, the air between them electric with tension, fists ready to unleash fury.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I require,” Anthony spat, his voice low and dangerous.

“And if you kill me, where does that leave your sister?”

Seokjin should have known better than to expect any form of civility from the brutish Anthony. The man was a wall of muscle, a shadow looming over him like a thunderstorm ready to unleash its fury. Sure, Anthony had height and heft on his side, but Seokjin was no stranger to the dark art of combat, having spent countless hours in the ring at Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon. There, he had learned the subtleties of tactical fighting—the way a well-placed jab could shift the tide of a bout. Confidence flowed through him like the heavy liquor that coated the floor of the dimly lit establishment.

"Well, then, let us do this in grand fashion, shall we?" Seokjin said, a smirk dancing on his lips, concealing the tremor of anxiety curling in his gut like a serpent ready to strike.

"What did you have in mind?" Anthony grunted, his voice deep and gravelly, like rocks grinding underfoot.

"A match at Jackson's. Until one of us is rendered unconscious or yields." Seokjin’s heart raced at the thought, part anticipation, part dread.

Mr. Y/L/N paused, glancing between his companions as if he were deciphering a silent code in their expressions. After a moment’s consideration, he crossed his meaty arms over his chest, the muscles bulging like a tightly wound spring. "Agreed. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I shall call upon your father and sister in the morning." The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

"Very well," Anthony replied, the growl in his throat barely concealing his eagerness for confrontation.

As the brutish figure turned to leave, Seokjin felt a sudden surge of courage. "Mr. Y/L/N?"

The response was a low, menacing growl. "What now?"

"I do have one small request."

"And that is?"

"Try not to do too much damage to my face. I would hate to have two black eyes and a crooked nose on my wedding day." He forced a chuckle, but it echoed hollowly against the walls of the club.

"You'll be lucky if that's all I leave you with," Anthony grumbled, the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He turned and strode out of the club, his companions trailing like lost souls in his wake.

Once the tension subsided, Seokjin let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

"Park?" he asked, turning to his friend.

"Yes, Kim?"

"Do you still have a connection with a certain Bow Street informant?" His voice was a low murmur, as if the walls had ears.

"I do. Shall I put him on the lookout for Lord Eisen?" Park asked, his brow furrowing.

"If you would be so kind, but nothing official, mind." Seokjin felt the weight of impending doom settle over him like a shroud.

Jimin nodded in understanding, murmuring, "Of course."

"And cousin, will you stand as my second on the morrow?" Seokjin's heart raced at the thought of what was to come.

Namjoon slapped a heavy hand on Seokjin's shoulder, the gesture grounding him. "You needn't ask, my friend. I should be honored to watch you knock some sense into the man."

Y/N sat at her dressing table, her maid working diligently to pin up her hair. As she gazed at her reflection, the visage staring back was a stranger, a ghost of the girl she once was. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, dry and weary, the dark smudges beneath them growing more pronounced, shadows of a soul haunted by secrets.

The day after the ball had stretched on in suffocating isolation, each hour dragging like a lead weight. She preferred the company of her book of prayers, each line a refuge from the storm brewing outside her door. It was far better than facing the ire of her father, who would surely unleash a torrent of censure and berating upon her head.

She had attempted to explain the events with Lord Eisen, how Lord Rushmore's was more the hero than the villain in this twisted tale, but her words had fallen on deaf ears. Ignoring her mother’s advice to stay on the terrace, she had strolled with Lord Eisen, allowing the specter of scandal to wrap its cold fingers around her throat.

Her mother had nearly succumbed to a fit of vapors upon hearing the details. The tips of her father’s waxed moustache twitched with barely suppressed rage, while Anthony, her brother, remained frighteningly silent. Once home, she had been ushered into her father’s study for a thorough dressing down, sent to her room like a recalcitrant child.

With a final pin, her maid bobbed a curtsy and exited Y/N’s bedchamber, leaving her in a silence thick enough to suffocate. Lady Y/L/N had dispatched her own maid with orders for Y/N to don her most modest day gown and report to the formal parlor. With trepidation, she slipped into a simple, light blue frock that covered her to her collarbones, devoid of any embellishments. Her hair twisted into a knot, soft waves framing her face, a fragile semblance of grace.

She took her time nibbling on toast, each bite a reminder of the world outside her door, where shadows danced with whispers of her impending fate. Checking her appearance once more, she steeled herself and made her way to the parlor.

There, she found her mother waiting for her, worry etched into every line of her refined features. Lady Y/L/N had once been a beauty, but the years had wrought their toll, drawing tight the skin around her eyes and pursing her lips into a thin line.

"Good morning, Mother," Y/N said, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her mother’s cheek, the contact feeling more like a farewell than a greeting.

"Your father is speaking to the Earl of Rushmore. I suggest you prepare yourself for his offer. You’ll be the luckiest girl of the season if he does what is proper and expected."

Stunned, Y/N felt her heart drop into the abyss of despair. This was only her second season, and she was barely prepared for the storm brewing on the horizon. Marriage? To a man she hardly knew, with a reputation as murky as the depths of a shadowy lake?

"Mother, I cannot marry him. I do not even know him. I—"

"Do not entertain any notion of rebellion, Y/N. If he offers, you shall accept. It is the only way to salvage your reputation, which is, at this moment, in tatters after your comfortable coze in Lady Min’s garden." Her mother's voice was sharp, laced with urgency.

"But I... I had hoped to have some kind of affection for the man I married." Her voice trailed off, nearly swallowed by the silence, as tears threatened to spill over.

The rustle of her mother’s voluminous skirts approached, and she felt the settee dip as Lady Y/L/N sat beside her, a gentle finger lifting Y/N’s chin. Their eyes met, and in that moment, she saw the weight of her mother’s own sacrifices reflected back at her.

"My child, I wish it were possible for us all to marry for love. But circumstances dictate otherwise. If you do not accept Lord Rushmore's, your prospects of a good match will vanish. And there are far worse fates than becoming a countess, don't you think?"

As if summoned by fate, the door swung open, and a footman announced Lord Rushmore's and Lord Y/L/N, their arrival heralded like the final note of a dissonant chord.

"My lady, if you will accompany me, there are a few matters we must attend to," her father said, glancing at her mother with a look that brooked no argument. "Y/N, the Earl has a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you."

The footman closed the door, sealing her in a cage of expectation with Lord Rushmore's.

He was breathtakingly handsome, a figure draped in a dark brown topcoat, gold embroidery catching the dim light like whispers of wealth and power. Beneath it, a tan waistcoat clung to him, a gold watch fob glinting like a promise—or a threat. The crisp, white linen neckcloth, simply knotted, was elegant against his throat, while breeches hugged his thighs sinfully until they disappeared into polished boots, a facade of civility masking the predator within.

It seemed that Seokjin had made a valiant attempt to bring order to his hair, but it had either been ruffled by his own restless hands or simply refused to be tamed, a wild, untamed creature defying all attempts at restraint. If one were to judge solely by his disheveled appearance, one might assume he had just rolled out of bed, a thought that sent Y/N's mind spiraling into a frenzy of embarrassment and shame. What was she doing, allowing herself to entertain such visions of him in her most private moments?

As she cataloged his tousled locks and haphazard attire, she caught him doing the very same, his eyes roving over her like a thief scouting for hidden treasures. Suddenly, she felt exposed, vulnerable before this man whose presence filled the room with an unsettling energy. She ducked her head, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth, unable to find a single word to break the silence.

"Miss Y/L/N, I … How do you fare?" His voice was hesitant, laced with a nervous edge that made her heart race.

She glanced up just in time to see him pinch his eyes shut, as if steeling himself against a tempest of emotions.

"I am as fine as can be expected," she replied, her words feeling hollow in the charged atmosphere.

"Yes, well. To the matter at hand, then." He cleared his throat, the sound echoing like a distant thunderclap, and positioned himself in front of her, a statue of formal propriety. "Your father and I have discussed the situation, and I am prepared to offer you the protection of my name. I should have exercised more discretion at the ball, and for that, I apologize."

His hands clasped behind his back, his tone dripping with cold formality, the chill of icicles punctuating his every syllable. This was not the vibrant man she had encountered amidst the chaos of the ball. No, this was a figure of duty, an automaton wrapped in layers of ice, and she hated him for it.

"The protection of your name?" she echoed, her voice trembling slightly. "And what exactly would that mean?" She widened her eyes, feigning innocence, though she was no naive girl fresh from the nursery. She understood that marriage in their society came with varying degrees of commitment, some more binding than others.

His forehead wrinkled as he coughed, the sound a harsh rasp, before he paced toward the fireplace. Leaning on the mantle, he turned his gaze toward her, and she stood frozen in place, her spine straightening, shoulders squared, meeting his eyes with an intensity that seemed to draw the very air from the room.

"You would be my wife," he said, words flowing from him like a river, cold and unyielding. "The Countess of Rushmore. You would receive a generous allowance to purchase whatever you desire, and any scandal that may have tongues wagging today would practically disappear once we are wed."

"Do you wish to marry me?" The question escaped her lips before she could cage it, catching him off guard, a momentary flicker of surprise crossing his handsome face.

"Of course I do. I feel immensely… protective of you. I care a great deal for you." His eyes bore into hers, but she sensed a wall between them, one built on duty rather than desire.

"And is there anyone else for whom you care a great deal?" The words trembled on her tongue, and she felt the atmosphere thicken, charged with unspoken truths.

"I beg your pardon, but I don’t follow," he replied, brow furrowing in confusion.

She twisted her fingers together, summoning every ounce of courage as she faced the specter of societal norms that haunted her thoughts. "Do you support a… a mistress?" The word slipped out in a whisper, the weight of it heavy as it filled the space between them. She glanced up and saw his eyes widen, then quickly cast her gaze down, words tumbling out in a rush. "Because I do not believe I could stand such an arrangement. I would rather be a ruined woman and marry a nobody and live in the country for the rest of my life than to share a husband with another woman." Her voice faded into nothing, grounded firmly in the floorboards beneath her.

"I do not have a mistress," he replied, the certainty in his voice like a lifeline. "Once we are wed, I will remain faithful to you and you alone. You have nothing to worry about on that score."

Relief washed over her for a fleeting moment before the weight of his words sank in. If he had no mistress, then he would expect a marriage that was not just a façade but a binding of souls, in name and in deed. She swallowed thickly and nodded, her heart a tumultuous storm of fear and longing.

"Y/N," he began, then hesitated, as if the weight of her name held more gravity than he anticipated. "May I call you Y/N?"

"Yes, my lord."

He had moved closer, now standing directly in front of her, the space between them charged with a palpable energy. "Will you call me Seokjin?" he asked, his voice dropping to a soothing tenor that wrapped around her insides like a warm embrace, calming the quivering nerves.

Tentatively, she peeked up from beneath her eyelashes, finding his gaze steady, a promise held within its depths. She nodded, a silent acceptance.

"Very well. Y/N, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" His words, heavy with intent, settled over her like a shroud.

"Yes, Seokjin. I will marry you."

In that moment, as the promise hung in the air, she felt the world shift beneath her, a groundless fear mingling with an unexpected thrill. What lay ahead was shrouded in shadows, and yet, she found herself stepping forward into the unknown, hand in hand with a man who, in this moment, could be both her salvation and her doom.

It had been two days since the boxing match with Y/N, a brutal affair that had gone better than Seokjin had dared to hope. Anthony had landed only a single glancing blow to his jaw, leaving a faint bruise that shadowed his skin like a lingering ghost. But the rest of him was a veritable tapestry of pain—blues and purples smeared across his torso, greens and yellows blooming like grotesque flowers. He had given as good as he got, though, and after twelve grueling rounds, Gentleman Jackson had declared the contest a tie. Both men had stood, panting and bloodied, a testament to their resilience and foolishness.

As he climbed into the high-perch phaeton, wincing at the pressure on his bruised ribs, he took the reins from his tiger. Concealing his injuries from Y/N would be no easy feat. The drive to the Y/L/N home was filled with thoughts that gnawed at him like a persistent rat. He couldn’t shake the notion that he had unwittingly fallen into a parson’s mousetrap, the kind of snare that snapped shut when you least expected it.

It wasn’t exactly a shock that Y/N had accepted his proposal. Had she not, London would have turned into a bleak wasteland for her and her family, the whispers of scandal echoing like a funeral dirge. No, the real surprise was the absence of panic that usually clawed at him like a feral animal. He felt no urge to flee, no desire to escape as he had with every other prospective bride. Not even the promise of fidelity had made him balk. Instead, he felt an unsettling calm settle over him, a strange sort of acceptance.

But one thing did trouble him: the absence of Lord Eisen. The man who had wronged Y/N had become a phantom, slipping through the cracks of society’s brittle façade. Seokjin felt a duty to call the villain to account for his behavior, and if an apology was not forthcoming, a duel would have to suffice—a duel to defend her honor, the stakes set high against the backdrop of the London social season.

To his surprise, Y/N was ready only moments after he entered the foyer. His feet seemed to sprout roots, anchoring him to the spot as he watched her descend the staircase. She wore a fashionable lemon-colored dress that clung to her slim waist, the kind of style that screamed sophistication, while her straw bonnet was adorned with a delicate spray of white and yellow flowers. Yet, despite the beauty of the scene, her smile was an unsettling mask—forced, like a stage actor trying desperately to remember their lines.

Perhaps she was not as pleased with her lot as she ought to be. Wasn’t every young woman supposed to dream of snagging a peer for a husband? Seokjin didn’t think himself a hardship to look at, and he had promised her generosity. It left him genuinely perplexed at the cloudiness of her demeanor, like storm clouds brewing overhead. He would have to suss her out during their drive.

“Good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N. You are as lovely as a summer day,” he said, taking her gloved hand and pressing his lips to it, a gesture that felt both tender and fraught with unspoken tension.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, that delicious blush creeping into her cheeks, bright as the dawn.

“Have you driven in a phaeton before?” he inquired, trying to gauge her mood, the air thick with an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite name.

“No, I have not. Is it terribly high?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“The highest,” he grinned, tucking her hand through his arm, the warmth of her presence grounding him amidst his swirling thoughts.

They crept along Rotten Row, the most fashionable hour for seeing and being seen. Nods and exchanges flitted between them like whispers in a crowded theater, laughter and gossip hanging heavy in the air. Park and Halston stopped to chat, their words a playful torment that turned Seokjin’s ears to fire. To her credit, Y/N managed to handle his friends with a practiced expertise, her demure laughter a welcome balm.

But as they parted ways, an open barouche approached, filled with the resident dragons of the beau monde—women so high in the instep they would snub even their own kin if it threatened their standing. Seokjin braced himself, prepared for the cut direct that would slice through the pretense of civility. He turned on his most charming smile, tipping the brim of his hat to them, a mask of confidence. To his relief, they nodded at him and Y/N, their plumed hats bobbing like strange birds pecking for seeds, momentarily offering her the protection that came with his name.

He directed the phaeton down a less congested avenue, glancing at his fiancée. “I’ve acquired a special license to marry. I thought this Friday would give you enough time to have your maid pack your things and deliver them to my home. Is that enough time for you to prepare?”

Her gaze drifted, unfocused as she twirled her parasol in lazy circles, caught somewhere between anticipation and anxiety. “Yes. I believe that will be enough time. Mother has a modiste working ‘round the clock, but my gown should be ready by then.” A laugh erupted from her, bright but edged with a hint of disbelief. “The poor woman nearly fell over herself for the privilege of making the new Countess of Kim’s wedding dress.” Her voice trailed off, shyness washing over her as if she had stepped into a cold river. “We’ll be going to Bond Street tomorrow for my other bride clothes, so there is little else for me to assemble.”

He was disarmed by her effortless humility, the sincerity of her words only adding to her appeal, like a faint light in the darkness.

“Do you have any opinion on the location? Somewhere small and private, perhaps?”

Had this been a typical courtship, he would have expected them to reserve St. George’s in Hanover Square, the kind of place where fashionable ton weddings occurred. His mother would’ve insisted upon it, a parade of acquaintances, all eager to witness the spectacle. But this was no ordinary wedding; it was a necessity—a desperate plea for normalcy in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. A smaller chapel would better serve their needs, he thought, yet he couldn’t shake the sense that their union was more than just a formality.

“Whatever you think best,” she said, her voice flat, as if she were reading from a script that had long lost its meaning.

Seokjin snapped the reins, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence that enveloped them. He tried to ignore the unease pooling in his gut, still grappling with the enigma of Y/N’s enthusiasm—or lack thereof. Just then, the wheels on his side of the phaeton jolted over a substantial pothole, and Y/N slammed into him, the impact hard enough to make the breath hiss from his lungs.

The sudden gasp nearly made him curse, but he swallowed it down, letting his hand drift to the bruised ribs that throbbed beneath his shirt. “I’m terribly sorry, my lo—Seokjin. I didn’t think I jarred you so.”

“No, it’s not your fault. I… I’m just careless with the ribbons,” he replied, teeth clenched like a vice.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, as if she were trying to decipher a foreign language. He waved away her concern, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Why do you seem so displeased with our arrangement?”

She sighed, her mouth curving downward, eyes fixated on something far beyond the horizon. “It’s rather silly, really.”

“Nothing important to you is silly,” he countered, slowing the horses until they came to a stop beneath a canopy of fragrant trees, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. He turned to face her fully, heart hammering like a ticking time bomb.

“I suppose I just feel… very inexperienced.”

“Shall we try and remedy that, my darling?” He took her hand, cradling it gently as if it were something fragile, something that might shatter at the slightest misstep.

“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice dropped to a whisper that danced over him, sparking warmth in the chill air, stirring something deep within his chest.

“May I try something?”

She blinked, once, twice, the uncertainty in her gaze unraveling him. “Yes?”

He leaned closer, slowly, carefully, as if drawing nearer to a wild creature, waiting for it to either flee or surrender. Patience enveloped them, thick and electric, rekindling that tension from the ball, drawing them together like moths to a flickering flame.

When her eyes fluttered shut, he crossed the distance and pressed his lips to hers. It was a gentle exploration, soft and hesitant, the taste of sweetness enveloping him like a shroud. Her rigid posture melted against him, a warmth spreading through his veins. He relished the sound of her breath hitching, the quiet gasps of surprise that filled the air like a prayer.

But reality loomed, a footman lurking at the back of the phaeton, the world of Hyde Park still swirling around them. He savored the way her hands clung to his biceps, the way she leaned into him, trusting and vulnerable.

As their kiss lingered, he pulled back, heart racing, and squeezed her hands gently. “Despite what you may have heard of my reputation, I want you to be happy. It’s my foremost pursuit. You’ve come to mean the world to me, Y/N. Once we are wed, I hope you will let me court you properly.”

She bit her lip, turning her face just enough to hide a smile beneath the brim of her bonnet. “That sounds lovely.”

A week passed—an entire week!—since their wedding, and Seokjin had done nothing more than kiss her lightly before she retreated to her separate bedchamber. Days melted into one another in their Mayfair townhouse, filled with light conversation about likes and dislikes, books, and the shifting tides of politics. Each night, he would escort her to her door, kiss her as one might kiss a sibling, and disappear into the silence of his own room.

Y/N had mentally prepared herself for the duty all wives were expected to perform, and the absence of that first night stung like a phantom limb. With each passing day, her fondness for Seokjin grew—perhaps even love—but every time he sent her to bed alone felt like a deeper wound, a rejection wrapped in tenderness.

Staring at the heavy brocaded tapestries above her, she fumed, a tempest brewing in her chest. Enough was enough. She threw off the covers, slipped into her dressing gown, and marched through the hushed rooms until she found his. His valet must have retired, for the air was thick with stillness and the promise of secrets.

Without so much as a knock, she flung open the door to his bedroom and halted. There he stood, just out of reach of the fire’s glow, a vision of raw masculinity with one hand resting on the counterpane of his bed. Her breath caught in her throat, captivated by the lean muscles of his back, the dimples above his shapely behind. But then she saw the shadows—fading bruises that painted his torso like a cruel map of his suffering.

“Good Lord,” she gasped, horror mingling with concern. “What happened to you?”

His shoulders slumped as he shrugged into his dressing gown, the fabric whispering secrets against his skin. He approached her, tying the sash, hands sliding into the pockets like a man trying to hide the evidence of his pain.

“It’s nothing, my sweet. Please don’t concern yourself.”

“Is this why you have not touched me since our wedding?”

“I didn’t want you to see me in such a battered state. If I were to do more than kiss you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

“What happened?”

“An overly enthusiastic sparring partner at Jackson’s boxing saloon.”

Timidly, she spread open the top of his gown. Her heart raced as she traced her fingers over his bruised skin, circling the marks of violence like a moth drawn to a flame. “Who was your partner?”

“I… can’t say as—”

“Please be honest with me. I cannot abide liars.”

He paused, gaze shifting from her eyes to the floor. “It was your brother,” he confessed, the weight of his words pressing down like an anvil.

“And he is the one who gave you the bruise here, I suppose?” Her fingers brushed against the stubble on his jaw, memories of their earlier kiss flooding back, tainted now by the knowledge of violence.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He felt the need to defend your honor. I was the only target available.”

Her grip tightened on his lapels, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. “How positively stupid! You had already offered for me, and I had accepted. Why would you let him pummel you so?”

His soothing voice gripped her, but she wanted no part of it. She stepped away, feeling sick, as if the world had spun off its axis. “And what good would that do? Will you beat him into unconsciousness?”

He winced, a sheepish smile flickering across his face like the dying light of a sunset. “Will you challenge him to a duel?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. When he said nothing, her breath hitched, and she gasped, “You would leave me a widow less than a month after our wedding? A marriage we haven’t even consummated?”

His eyes flared like flames licking at dry wood, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in one swift motion. His hands gripped her arms, pulling her face to his, their noses almost touching. “Don’t for a second think, Y/N, that I don’t want to consummate our marriage. I’ve burned for you since the moment we crossed that threshold as husband and wife.”

Then, in a rush, his lips crashed against hers, an urgent storm of desire. His hands slipped from her arms, gliding over her shoulders, up her neck, cupping her face with a tenderness that belied the tempest brewing within him. He kissed her, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh along her neck, each brush of his mouth a brush against the very core of her being.

Dizzy, she felt their bodies meld together, pressed tightly from knees to chest, sensations swirling like a maelstrom. When his lips reached her ear, he whispered, “It’s a matter of honor,” and with that simple phrase, she snapped back to reality, the haze of desire dissipating like fog in the morning sun.

“Go then,” she said, her voice sharp as a knife, pushing away from him. “Seek your satisfaction, but do not come to me. I could not bear it if I gave you my entire self only to have you killed over something so trivial now. Y/N Y/L/N is no more; only Lady Y/N Kim, Countess of Rushmore, remains, a woman of standing, one of the most sought-after guests in London.”

With that, she turned and fled to her chamber, locking the doors behind her as if sealing away the chaos of her heart. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing until her tears ran dry, feeling the weight of her world pressing down upon her.

Seokjin waited for over an hour, but she did not join him in the breakfast parlor. He could feel her vexation in the air, thick and heavy, like a summer storm hanging just before the downpour. If only she could understand how her honor intertwined with his own, how he could not simply walk away from the challenge that had been laid before him.

The prospect of a duel with Eisen loomed, but Seokjin preferred other avenues to address the scoundrel's transgressions. He was ready to confront the man, but only if words failed. Until then, he could only wait, his heart heavy with concern and unspoken words.

He left the door to his study open, hoping to hear the sound of her footsteps. The empty fireplace crackled softly, but the only thing he could focus on was the gnawing worry about her silence. Just then, his butler knocked and announced Lord Whitmore’s arrival.

Seokjin rose to greet his friend, who brushed aside the butler’s offer to take his coat and hat.

“I don’t believe I shall tarry long, Forbes, but thank you,” Lord Whitmore said, glancing at Seokjin with a look that could only be described as appraising.

“Morning, Park. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You look terrible, Kim. Is the little wife not pleasing you?”

“Speak another word on that subject, and you may find yourself missing a few teeth,” Seokjin growled, tension flooding his veins.

“Easy, friend. I have other news. Eisen’s been spotted.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Seokjin felt his entire body tense, a primal instinct surging through him, the urge to fight. He flexed his fingers, pacing the length of the room. “Where? Has he returned home?”

“No, he was seen last night at a gaming hell near Covent Garden.”

“Your Bow Street friend is tailing him, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“Then what are we doing standing around woolgathering?”

When they found Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, he lay slumped over the gaming table, still dazed from the previous night's indulgences. The weary proprietor explained how he’d tried to send the viscount home, but Eisen had threatened violence if anyone laid a hand on him. It went without saying that the authorities weren’t called in, given the establishment’s questionable legality. But that didn’t deter Seokjin; he was resolute in seeking justice for his wife.

“Lord Eisen, I would like a word with you.”

The viscount lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and watering, about to lay it back down when comprehension finally broke through the fog of drink clouding his mind. “Rushmore? Is that you? Poor sot you are, shackled to a fish like her,” he began to laugh, but before he could rise, he slumped back down, surrendering to the inebriation that held him captive.

“You behaved in a most heinous way toward my wife, Eisen,” Seokjin said, his voice steady as granite, muscles taut like a bowstring. He stood with his arms braced on the table, the weight of his indignation anchoring him against the crude laughter of the man before him.

Eisen leaned back, his arrogance filling the space like stale smoke. “You see, Rushmore,” he continued, as if Seokjin’s words were mere whispers against the roar of his own hubris, “it’s not good form to take the chit astride you in plain view of her papa. One must be smarter about these things. At least I had the decency to carry her off to a nice, dark corner of the garden for some real fun.”

“Eisen, I warn you—”

“Doesn’t she have the creamiest thighs you’ve ever seen? A right shame she had to ruin everything by carrying on like a hellcat. What I would give to sink into th—”

In the heartbeat it took for the air to thicken with tension, Lord Rushmore's fist connected with Eisen’s nose, a sickening crunch echoing through the room as the viscount crumpled to the floor, blood spilling like a crimson secret onto the polished wood.

Seokjin would have launched himself atop the man, would have rained down blows until his fury found satisfaction, had it not been for Jimin’s firm hands grasping his shoulders, holding him back like a rabid dog on a leash.

Jonathon, now upright but wobbling, wiped the blood from his face, confusion mingling with rage. “What the devil are you playing at, Rushmore?”

“You will apologize to Lady Rushmore.”

“She barely got what she deserved, the tease. Making eyes and overtures all night, then turning into a proper little prudish thing…”

Seokjin slowly removed his leather gloves, peeling them off with a deliberate precision that bespoke his simmering wrath. He straightened each finger, each gesture methodical, before slapping the gloves across Eisen’s face, satisfaction blooming within him as he noted the three pink scars Y/N had left on the viscount’s cheek.

Eisen let out a sick, hysterical bark of laughter. “You’re challenging me, then?”

Seokjin remained a statue, unyielding.

“What’s it to be? Another bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s? I assure you, I won’t spare your pretty face like the Y/L/N lad did.”

“Pistols, tomorrow at dawn. Who is your second?”

Eisen narrowed his eyes, scanning the growing crowd in the club with a predator’s focus. “Lord Alec Winters,” he replied, a cold gleam dancing in his gaze.

“Lord Halston will be in contact with him to determine the field of honor. Good day.”

As they mounted their horses, Lord Whitmore turned to Seokjin, his expression grave and weighted with concern. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“What’s done is done,” Seokjin replied, each word heavy with the inevitability of consequence. “I cannot recall the challenge without appearing a coward.”

“Very well, my lord. I shall stand at your side with Halston.”

Seokjin spent the rest of the day cloistered in his study, though hiding would be a more accurate term. Y/N was noticeably absent when he returned home after issuing his challenge. The butler had handed him a note stating that his wife was spending the day with her particular friends, Ladies Jeon and Jung, but it made no mention of when she would return.

He ate his meal alone, the silence in the room amplifying the thrum of his thoughts, before returning once more to the sanctuary of his study. After pouring himself a generous glass of port, he opened the case that held his dueling pistols. He examined the moving parts, ensuring everything was in proper working order, the metallic tang of the weapons grounding him amidst the swirling chaos in his mind.

It was well after dark when he heard her voice echo through the foyer. “Is Lord Rushmore's at home?” she asked, her tone light but edged with something he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Yes, my lady. He is in the study,” came the butler’s formal reply.

“Thank you, Forbes. That will be all.”

Before he could consider the implications of the pistols laid out on his desk, she appeared in the doorway, her presence a sharp contrast to the darkness of the room.

“Seokjin, I just wanted to…” Her voice faded as her gaze fell on the dueling pistols, an expressionless veneer sliding over her features like a heavy curtain. “I just wanted to let you know I was home.”

“Y/N…”

“Goodnight, Seokjin.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as she turned and left, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoed like a gunshot in the night.

She couldn’t sleep a wink. The moment she’d spotted the gleaming pistols on Seokjin’s desk, nausea twisted in her stomach like a coiled snake. All night, she lay in the dark, listening for any sound from his bedchamber, but there was nothing. The silence stretched, oppressive and thick, until her unease multiplied, leaving her trembling, a leaf caught in an unforgiving wind.

In the pre-dawn darkness, she lit a single candle, its flickering flame casting long shadows as she made her way to the kitchen, seeking a biscuit or something to settle her roiling stomach. But as she crept into the dimly lit space, her heart plummeted when she overheard Forbes speaking to Mrs. Cope, the housekeeper.

“He’s goin’ through with that bloody duel?” Mrs. Cope’s voice dripped with concern, thick as treacle.

“It would seem so,” Forbes replied, his tone grave.

“The poor girl,” Mrs. Cope continued, her voice low, “she was so out of sorts yesterday, and just when I thought they were beginnin’ to warm up to each other…”

Madness. Absolute madness. How could she sit idly by, waiting for news that might shatter her world, wondering if her husband lay dead in a field of honor? Clearing her throat, she startled the two servants. “Forbes, please have a footman saddle my horse.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, but he schooled his features, nodding with a single, curt motion.

“And when you’re done with him, bring him here and I’ll box his ears,” Mrs. Cope added with a wink, a twinkle of mischief in her eye.

Y/N knew the housekeeper had cared for Seokjin since he was a lad of seventeen, just stepping into the world as an Earl after his father’s death. She’d watched Mrs. Cope fuss over him like a second mother, a bond forged in years of loyalty and affection.

“You can count on it, to be sure, Mrs. Cope,” Y/N promised, her resolve hardening.

She rushed back to her chamber, dressing in her riding habit without a moment’s thought for her maid. Tying her hair into a simple queue, she ignored the elaborate hats hanging in her dressing room, knowing they would do little to comfort her.

Forbes held the door open, and as she passed, he murmured, “Hyde Park, just north of the Serpentine.”

“Thank you, Forbes,” she replied, determination coursing through her veins.

The groom helped her into the side-saddle, and she urged her horse into a slow trot until she found her seat. Then she pressed the beast into a gallop, the wind whipping around her face as the world blurred by. The gray mist of foreboding cloaked the park, but she pressed on toward the bridge, morning light peeking over the horizon, the air crisp and biting.

As she crossed the bridge, her heart raced at the sight of a gathering of gentlemen, tension crackling in the air. Two men stood poised to fire, and she could faintly hear Lord Halston calling out, “Ready. Aim. Fire!”

Time slowed as she careened toward the group, her voice piercing the morning hush. “NO!” But it was too late; the shots rang out, echoing in her ears like the toll of a death knell.

She leapt from her horse, barreling through the crowd of men, her heart pounding like a war drum. “Seokjin!” she called, desperation clawing at her throat as she broke through the front line. Lord Eisen stood to her left, his pistol still raised, confusion painted across his face. To her right, she saw Seokjin, his arm raised to the sky, expression a tempest of fury and concern.

“I am satisfied,” he declared, his voice steady despite the chaos, “Let it be known that Lord Eisen is a debaucher of innocence and a dishonorable blackguard.” He lowered his pistol, striding toward her with purpose.

But before he could reach her, another gunshot shattered the stillness, a sharp crack in the fragile morning. Horror twisted in her gut as Seokjin howled in pain, crumpling to the ground, blood blooming like dark petals through the fabric of his breeches. Disapproving murmurs erupted from the gathered crowd, a cacophony of gasps and curses directed at Lord Eisen.

Her focus narrowed to Seokjin, writhing on the ground as blood seeped from his wound. She fell to her knees, hands trembling as they fluttered over his injured leg.

“Stay back, Y/N, this is no place for you,” he gritted out, his voice strained with pain. “Park, take her back home.”

“No. I’m not leaving. I can help.”

“Dammit, woman, why will you not do as I say?”

“Because I love you!” she shouted, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. “And I won’t leave your side.” She cupped his sweat-dampened cheek, searching his eyes for any sign of hope. “Lord Whitmore, is there a physician present?” she asked, desperation lacing her voice, unwilling to tear her gaze from Seokjin.

“Here, my lady. I’ll just see to binding the wound,” a gray-haired gentleman replied, a black satchel slung over his shoulder.

Seokjin threw his head back on the grass, a roar of agony ripping from his throat. “Be quick about it. I’m not sure how much longer I can remain conscious!”

Once the physician bound his leg, Park and Halston helped Seokjin into the doctor’s carriage, then Park handed Y/N inside, her heart hammering with fear as they made their way home, Seokjin’s head resting on her lap, his warmth a fragile reminder of life.

When they arrived at Kim House, Halston administered copious amounts of brandy until Seokjin was thoroughly foxed, the alcohol dulling the edges of his pain.

The doctor worked efficiently, extracting the bullet with practiced hands, though he was the recipient of a lengthy string of vitriol from the Earl. “Curse you, Eisen!” Seokjin spat, his voice thick with indignation. The doctor promised to return the following day to check the dressing and promptly exited the room.

Y/N remained at Seokjin’s side, mopping his forehead with a cool cloth, his features a pale shadow of their usual vigor. He was insensible from both the liquor and the laudanum, yet he managed to crack his eyes open, a flicker of recognition igniting within.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, voice slurred yet filled with an urgency that made her heart leap.

“Why was your pistol raised when I arrived?” She couldn’t help but question, a mix of fear and frustration welling within her.

“I shot into the air,” he scowled, eyes narrowing. “The cur wasn’t worth even a single bullet.” He paused, searching her gaze with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Did you mean what you said? That you love me?”

“Yes, you ridiculously honorable man. I love you,” she confessed, her heart swelling with the truth of her words.

“As I love you,” he replied, his voice softer, a gentle lullaby beneath the tumult of the day. “’Tis why I had to confront him the way I did.” His words were heavy with sleep, yet fervent as though each syllable was an anchor in the storm.

“Well, you’re going to have to come up with a different way of expressing it. I don’t think I could bear to see you… For a moment, I thought you were dead.” The weight of those words pressed down on her, a chill creeping through her veins.

“I shall never leave your side again, my love.” His voice softened, eyes fluttering closed, his breathing slowing like the ebb of the tide.

For a heartbeat, she thought he had finally succumbed to sleep, but then she felt the gentle pressure of his hand around hers, a tether that bound them even amidst the shadows, a promise whispered in the dark.

"I fear I shall be a useless husband for the next several weeks until the wound is well on its way to healing." Seokjin's gaze pierced through her, an intensity lurking behind his words that took her a moment to grasp.

A rush of crimson crept up her neck, and she quickly averted her gaze. “Don’t be vulgar. It is far too early in the morning for such talk.”

"I will require a great deal of nursing and special care, you know." His voice was a teasing whisper, laced with something more primal that made her heart race.

"Yes, the doctor explained what would need to be done. I shall take extra special care of you, my lord," she replied, tracing a delicate finger over the smattering of hair on his chest, the softness of the moment shattered by the storm brewing beneath the surface.

"Vixen," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut, a smile playing on his lips. "These next weeks will be torture."

"I do hope so," she shot back, her tone teasing but edged with sincerity. "Perhaps next time you won’t be so quick to engage in something as foolish as this."

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his, the kiss igniting a warmth that spread through them both. Seokjin’s hand found the back of her neck, holding her gently in place as he feasted on her mouth, nibbling and sucking, each sigh from him a reminder of the thin line between pleasure and pain.

With a soft thud, his head dropped back onto the pillow, and he looked deeply into her eyes. “When my leg has healed, the first order of business will be to see to the matter of an heir for the Earldom.”

“Agreed,” she whispered, lying down next to him on the bed for the first time, a sense of gravity settling over them.

Meanwhile, Lord Rushmore stood with his hands casually clasped behind his back, watching a stable boy lead a striking pair of chestnut horses around the yard at Tattersalls. He had no real intention of acquiring any new horseflesh; he had simply agreed to meet Lords Park and Halston there, his mind elsewhere, adrift in thoughts of a summer retreat at Willow Hill, his country estate.

It had been an arduous month, the wound inflicted by Lord Eisen a constant reminder of his vulnerability. Kim hated being an invalid, but Y/N’s determined care was a salve to his wounded pride, particularly when she offered to help him bathe. Yet now, as he was finally cleared to bear weight on his injured leg, her shyness returned, casting a pall over the intimacy they had shared.

“Kim!” Namjoon’s voice cut through his reverie, yanking him back to the present.

“How goes it, Halston?” Seokjin asked, forcing a smile.

“Well, very well. And how does the livestock look?” Namjoon’s tone was light, masking the concern lurking just beneath.

Seokjin circled the courtyard, moving smoothly as Namjoon trailed slowly behind.

“Still walking like you’ve got a dry stick in your boot instead of a leg, I see?” Lord Whitmore called from behind, his friendly jab punctuating the air.

Seokjin turned, a rueful grin tugging at his lips. He had long since stopped limping, yet the familiar teasing felt like a balm, a reminder of their shared camaraderie.

Jimin stepped up beside Seokjin, tilting his head slightly. “They’re preparing the gallows at Newgate,” he said, his voice low, the gravity of his words palpable.

“I see,” Seokjin replied, his brow furrowing. “And has your Bow Street source heard anything that would be of particular interest to me?”

Jimin shook his head, frustration evident. “He wasn’t able to get a look at the list of condemned.”

“After shooting you in the leg and then strangling his new bride to death, it would serve him right to dance upon nothing. I shudder when I think of the reports that were given as to her physical condition before death. The man is a monster.” Namjoon’s voice grew impassioned, his anger simmering just below the surface. He despised violence against women, a sentiment that burned hotter with each word. “If I had the chance, I’d dispatch Eisen with my bare hands.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Seokjin replied, the heat of righteous indignation flaring in his chest. “Though I must admit, it would take Herculean effort to prevent a towering rage from overcoming me if I were to find Y/N with another man—and in the very act, no less.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to protest, but Seokjin raised a hand. “No, friend, I understand. Her dalliance certainly did not merit her death. If Eisen is to be hanged, he has certainly earned his fate.”

The three stood in a tense silence as the auctioneer began the bidding on a black thoroughbred racehorse, the tension in the air palpable.

“Halston, are you bidding today?” Jimin asked, his voice light, yet curiosity tinged his tone.

Namjoon’s brows pinched together, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t seen anything that strikes my fancy.”

“Shall we be off to Park’s, then?” Jimin’s brow rose expectantly, glancing between Namjoon and Seokjin.

“Not for me, lads. I must see to a few last-minute preparations before we leave for Willow Hill.”

They strolled a short distance away from Tattersalls, where Seokjin’s coach awaited.

“We shall join you in a week’s time,” Namjoon said, a promise hanging in the air.

“I look forward to a few weeks in the country,” Seokjin replied, a smile creeping onto his lips despite the heavy weight of recent events. “Though I daresay this house party will be quite different from those of past years, with Lady Rushmore now leading you about by the nose.” Jimin chuckled, nudging Namjoon with his elbow, their shared mirth a small reprieve from the shadows of their reality. They exchanged a pitying glance with Seokjin, who merely smiled, shaking his head, caught in the bittersweet nature of love, loss, and the unbearable weight of impending fate.

"I'll have you know that in addition to her Mama and Papa, Lady Rushmore has also invited the Jeons and the Jungs. I would not doubt she has matchmaking on the mind." The words tumbled from Seokjin’s mouth, heavy with implication, each syllable dripping with the kind of mischief that hangs thick in the air before a storm.

Jimin scoffed, shaking his head. "The day I fall into a parson's mousetrap, as you did, is the day I shall kick the bucket from under my own feet and take a short drop."

"Ah, my dear Park, there are a great many advantages to having a wife," Seokjin replied, climbing into the carriage, the sound of his voice echoing like a warning bell against the backdrop of laughter and banter.

"Does that mean you're no longer living the life of a monk?" Jimin called after him, his words laced with a teasing edge. As Seokjin gave two swift raps to the roof of the carriage, the laughter of his friends faded, oblivious to the rich tapestry of pleasure that a loving wife waiting at home could weave into a man's life.

The scene that greeted Seokjin upon his arrival home was chaos incarnate. Maids bustled about like frantic bees, arms laden with linens and other household goods, while footmen heaved large trunks and portmanteaus down the stairs, the very air vibrating with urgency.

He nodded as he passed various servants, each one bobbing curtsies or bowing stiffly before resuming their frenetic tasks. But as he reached the top of the stairs, a familiar voice cut through the cacophony—Y/N, directing her maid with a calm authority that belied the frenzy around her.

"I'm afraid I'll need the basin with me inside the coach. Heaven help me if I should cast up my crumpets during the journey. Lord Rushmore's has yet to witness such a distasteful episode. I fear I shall die of mortification if he were to witness such unpleasantness."

A flicker of irritation sparked within Seokjin at the thought of her hiding an illness from him, a dark cloud threatening to obscure his sunny disposition. He had every intention of chastising her for keeping silent about her health, but that resolve evaporated like morning mist when he rounded the corner into their bedroom.

There she was, bent over a valise, sorting through her chemises and nightdresses, a vision of domesticity that stole the breath from his lungs.

The maid was the first to notice him. He raised a finger to his lips and nodded toward the door, signaling his desire for privacy. She nodded once and slipped out, closing the door without so much as a whisper.

Seokjin moved across the room, his footsteps muffled by the plush woven rug beneath him, until he stood directly behind his still-leaning wife.

"Liza, have you already packed my tan kid glo—" He gripped her hips, pulling her backside against him, eliciting a shriek of surprise. When she spun around, he caught her in his arms, her wide eyes a mirror of astonishment.

"Hello, my love."

"Seokjin! How you startled me." She swatted her hand against his chest, but the smile creeping across her lips melted the tension from her flushed features, leaving only warmth in its wake.

"I am sorry for that, but I was loath to interrupt my view of your delightful figure."

He stroked his finger along her cheekbone, which bloomed with a telltale blush. She studied him as he trailed the same finger down her throat and around the back of her neck, delighting in the shivers that coursed through her at his touch. Leaning down, he followed the path with the tip of his nose, stopping momentarily to graze the tender flesh behind her ear with his lips.

"My lord," she whispered, and he felt the weight of that title hang between them like a breathless promise.

"Yes, my lady?"

He continued to kiss and nibble his way across her jaw and up to her lips, savoring the sweet aftertaste of honey that lingered from her tea. She responded with equal enthusiasm, suckling his lower lip and tilting her head for a better angle. After what felt like hours, she finally pulled away, gasping for breath.

"Seokjin, there is too much to do." She leaned away from him, perhaps expecting him to release her, but he tightened his grip around her waist, kissing her again, lost in the moment.

"We have a moment, do we not?" he murmured against her lips, the world outside fading into insignificance.

Suddenly, she stiffened in his arms, and he instinctively relaxed his hold. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened with a dawning horror. He let her go as she rushed to the washstand, emptying the contents of her stomach into the basin.

With purposeful strides, he crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on her back, offering comfort as she heaved, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. When she was finished, he extended his handkerchief and waited, heart pounding in his chest.

She shuffled to the tea tray, returning to the basin with a cup full of lukewarm tea. Swishing mouthfuls and spitting them back into the basin, she did her best to maintain some semblance of delicacy, but her weariness was palpable.

When she finally turned to face him, the rosy flush had drained from her cheeks, replaced by an ashen pallor that sent a chill through him. How long had she been hiding her illness?

"Must you look at me with such pity?" she asked, setting the teacup down and twisting her hands together, a nervous habit that made his heart ache.

"My sweet, how long have you felt ill? We can postpone our departure until you are well. Everyone coming to Willow Hill will understand." He reached out to caress her cheek, but she turned away from his touch, brushing past him like a ghost.

He watched, concern knitting his brow, as she paced the room, muttering under her breath, a whirlwind of anxiety. Finally, she cast herself onto the bed, curling into a tight ball, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Seokjin was taken aback, concern spiraling into panic at the sudden shift in her demeanor. Every instinct screamed at him to rush to her side, but he remained frozen, captivated by the raw vulnerability laid bare before him.

As if pulled by an unseen string, she sat up, wiping her eyes before their gazes connected, and he felt propelled into action.

He hurriedly knelt in front of her, grasping her hands in his. "What is wrong, Y/N?"

"I did not… It was supposed to be… Oh botheration. I must look a fright." She dabbed the handkerchief at the corners of her eyes, a picture of fragility.

"Should I summon the doctor?" he asked, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of his wife being gravely ill.

The lines of worry etched on her face began to soften, replaced by a look of adoration that made his heart race.

"I have already seen the doctor."

"And what is his diagnosis?" Seokjin’s heart plummeted, a darkness settling over him at the very thought of her suffering.

She wriggled one of her hands free from his grasp—he hadn’t realized he was squeezing her so tightly—and cupped the side of his face with a tenderness that caught him off guard. “I’m afraid you were quite successful in your quest for an heir,” she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.

His brow furrowed as the meaning of her words sunk in, slowly creeping through the fog of his mind like a dark shadow. “Do you mean… I say! Are you—” He sprang to his feet, a surge of exhilaration propelling him to nearly drag Y/N off the bed in his excitement.

“I am increasing, and it is all your fault, you insufferable man! I don’t feel the least bit well, and of course, there’s nothing to be done for it but nibble dry toast when the nausea strikes.” Her voice had a sharp edge to it, yet there was a sparkle in her eyes that ignited something primal within him.

Dropping to his knees, he surrounded her with his arms, resting his head gently against her still-flat abdomen. The thought “I am going to be a father” echoed in his mind, a mantra that swelled until it overwhelmed him like a tidal wave.

Y/N threaded her fingers through his hair, massaging soothing circles on his scalp, murmuring sweet nothings that drifted like whispers in the night until, finally, she grasped his chin and gently lifted him to his feet. “I wanted to tell you at Willow Hill. The doctor confirmed the pregnancy only this morning.”

“When will it be here?” he asked, his heart pounding like a drum echoing through an empty hall.

“He shall be born in early February.”

He smirked, a wild gleam igniting in his eyes as he led her back to the bed. With a tenderness that seemed to transcend reality, he cradled her in his arms. “You are sure, then, that I have produced an heir for the title of Lord Rushmore’s?” His voice danced with mischief.

“Of course. It is my greatest wish that the lineage for the earldom be secured, but…”

“But what, my darling?”

“What if it is a girl?”

“It gives us all the more reason to practice the arduous task of producing a male heir.” He kissed her soundly as he laid her on the bed, hovering protectively over her, his body a fortress against the world.

“There are still so many things to prepare, Seokjin.”

“Hush, my dear. Let the housekeeper do her job. The world will not fall apart if we steal a few moments of quiet together.”

She pressed herself into his side, and in that fleeting moment, as if they had stolen a slice of eternity, he felt her body relax, her breaths evening into those of a slumbering angel, wrapped in the cocoon of their shared warmth.

The next morning unfolded like a symphony of chaos as the coaches were readied for the departure of the Earl of Rushmore’s household. When Forbes gave the word, Seokjin tucked Y/N’s hand in the crook of his elbow and led her to the carriage. Once she was settled, he followed her in, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. His gaze flicked nervously to the basin opposite them, stacked with lavender-scented handkerchiefs and towels. He hoped her sickness wouldn’t turn their journey into a nightmare.

The carriage lurched into motion, rattling off through the streets of London, bound for the quieter Hampshire countryside. The sun barely peeked over the rooftops, and the cool breeze whispered secrets through the open windows. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment of calm until Y/N spoke, shattering the fragile peace.

“Seokjin, why are we going in the wrong direction? This is not the road to Hampshire.”

He opened his eyes and sat up straighter, unease coiling in his stomach like a serpent. “I have a small matter of business I need to see to before we leave town.”

She frowned, her brow knitting together in concern. “I thought you took care of all your business yesterday.”

“Yes, well, one other matter came up.”

“I see.”

She shifted away from him, her attention drawn outside. His heart sank as he realized where they were headed. The closer they came to Newgate prison, the more agitated he became, as if an unseen force was tightening around his throat.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Do you not have a book or some kind of embroidery with which to occupy yourself?”

“I fear I would grow ill if I tried to read, and heaven forbid I should attempt any kind of needlecraft. I would most likely end up sticking myself and bleed to death.”

He sighed, defeated by her stubbornness. Minutes ticked by, and the rattling wheels on the cobblestone streets were replaced by the jeers of a growing mob gathering for the hangings.

“Seokjin, why is there such a crowd at this early hour?” Her voice was laced with dread, and he could feel her eyes boring into him, demanding answers he couldn’t provide.

He stood, head bent, shoulders rounded, and leaned over his legs to peer out his window. The prison loomed ahead, and the gallows stood like a grim sentinel against the morning sky.

As they approached, the carriage slowed, stopping some distance from the raised platform, yet they had a perfect view. When the gaoler stood and raised his arms, the crowd fell silent, anticipation crackling in the air like static before a storm.

As he read the names of the condemned and their crimes, a chill crept down Seokjin’s spine. One by one, the hooded figures were brought forth, the nooses cinched around their necks as the crowd hissed and jeered, throwing stones and objects at the prisoners.

“And last we have, Jonathon Bartlett, Viscount Eisen, condemned to hang by the neck until dead for the murder in cold blood of Louis Montford, Marquis of Calais.”

Y/N gasped, scrambling backward into her seat, her breath quickening as panic washed over her like a wave. She waved her hand in front of her face, but that same wide-eyed look of distress he had witnessed the day before seized her. She lunged forward, retching violently into the basin.

Once again, he handed her a clean square of toweling and waited, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest.

“I had heard of the scandal. Lady Min was quite thrilled to share the news with your mother. But… he is not condemned for the death of Lady Eisen?”

Seokjin shook his head, his heart pounding like a war drum. “No. Had he only killed her, he most likely would not be in this position. When he murdered the Marquis in front of his entire household, he sealed his fate.”

Though he glossed over the details for her benefit, the gruesome images of Lord Montford’s lifeless body, throat slit from ear to ear, lingered in his mind like a dark specter. It was damning, to say the least.

Seokjin peered out of the carriage window, the air thick with a tension that prickled at the nape of his neck. It was nearly time.

“Please, Seokjin,” Y/N’s voice quivered, raw with dread. “I can’t bear this. Let’s go.”

He nodded once, the sound of his heart thumping painfully in his chest. With a sharp rap on the carriage's wooden panel, the horses whinnied in response, and the vehicle lurched forward, rattling down the cobbled streets.

As they rounded the corner, the roar of the mob reached a crescendo, a grotesque symphony of triumph and bloodlust. It echoed in his ears, a haunting reminder of what awaited them. Y/N leaned heavily against him, her body trembling as she covered her face with shaking hands, bent double as if the weight of the world bore down on her fragile frame. For a moment, he feared she might be sick again.

After a silence that stretched like a taut wire, she slowly lifted her head, her eyes glistening. “I don’t understand why I’ve turned into a watering pot.”

“It’s the good and kind nature within you,” he murmured, though he felt the tremor in his own voice.

“It’s never good to revel in the death of one of God’s children, even if he was a very bad man.” She sniffled into her handkerchief, and gradually, the plush upholstery of the carriage seemed to embrace her weary form, pulling her back from the brink of despair.

“True. He was indeed a most depraved individual, but now we shall never have to worry about him again.”

“Do you think he really would have followed through on his threats against me?” She looked at him, eyes wide with fear.

“It’s hard to say for certain. But if his madness regarding his wife’s lover is any indication, I’m relieved to think you need not worry about his intentions any longer.”

28 February 1816

11:54 pm

“I swear to God himself, if I am not allowed to see my wife this instant, I shall break down the door!” Seokjin's voice reverberated through the upper halls of Willow Hill as he pounded on the door to their shared bedchamber, desperation clawing at him.

Y/N had been laboring for nearly twenty hours. The doctor had even consented to allow the local midwife to assist, though his reluctant agreement came with warnings laced with disapproval.

Just as Seokjin was about to start kicking the door, he heard the soft click of the lock. A frightened, doe-eyed maid opened the door, stepping aside just in time as he barreled past her into the room.

Y/N sat hunched over on a peculiar chair, sweat beading on her forehead and clinging to her hair. On either side of her stood their mothers, both wearing matching scowls, while Siobhan, the midwife, whispered instructions into Y/N’s ear, her voice thick and accented.

When Siobhan glanced up, her eyes sparkled with an unsettling gleam. Her hair was a wild halo of gray curls, and her face bore the deep lines of age, looking like an apple left too long in the orchard—wrinkled, desiccated.

“The babby is almost here,” she crooned, “but she be waitin’ fer her own special day. This'un is sure to be full o’ spirit.” Her words slurred together, but the meaning hung in the air, heavy and ripe.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Y/N grunted, a fresh wave of pain coursing through her. “Ooooh, another…”

“Bear down and push, lovey. ’Tis almost done. Are ye ready to catch, doctor?”

“Hush, witch. I know how to bring a child into the world,” snapped the doctor, irritation coating his every word.

“Kim, come take my place,” Seokjin’s mother urged, but he hardly heard her over the pounding of his heart.

“We’ve only ever talked about names for a boy,” he murmured, glancing at the doctor’s bloodied hand reaching for a towel.

“Och, there he goes,” Siobhan said, her voice laced with disapproval, and that was the last thing Seokjin remembered before the world around him faded to black.

Everything became muffled, foggy, like he was submerged in deep water. He tried to reach for Y/N’s voice, but his limbs felt like lead, unresponsive.

Then, a sharp, acrid smell invaded his senses, burning his nostrils. His eyes shot open, heart racing as he scanned the room, confused and disoriented. He was on the floor of his chamber, the strange chair gone, the chaotic mess of moments before replaced by eerie calm. How long had he been unconscious?

A familiar wrinkled face appeared above him. “Ah, there ye be. ’Tis why we don’t let the papas in until after the wee ones are born.”

“Y/N!” he gasped, shaking off the haze. “Where is my wife?”

“I’m right here, my lord.”

He rose unsteadily, dread curling in his stomach, and turned slowly toward her voice. Y/N lay on the bed in a fresh, white nightdress, hair neatly plaited over one shoulder, and cradled in her arms was a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets, a serene infant nestled against her.

He stumbled forward, drawn by an unseen force, and perched next to her, awe washing over him. Siobhan’s departing words barely registered as he soaked in the sight of his wife and child.

“Y/N, my beautiful Y/N. How do you fare?” he whispered, his heart swelling.

A knowing smile danced on her lips. “You fainted, my lord.”

He felt the warmth of laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He remained silent, mesmerized by the tiny rosebud lips of their child. “I hope everyone has sworn an oath to take the events of this room to the grave.”

“Oh dear, I do believe we forgot to summon a magistrate for such proceedings.”

“Then I will assume the entire township, nay the whole of Hampshire, will know of my weak constitution by midday.” He sighed, resting his head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of the world lift just slightly. After a contemplative silence, he asked, “Was she right? Siobhan, I mean.”

“Does it matter?”

“You are alive. The child is alive. Of course it matters.”

He watched as Y/N’s fingers traced the soft strands of reddish-brown hair that crowned their daughter’s head. “She was right. You have a daughter, my love.”

“A girl,” he breathed, the word heavy with meaning. “Was she indeed born on the twenty-ninth?”

“Yes, she waited until it was two minutes past midnight. Siobhan was right on both counts. She wanted to have her own special day.”

The thought struck him like a chill in the night air—he would never survive having a daughter. Anxiety twisted in his chest, coiling around his heart until it clenched painfully with every beat.

Y/N must have sensed his turmoil, her gaze steady and soothing. “Please don’t give yourself an apoplexy thinking of suitors and her coming out. We have many, many years before that becomes an issue.”

“You know me too well, my sweet. But it changes nothing. I would go to the ends of the earth to protect my ladies’ honor.”

He extended his arms, lifting the stirring infant into his embrace. “What shall we call her?”

Y/N tucked the blankets around her legs, her smile illuminating the dim room. “I was thinking perhaps, Lady Caroline Marie Kim, in honor of your late father.”

“Perfect. My mother will be deeply touched.” He marveled at the strength of the little fist that curled around his finger. “She will need a brother to protect her. When shall we start working on that endeavor?”

Y/N arched an eyebrow and shook her head. “You may address that subject with me in three or four years’ time. Until then, do I need to cloister myself in a separate bedchamber?”

Seokjin’s grin took on a mischievous edge as he shook his head. “I don’t think I can bear to sleep without you, my love. I promise I will behave.”

But beneath the surface of their laughter, a dark shadow lingered—a reminder that the world outside could be as dangerous as it was beautiful. And it wouldn’t be until the twenty-ninth of February 1820, that a boy, the next Earl of Rushmore, would arrive.

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

Text

The Witching Hour - Chapter 5 - Rhysand

Summary:

5 Times members of the Inner Circle get absolutely terrified by Azriel's...whatever she is, and 1 (of many) times Azriel thinks that his witch was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Warnings:

Mention of Amarantha, Mention of Murder, Mention of torture, Rhys Bashing

(super pretty dividers by @cafekitsune)

Rhysand's mood was far from pleasant. The events of the past week had left him on edge, his patience sorely tested, the tensions between Nesta and Cassian seemed to have escalated exponentially, and the atmosphere in his Court was becoming unbearable.

As he sat brooding in his office, his mate knocked on the doorframe before walking in. Feyre took one look at his stormy expression and winced.

"Let me guess," she said, bracing herself. "You're in a delightful mood today."

Rhysand's only response was a low growl, which was answer enough. Feyre sighed, settling herself into a chair across from his desk.

"There's something you are going to like even less," Feyre admitted.

Rhysand's eyes narrowed, his already bad mood worsening. "Wonderful," he grumbled, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "Please, do tell, Feyre Darling. I'm all ears."

Feyre looked uncomfortable, which only served to increase Rhysand's anxiety. Whatever it was, it must be bad if even Feyre was struggling to tell him.

"It's about Elain," she began, her voice hesitant.

"Elain?" Rhysand repeated, his confusion deepening. "What about her? What's wrong?"

"She..." Feyre's voice trails off, her expression troubled. "She's an oracle."

Rhysand's eyebrows shot up in shock, his eyes widening.

"An oracle?" he repeated, his voice coming out in a whisper. "Are you sure? Who made that particular call?"

Feyre swallowed hard, her expression guilty. "Cate," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys froze.

"Feyre darling," he said very carefully, trying to keep his voice down. "When exactly did you come across Cate ?"

Feyre shifted uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding his gaze.

"Well...this morning."

Rhys's eyes widened, a sense of bad, bad foreboding washing over him. "And what exactly were you doing this morning that led to you encountering the infamous Cate?"

"We had lunch?" Feyre admitted questioningly. "Or we would have if Mor and her hadn't clashed."

Rhys let out a strangled sigh, raking a hand through his hair. "Of course, you did."

He took a moment to process the information, his mind racing through the implications. Cate, in the city...it was bound to cause havoc.

"And I assume Mor and she...had words?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"To put it mildly," Feyre said ruefully. "They got into quite a heated argument. It almost ended in a brawl."

Rhysand pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "Do I even want to know what they were arguing about?"

Feyre shrugged, her expression sheepish. "Cate's sex life and Azriel."

Rhysand suppressed the urge to bang his head against the desk. "Of course," he muttered under his breath.

He let out a deep, weary sigh, his mind already working to figure out how to damage control this situation. Cate's presence was a wild card, and her interactions with Mor were bound to cause more trouble than they were worth.

"What about Elain then?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.

"Cate offered to teach her."

"Did she now," Rhys murmured, the wheels in his mind turning.

The idea of Cate teaching Elain was...disconcerting, to say the least. Cate was not exactly a bastion of stability and sanity. And yet, there was a part of him that was intrigued.

And also fucking furious because clearly, he was the last person in his family that knew anything about what was happening in his court.

Rhys's anger bubbled up inside him, mingling with his already frayed nerves. He had been completely blindsided by this information, left in the dark while Cate and Mor were engaging in their verbal duels and Feyre was having lunch with the bane of his existence .

It was utterly frustrating.

"Did Azriel get her for Elain?" He bit out. Azriel clearly wasn't listening to his orders when he was bringing Cate around for Elain. Thought Rhys wondered what the fuck Azriel had told Cate to get her to behave and not spill the beans of their century-long tryst to Elain.

Feyre looked at him curiously, clearly sensing his irritation.

"What do you mean?"

Rhys clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice level. "Cate doesn't just agree to help people on a whim," he said tersely. "Azriel must have done something to convince her."

Feyre's eyes widened in realisation, a hint of amusement flickering across her face.

"And it must have involved a lot of ...physical persuasion," Feyre said slyly, a wicked smile spreading across her lips.

Rhys could only scowl in response, his irritation growing by the second. The last thing he needed was Feyre making light of the situation.

"This isn't funny," he growled, leaning forward in his chair. "Azriel knows better than to bring Cate here without my knowledge."

Feyre's expression softened, her amusement giving way to understanding. "I know," she said soothingly, "But she isn't all that bad, you know. If you'd just give her a chance-"

"A chance?" Rhys repeated, his voice filled with barely suppressed frustration. "Feyre, she is a walking disaster ! She causes nothing but trouble, and now she's inserting herself into the lives of my Inner Circle! You know what happens to the people that surround Cate? They mysteriously disappear. Or worse!”

Feyre shot him an unimpressed look, her hands on her hips. "You're being overdramatic," she chided.

"Hecate the Undying," Rhys said lowly. " How do you think she earned that name, Feure?"

Feyre's expression faltered, the teasing look in her eyes replaced by a hint of unease. "!.... don't know," she admitted, her voice quieter now.

Rhys took a deep breath, reminding himself to remain calm. "Hecate is a witch,” he said slowly. “One of the few of that particular dying breed. She’s over a millennia old, Feyre. And she has the cunning and cruelty to match her age. She is not someone to be trifled with."

"So has Amren," Feyre pointed out harshly.

Rhysand's eyes blazed. "Amren is a different case entirely, and you know it," he said through gritted teeth. "She has been on our side for centuries, working to protect this court and everyone in it. Cate...Cate is a rogue element. No one knows where her loyalties lie. Not even Azriel, for all his obsession with her."

"And Azriel," Rhys continued, his voice lowering. "He thinks he can control her, that he knows the limits of her power and her intentions. But he's fooling himself. She is unpredictable, volatile, and dangerous. The last thing we need is for her to cause chaos in our court."

Feyre opened her mouth to speak, but Rhys cut her off.

"And don't try to tell me that she just wants to help Elain," he said, his voice firm. "Nothing she does is without purpose. There is always an angle, an agenda. And I don't trust her, not one bit."

Feyre was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

"I understand your concern, I do," she said slowly. "But have you ever stopped to consider that Cate might not be the monster you have built her up to be in your mind? That maybe there's more to her than meets the eye?"

Rhys laughed bitterly, his anger still bubbling just under the surface. "More to her than meets the eye?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What do you want me to believe, Feyre? That she's some sort of misunderstood soul, with a heart of gold under that cold, unfeeling exterior?"

"I'm not saying she's a saint," Feyre said evenly. "But maybe she's not the villain you're determined to make her out to be."

Rhys gritted his teeth, his patience wearing thin. "And what would you have me do, Feyre?" he said tightly. "Just sit back and let her run wild in my court, unchecked and uncontrolled? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"No," Feyre said, "Of course not. But maybe instead of treating her like a threat, you could try seeing her as an ally. As someone who could potentially help us."

Rhys let out a guttural sound, his frustration mounting.

"You can't be serious. You want me to trust her, to let her into our inner circle? She hasn't given me one reason to trust her, Feyre. Not one."

"She helped Nesta with her nightmares."

Rhysand's eyebrow quirked in surprise. "Is that so?" he said slowly. "She helped Nesta with her nightmares, did she?"

His tone was sceptical, but there was a hint of intrigue in his expression.

"With a dreamcatcher spell," Feyre answered quietly.

"Is that why Cassian is so furious with Azriel?" Rhys asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was just getting better and better.

"Oh yes," Feyre said with a slight wince. "Cassian is quite...upset about it."

Rhys's eyes widened. "Upset" was an understatement. He knew Cassian well enough to know that he would be seething with rage at this news.

Rhys closed his eyes. Already Cate was making a mess.

The thought made Rhysand's headache worse. Cate had only been in Velaris for days, and already she was causing ripples of turmoil in his court. How much worse was this going to get?

He had to nip this problem in the bud before it spiralled out of control.

The worst thing was that throwing her out of Velaris was not actually something he could do. She had a carte Blanche to live in Velaris, something he could thank his Grandfather for... they had had an agreement of sorts, the exact nature lost to time. But even Rhys’ own father hadn’t trifled with that witch.

He rose from his chair, his expression steely with determination. "I need to talk to Cate," he said gruffly. "Now."

Feyre's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Now?" she repeated, looking nervous. "Don't you think you should calm down a bit first? You look like you're going to rip her throat out."

Rhys shot her a withering glare, his patience wearing thin.

"That's exactly how I feel, Feyre," he ground out. "If I don't speak to her now, I can't guarantee I won't do anything I'll regret later."

Feyre held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, fine," she conceded, standing up. "But try not to be too harsh, alright? I'm not saying we should trust her blindly. But she's not a monster, Rhys."

He could argue that point

Rhys took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The thought of dealing with Cate again after all these centuries was not exactly appealing.

The problem was only that he knew...he knew that they would be evenly matched

And that thought was worrying. Cate was not someone he took lightly. He had seen firsthand what she was capable of, both in power and cunning. The idea of going up against her, even if it was just a simple conversation, was daunting, to say the least.

Yet, he knew it was necessary. He couldn't let Cate continue to run rampant in his court, stirring up trouble and disrupting the peace he had worked so hard to maintain. He would just have to be careful, be on guard at all times, and hope that his own wits would be enough to keep her in check.

With a determined nod to Feyre, he headed out of his office. It was time to confront the source of his current headache.

Rhysand stalked out of the house and into the streets of Velaris with a scowl on his face. It was late afternoon, and the sun starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

He knew where to find Cate. She had a townhouse, where she always stayed at.

He made his way quickly through the city, his steps measured and purposeful. He could feel the eyes of his people on him, the weight of their curiosity and concern. They could sense that something was off, that their High Lord was not in his usual good mood.

Finally, he arrived at her townhouse. The building was impressive, situated in a prime location and beautifully maintained. It screamed opulence and power, much like its owner.

Rhys took a deep breath and walked up the steps, his mind racing. He knew he needed to be careful, to tread lightly. He couldn't afford to let his anger get the better of him. But the thought of confronting Cate was making his heart pound in his chest. He had to remind himself that he was the High Lord of the Night Court, the most powerful ruler in Prythian. He could handle one stubborn and infuriating witch.

(Hopefully.)

He knocked firmly on the door, his knuckles rapping against the solid wood. There was no response for a moment, and he wondered if she was even home. Just as he was about to knock again, the door swung open, revealing Cate's slender form in the doorway.

"Ah, Rhysand," she said with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Her tone was casual, almost flippant, but he could see the glittering eyes assessing him warily. She knew he wasn't here for a friendly visit.

"May I come in?" he asked through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice even.

Cate stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter with a sweeping motion of her arm. "By all means," she drawled. "Make yourself at home."

Rhys walked into the foyer, his eyes flickering around the room, taking in the expensive furnishings and art pieces.

The townhouse was every bit as opulent as the outside, with high ceilings and wide windows that let in the fading sunlight.

"Can I offer you anything?" Cate asked behind him, closing the door with a click. "Tea, perhaps? Or maybe something stronger?"

He ignored her, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face her. "I'm not here for hospitality," he ground out. "I'm here to discuss you and your sudden appearance in my court."

Cate raised an eyebrow, a sly smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, so you're not here to see an old friend?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He clenched his jaw, her casual demeanour only serving to annoy him further. "We are not friends, Cate," he said through gritted teeth. "And I need to know why you have been meddling in my affairs."

Cate sauntered past him, walking over to a nearby armchair and gracefully sinking into it. "You wound me, Rhysand," she said, placing a hand over her heart. "I'm hurt that you think I would meddle."

He followed her, standing before her with his arms crossed. "Cut the crap, Cate," he said, his temper fraying. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been causing trouble since the moment you stepped foot in Velaris."

"Is it the Dreamcatcher spell or my offer of lessons for Elain?" Cate asked him.

Rhys scowled, the mere mention of the Dreamcatcher spell making his blood boil. "Both," he said through gritted teeth. "You have absolutely no business getting involved in my court's affairs."

Cate leaned back in her chair, a smirk playing on her lips once more. "Oh, but Rhysand, I just want to help. Is that so terrible?"

He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to grab her by the throat and strangle her. "I don't trust you, Cate," he growled. "I don't trust your intentions or your motives. And I certainly don't trust you offering your...services to my inner circle. Let's not even start with my spymaster," he ground out.

Cate chuckled, her voice dripping with amusement. "Ah, Azriel," she said, her eyes glinting. "Such a complex and intriguing male."

"You stay away from him," Rhys warned, his voice low and dangerous. "You keep your distance, and you keep your fingers out of our business."

Cate's smirk widened. "Oh, I was under the impression that Azriel was just as interested in me as I was in him," she said slyly. "Or was I misinformed?"

Rhys ground his teeth, his irritation and anger reaching their boiling point. He knew all too well the strange and complicated relationship between Cate and Azriel, and he hated how easily she seemed able to get under his skin.

"You know exactly what I mean," he said, his voice growing louder. "You keep your distance from all of my court. That includes Azriel."

Cate's smile grew even more aggravating. "You have quite the possessive streak, don't you, Rhysand?" she said, her tone mocking. "Are you afraid I'll steal away your precious shadowsinger?"

"You won't lay a finger on him," he snarled, his patience completely frayed. "You stay away from him, and you stay away from my court. I don't want you meddling in my affairs, or causing any more trouble. Is that clear?"

Cate leaned forward in her chair, her eyes narrowing. "You think you can order me around, is that it?" she said, her voice cold. "You think I'll just bow down and submit to your commands?"

"Damn right I do," he shot back, stepping closer to her. "This is my court, my territory. And I will not tolerate someone like you causing chaos and throwing my people into disarray with your presence."

Cate's eyes flared with anger. "And what exactly do you mean by 'someone like me'?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You mean a witch? Or is it because I'm a woman?"

He clenched his jaw, the accusation hitting a nerve. "Don't play that card, Cate," he said through gritted teeth. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

Cate stood up, her eyes blazing. "Oh, really?" she challenged, her hands coming to rest on her hips. "Because it sure sounds like you're implying that women, especially those with magic, are beneath you. Maybe even a threat to your precious little court. Is that why your tradition of wing clipping still lives on?" She asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

He flinched, his irritation replaced with a hint of guilt. She had hit the mark, and they both knew it. The ancient tradition of clipping wings was still practised in Illyria, a symbol of dominance and control over the female population.

"That's different," he said gruffly, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that settled in his stomach. "Change is slow. We can't just murder everybody like you are prone to be doing."

Cate's eyes flashed with anger, her hands clenching into fists. "I don't just go around murdering people," she snapped. "I fight for what's right, and I don't shy away from getting my hands dirty if it means protecting those that cannot protect themselves."

Rhys sneered, his own anger flaring. "And who are you to decide what is right and what is wrong?" he said, his voice harsh. "You think you're some kind of moral authority, do you? That your way of doing things is the only way?"

"You're a daemati, I am a seer," she said icily. "You read minds. I read the future."

He let out a scoff, his annoyance growing by the second.

"And you think that gives you the right to do whatever you please, just because you can see into the future?" he said, his tone dripping with disbelief.

Cate's eyes narrowed to slits, her voice dropping to a dangerous level. "I use my abilities to help people. To protect them. To make sure that history doesn't repeat itself. And if that means making hard decisions, then so be it."

He let out a cold laugh. "Hard decisions," he said sarcastically. "Is that what you call it when you go around murdering people and meddling in other courts' affairs?"

Cate bristled at the accusation, her face contorting with anger. "I don't go around murdering people for the hell of it," she said, her voice rising. "Every life I've taken has been for a reason, a purpose. People who deserved it, who would have caused more suffering and pain if left unchecked."

Rhys shook his head, his annoyance and frustration mounting. "Oh, so you're some kind of judge and executioner now?" he sneered. "You get to decide who lives and who dies based on your own twisted sense of justice?"

"Yes, because apparently nobody else seems to have the guts to do what needs to be done." Cate retorted, her voice filled with conviction. "You have no idea what I've seen, Rhysand. I have a job to do, and it doesn't end until the world is a better place. So please, drop the holier-than-thou attitude and leave me alone."

"You didn't kill Amarantha," Rhys spat out. "That would have saved us some suffering."

Cate's eyes darkened at his words, anger flashing in her gaze. "Don't you think I wanted to, Rhysand?" she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Don't you think I've spent centuries reliving that moment in my mind, wondering if I could have stopped it from happening?"

He crossed his arms, his expression guarded. "Why didn't you then?" he challenged. "You could have ended it all right there, before all the suffering and the pain and the bloodshed."

Cate's shoulders slumped, the anger being replaced by a weariness that betrayed her centuries-long existence.

"It's...complicated, Rhysand. There are things at play that you don't understand, consequences that you could never fathom. I couldn't just kill Amarantha and expect everything to be perfectly fine afterwards."

He let out a scoff, his irritation mounting. "So, what, you just decided to let her rule and terrorize my court for 50 years instead? To put us through hell and back?"

Cate's eyes narrowed once more, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "I had a duty to protect the people of Prythian," she said through clenched teeth. "All of Prythian. And sometimes, that meant making sacrifices for the greater good. Even if it meant letting evil exist for a little while longer."

He let out a derisive laugh, his anger bubbling to the surface. "The greater good? What about the good of my people? My court? My family, my friends, my people, all tortured and brutalized for fifty years because you decided to let Amarantha sit on the throne?"

Cate's face contorted with pain, his words hitting a raw nerve. "You think that was an easy decision for me to make, Rhysand?" she said, her voice cracking. "You think I enjoyed watching you and your people suffer, knowing I could have stopped it all in an instant?"

He sneered, his anger still searing. "Yet you didn't. You stood by and let it happen. You let us suffer for fifty years because you were too much of a coward to do what needed to be done."

Cate's hands balled into fists, her eyes narrowing. "You have no idea what it means to be responsible for fate, Rhysand," she said through clenched teeth. "No idea what it means to carry the weight of history on your shoulders. Don't you dare accuse me of cowardice when you don't have a single clue about the sacrifices I've made?"

He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to lash out even further. "Fifty years, Cate. Fifty years. My people suffered unspeakable horrors for fifty years because you decided that it was for the greater good. How do you expect me to forgive that?"

She let out a bark of bitter laughter, her face twisting into a grimace. "Forgiveness?" she said, her voice thick with disdain. "You really think I'm looking for forgiveness, after everything that's happened? I'm not asking for any forgiveness, Rhysand. I know the mistakes I've made, and I have to live with them every damn day."

He let out a scoff, his anger now mixed with a hint of incredulity. "You expect me to just act like nothing's happened? To just let bygones be bygones and move on like you didn't stand idly by while my people suffered?"

"I don't expect anything from you, Rhysand," she said coldly, her eyes hardening. "I know things can never go back to the way they used to be, that there's no erasing what's been done. But that doesn't mean I'm not doing everything in my power to make things right, to prevent it from happening again. That's all I've ever tried to do."

He let out a dry laugh, his heart still thudding with anger.

"Oh? And what exactly are you doing to make things right, hm? Meddling in my court, offering lessons to my inner circle, causing chaos and trouble wherever you go?"

Cate's eyes flared, her temper rising once more. "I'm not causing chaos and trouble, Rhysand," she shot back. "I've been helping you and your court in ways you don't even realize. Maybe if you took the time to look past your own anger and pride, you'd see that."

He let out a derisive scoff, his irritation growing with every word. "Help? You call meddling in our affairs and offering your so-called 'services' help? I'd hate to see what your version of hindrance is like. I want you out of my court," he hissed.

Cate scoffed, glaring at him with equal measure of anger and frustration. “ As long as my blood rules this throne, you shall always have a place here, ” she quoted at him, hissing. “Your grandfather pledged that to me. Just let me know when exactly you want to make your family an oathbreaker.”

He had known that she had…had permission to come and go from Velaris as she pleased, but he had not known, how pointed these words must have been. What his grandfather had pledged to her in…

“I’ll take that risk if you are gone for good,” he growled, his own anger bubbling to the surface. "One word from me, and you'll be gone from this court for good."

His magic thickened, night rising.

Cate braced herself, her own power crackling around her in response. "You think threatening me with your magic will make me cower and leave?" she challenged. "I've faced much worse than you, Rhysand."

His eyes narrowed, the darkness in the room growing thicker as his power surged. "You have no idea what I'm capable of," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "| won't hesitate to do what I have to to protect my court, even if it means using every ounce of my power to remove you from it. And do not touch my brother," he hissed.

Cate's eyes flared with anger, her own power flaring in response. "You think I would do anything to harm your brother?" she snapped. "Your arrogance is astounding. I'm not a monster, Rhysand. I wasn't the one who treated him like he wasn't even a person," she hissed at him.

He flinched, a brief flash of guilt passing over his face before he could mask it. "Don't you dare bring him into this," he said through clenched teeth, his anger flaring again.

"You started it," she ground back. "You treated him like he doesn't have feelings. You told him to go to a pleasure hall, Rhysand."

Rhys's jaw worked, his anger and defensiveness mixing with a hint of shame. "You don't understand," he said, his voice strained. "It was for his own good."

She snorted.

Rhys clenched his jaw, bristling at her reaction. "What is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

"It means that I find your excuses pathetic," she shot back, her eyes narrowed. "You claim to care about him, yet you treat him like he's less than nothing. You tell him to go to a pleasure hall, to lose himself in mindless pleasure instead of facing his own emotions. It's repulsive."

Rhys flinched again, her words hitting a nerve. "It's not that simple," he said, his voice low and defensive. "You don't know what he's been through, what he had to endure."

Cate scoffed, her eyes flashing with anger. "Oh, I don't?" she said, her voice tight with emotion. "I don't know what he's been through? I know him, Rhysand. Don't you dare tell me l don't understand."

"You think you understand him just because you have shared his bed a few times?" he shot back, his own anger flaring again. "You think you know him better than I do, better than his family and his friends?"

Her magic flared. He had been unprepared for the cold fury on her face.

Rhys took an involuntary step back, startled by the intensity of her magic and the anger etched on her face. He was so used to being in control, to being the one everyone feared, but for the first time, he felt a hint of trepidation.

"You come to my house and threaten me, insult me and my relationship, insult Azriel..."

Rhys opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Her words had caught him off guard, and for once, he was at a loss for words.

Her magic heaved, cracking.

Rhys watched her with a mix of awe and caution. He could feel the power in her, the cold, sharp edge of her magic that crackled through the air like lightning. He had never seen her so angry, so intense.

"You have no right to speak to me like that, no right to dictate who I sleep with or who I care about," she hissed, her voice dripping with anger. "Azriel is not your property, Rhysand, and I will not tolerate you treating him or me like we are lesser than you."

Rhys clenched his fists, his own anger and defensiveness flaring again. "You think I treat you as lesser?" he said, his voice tight. "I'm the High Lord of this court. You're a guest here. You don't get to come here and tell me what I can and cannot do."

Her magic exploded.

Rhys was caught off guard by the sudden explosion of her magic, the force of it knocking him back a step. He barely managed to keep his balance, his own magic reacting defensively in response, a shield forming around him instinctively.

He stared at her, his eyes widening with surprise and a hint of fear. He had seen the extent of her magic before, but never had he seen her lose control like this. Never had he seen her so unbridled and raw.

The air around her crackled with energy, charged with the cold, sharp power of her magic. It was a force to be reckoned with, a storm of anger and frustration. And yet... there was something else there too, something deeper, something more vulnerable.

He swallowed

"I have not survived for a thousand years so you'll tell me what to do in my own house," she said darkly.

Rhys's jaw worked, his own anger and defensiveness clashing with a hint of uncertainty. He had never seen her so intense, so powerful. He could feel the cold, sharp edge of her magic in the air, and it sent a chill down his spine.

And then her magic snapped. He wasn't quick enough.

Hadn't expected another surge, as she forced him back, back towards the door. "Out of my house, now," she hissed.

Rhys stumbled back, caught off guard by the sheer force of her magic. He tried to fight it, to push back against her power, but it was like trying to swim upstream against a fast-moving current. She was stronger than he had given her credit for, and he found himself being pushed towards the door.

He gritted his teeth, his own anger and frustration mounting once more. "You can't just throw me out of here," he said through clenched teeth, struggling against her magic. "This is my court, my territory. You have no right-“

"I have every right," she cut in, her eyes flashing with anger. "You came here, uninvited, threatening me and insulting me in my own home. I have the right to defend myself, and if that means kicking you out, so be it."

Rhys clenched his jaw, his own anger and sense of entitlement warring with the sheer force of her magic. He wanted to fight back, to show her that he was the more powerful one here, but he knew deep down that he was outnumbered. Her magic was far stronger than he had expected, and he knew that he couldn't overpower her in her own home.

Not when her wards closed around him like a vice

Rhys felt the wards close around him, constricting his movement, and cutting off his connection to his own magic.

He tried to struggle against them, but it was like trying to push through a solid wall. He was trapped, unable to use his powers or fight back against her.

The realization of his helplessness hit him like a ton of bricks. He was the High Lord, the most powerful fae in the Night Court, and yet here he was, being held captive by a woman he had underestimated and disrespected.

The thought made him furious, his heart thudding with anger and frustration. He couldn't believe he had let himself be put in this position, that he had been taken down by her so easily.

But there was something else, too. A hint of fear, a hint of uncertainty. The realization that he had misjudged her, that he had underestimated the extent of her power and her determination to stand up for herself.

He swallowed, his mind racing as he tried to find a way out, a way to break free from her wards and regain his power. But there was nothing he could do. He was trapped, completely at her mercy.

"Out," she repeated, her voice razor sharp.

Rhys listened.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #my writing #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #The Witching Hour

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prythianpages · 11 months ago

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Witch! Reader x Azriel | headcanons

Merry Christmas Eve and Happy Holidays! Here are just some headcanons of witch reader and Az🥰 It's my first time making one of these.

this is based off of my dandelion series. you can find the masterlist for it [here]

warnings: fluff, implied smut

Azriel shows up to your apartment to take you out on your first date and he's extremely nervous because he never thought he would get this far and he doesn't want to mess up.

You find it entirely endearing because you can sense that he's not the type to be nervous, even more so when you notice his hand is slightly sweaty in yours. You don't mind at all.

Azriel spends every night at your place and realizes he no longer needs your sleep potion. He only needs you in his arms.

The only time he doesn't stay over is when he's out on a mission.

He slowly starts to leave things here and there until he's completely moved in.

Your cat, which is named Binx hocus pocus referencelol, is excited to have a another living being in your home besides the big spider that lives in the corner of your sitting room that you were too nice to rehome when you first spotted it.

Az is at first startled by it but then you're telling him the spider's name is Pearl and the way you speak of it with such affection makes him smile and he accepts it wholeheartedly, even though he finds it slightly creepy, because he loves you

Binx loves Azriel and his shadows. A little bit too much because he initially mistakes the dark tendrils as a toy and accidentally scratches your mate's back in the process of chasing them.

It's all okay because it's nothing a little calendula and chamomile can't help fix. It also gives for the perfect excuse to have the feel of his mate's hands brushing and rubbing against his back

Despite your deep attraction for one another, you decide to wait to be intimate with one another until you're ready to accept the bond.

Even though Azriel makes it really hard for you when he takes you training with him and all you can do is watch as his sweat makes his bare chest glisten deliciously while he duels with Cassian.

He tries to teach you some self defense moves but you're often too distracted to listen, which makes Nesta laugh.

As the two of you get to know one another more, you find yourself falling more and more in love with Azriel.

He's sitting on your couch, sharpening his knives and you're seated on the floor in front of your coffee table immersed into your spell book.

Your hand glows as you beckon your magic to find a particular spell and as your eyes take in the words on the book, you find yourself turning to Azriel with a smile.

"I'm ready," you tell him and let out a squeal as he drops what he's doing to pull you into his arms and kiss you. He's too engrossed in the way your lips feel against his to notice the way you use your magic to bookmark the page you were on before closing it shut.

Azriel doesn't care what you make for him but you do. You want it to be special and when you suggest a midnight picnic in that field of dandelions on the night of a full moon which is strangely specific but he's too happy to question it, he grants you your wish

"Wait," you tell him before he's about to take a bite of the food you made just for him. "I have something for you."

You're holding out a gemstone to him. It's a rich tapestry of green that dances with life, releasing a radiance of emerald enchantment. It reminds him of the green glow of your magic.

but it's not just an emerald. It's a talisman. It's your heart and when you tell him, you can't help but giggle at the mix of emotions expressed on his face.

you explain to him that it's not your literal heart but it may as well be because that emerald is tethered to your heart and if he accepts it, your heart will be bound to him forever and some of your magic may transfer over to him.

A witch's heart is a precious and powerful thing. Azriel knows this because he's heard Amren mention it once.

Some men have died seeking for it, some men have even gone to war for it and you've heard the horrors of your fellow sisters losing their magic and in the worst cases dying because they were tricked into giving their hearts to undeserving men.

But you trust Azriel.

The mating bond that will bind you together was more than enough for him but there you are, willing to give your heart wholeheartedly to him and he accepts it, promising to keep it safe.

He only takes a couple of bites before he's prancing on you and you're protesting--"Hey! I spent all morning make that--oh!"

your protest dies at your throat and a moan slips out as you feel his heated touch on your skin and lips against your neck.

"I promise I'll make up for it," he breathes against your neck and he does.

He makes love to you in that field of dandelions under the full moon, binding the spell that tethers your heart to him and claiming you as his and only his.

Accepting the mating bond send you two into a frenzy, where you are overcome with an insatiable thirst for one another. Let's just say your apothecary shops remains closed for the following week and the inner circle knows to keep their distance (:

Azriel keeps the emerald you gave him in the chest pocket of his leathers because he wants to have you with him at all times.

When he's away on a mission and has to spend the night away from you, he'll pull it out. It glows under his touch, humming with your magic that tells him that you're thinking of him just as much as he's thinking of you.

Your first outing as a mated couple with the inner circle is at Rita's. Azriel doesn't want to go but you're so excited to spend time with Feyre and the others and he can't say no to you. you can read about that here

On your first anniversary, he brings you a bouquet of dandelions from the meadow and makes it a point to gift you one every year.

He happily joins you on your walks with natures, smiling as he listens to you go on and on about the beauty of it all. But he thinks the true beauty is you.

Even when your eyes darken as you call upon your magic, leaving no trace of white or color. it scares the crap out of Cas and Elain but Az is just always mesmerized by you and he'd be lying if he said it didn't turn him on sometimes.

When you're upset or frustrated, usually because you're stressed over a spell or a letter from one of the witch covens, Azriel is there to make your day better. "Oh, my sweet little wildflower." He kisses your worries away.

You do the same for him when he comes back from a hard mission and the exhaustion of being the Night Court's spymaster catches up to him, taking a toll on him.

His tense body always relaxes at your touch and when he asks if you could give him anything to help with his body aches, you mindlessly point to one of the vials on your kitchen counter.

You don't notice when he picks up the wrong one and when you finally do and realize that he accidentally took a drink from the aphrodisiac Nesta had requested from you, it's already too late.

Needless to say, it's probably the best mistake you've ever made (;

#azriel headcanons #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x witch!reader #azriel imagines #azriel fluff #az!dandelions

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fuckyeahisawthat · 5 months ago

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So Denis Villeneuve has this particular type of close-up shot that he uses to varying degrees in all his movies but uses a lot in Dune, particularly when shooting Paul. In fact he uses one for the very first shot of Paul in Dune Part One.

There are some common cinematographic elements that define what I would consider the Villeneuve Close-Up (TM), but I'll admit there is also a vibes-based, you-know-it-when-you-see-it element to picking out these shots, which means all discussion here is somewhat subjective and we're talking about general trends instead of fixed categories. But in general, in these shots the camera tends to be at eye-level with the character, which means it can be very low or even on the ground if they are having a floor-based experience.

Sometimes we're in a SUPER extreme close-up where the character's face is filling the frame.

Other times we are not actually that close but we know we are seeing something that other characters are not.

The character may be alone or they may be surrounded by people, but the point of these shots is to reveal something to us the audience that no one else in the scene sees, pulling us into a private emotional world where it's just us and the character. It's a very effective tool for building sympathy and emotional intimacy.

I'm not the only person who's noticed that we lose this specific kind of close-up of Paul entirely in the section of the movie after Paul drinks the Water of Life. I've seen this described as "we're no longer seeing from Paul's POV" or even "he stops being the protagonist of the movie at that point" but I don't think either of these are exactly what's going on. Seeing the world of the story through a certain character's POV is different from what I'm talking about here, and Dune Part Two takes us through many shifts in POV over the course of the movie.

What happens is that we, the audience, recoil from our close, intimate visual and emotional relationship to Paul--or maybe he withdraws from us--for a portion of the movie after he drinks the Water of Life. But, crucially, not right away.

This shot in the "we're Harkonnens" conversation is such a classic Villeneuve Close-Up (TM). We're positioned as if we're sitting right next to Paul, seeing something on his face that is mostly hidden from Jessica, who's standing across the room and slightly behind him.

I think this shot is super important for telling us (even if we only register it subconsciously) that the Paul we know is not completely dead. Drinking the Water of Life may make you see things that others can't, and it may make you a little unhinged, but it doesn't make you inhuman. There's still a person in there.

I would argue that the distancing from Paul starts in these shots:

This is still a close-up; we are not much further away from Paul than in the shot above, but the vibe is totally different. Now we are seeing him the way his followers do, closed-off and purposefully intimidating. We are seeing the image he chooses to present to the world and none of the human vulnerability underneath.

We stay at this emotional and visual distance from him for most of the rest of the movie--but not the whole thing. Because after watching Paul be a terrifying force of destruction for half an hour, we get slammed into remembering he is a person--young, hurt, alone; a person who didn't want any of this--at the very end of the movie.

I think you could make an argument for a few different shots being the first Villeneuve Close-Up of the end of the movie. But where I always notice it is here, when the Emperor is talking about Leto.

While not a particularly close close-up, I'm always struck by this shot as well:

And then we really get pulled in close to Paul during the duel--particularly at the end of the duel when he's already wounded and it seems like he might lose. We get this angle several times:

We get this shot that I'm particularly feral about...

...because while the focus of this shot is (1) the knife and (2) Feyd, someone made sure that the features you notice on Paul's face are his eyelashes and the curls of hair falling in his face, the features that make him look most soft and vulnerable.

And then of course after Paul has won the duel we get this shot, another peak Villeneuve Close-Up (TM) that I have already written about, where Paul is surrounded by people chanting his name but no one to pull the knife out of his shoulder for him.

And we hold onto that connection with Paul right up through "Lead them to paradise."

Which is an insane choice for that moment actually! Once again, this is not a super close close-up, but we're watching him from a perspective that no other character can see and we understand that there's no personal triumph in this moment for him.

Now, obviously, there are a lot of other choices being made in these scenes, in terms of writing, performance, lighting, score, everything. The camera placement is just one element supporting the overall storytelling. But it's one that's very easy to track through screenshots and a good example of how one specific element of filmmaking can be used to influence how we see a character, whether or not we even consciously notice it while immersed in the film.

#dune #dune part two #paul atreides #cinematography #denis villeneuve

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xcherryerim · 7 months ago

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Si tú me quisieras

(If you loved me)

Mike schmidt x Gn!reader | wc: 2.2k

“Si tú me quisieras, el amor que quisieras lo tendrías conmigo. No soy cursilera, pero si me quisieras, sería todo distinto” — Si tú me quisieras by Nia Vanie & Adrian Bello

notes: it seems like I love writing sappy stuff for Mike at 1-4 am. I didn’t really revise this so sorry if there is many mistakes or repeated words ✨ Also the lyrics in this story is the same as the one from the intro (and yes. Mike knows spanish here)

Summary: As time goes by, it becomes increasingly difficult for Mike not to hide the secrets that are troubling him. He has had enough and decides to reveal his feelings to you, his best friend.

You caught sight of Mike wearing the same shade of sage green shirt you were wearing. With a deep breath, you called out to him, "No, no! Change, please. That's too much of a coincidence!”

Mike sighed heavily, slamming the car door shut behind him. His eyes narrowed, frustration etched onto his face. "Can you give me a break? This is the only clean shirt I have left!"

Reluctantly, you let out a frustrated groan. It wasn't about the shirt or the coincidences; it was about how deeply it affected you every time he wore that particular color. But you knew pushing him further wouldn't solve anything. So instead, you relented, "Fine, fine."

Why does it matter anyway?" he asked, increasing the volume of the radio in an attempt to cover up his unease.

Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel as you tried to explain your concern. "Because people are going to think we're a couple,"

Mike couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. He had been hoping that today would be the day when you finally noticed him in the way he wanted you to. But here he was.

“But like, we aren’t so it doesn't matter, does it?”

“I guess.” You shrugged.

You started to suggest what movie to watch at the end of the day. A little tradition you guys did after running errands together, but Mike was staring at the street, drowning in his thoughts. Did you hate the idea of dating him that much?

“No hay nada que pueda hacer que me veas, y eso me duele tanto. Y aunque tú no me quieras como yo te quiero yo te seguiré amando.” / “There's nothing I can do to make you look at me, and that breaks me. Even if you don’t love me like I love you, I'll still adore you.”

"Isn't this the song that you like, Mike?" you asked, a small smile forming on your lips.

Mike's response was quiet and subdued. "Uh, yeah."

He didn't like the song, not really. He related to it, to every verse, word, and beat. It was a reflection of his feelings, a mirror to his unspoken thoughts and emotions. The lyrics echoed through the car, resonating with both of you in different ways.

“Dicen que de amor nadie se muere, pero si este dolor es la alternativa, prefiero la muerte” / “They say no one dies out of love, but if this pain is the alternative, I rather die.”

Mike sat silently next to you, the strum of guitar strings and the singer's melodic voice echoing throughout the car. A wave of disappointment washed over him, making the atmosphere in the vehicle almost suffocating. You could sense his discomfort, but you pressed on, trying to stay focused on the road ahead.

“Te estoy amando aunque no te diga nada. Estoy guardando este secreto para mí en el fondo de mi alma. Si tú me quisieras, no perdería ni un minuto más. Me entregaría con sinceridad, si te quedas conmigo.” / “I'm loving you even if I keep quiet. I’m keeping this secret in the depths of my soul. If you loved me, I wouldn't lose another minute more. I’ll sincerely give myself to you, if you stay with me.”

…

Feeling the need to intervene, Mike quickly stepped in to assist an elderly woman who was struggling to reach for a specific medicine. "Oh, let me help with that," he said, his voice filled with genuine kindness. As he handed her the item she needed, a warm smile spread across his lips, and you couldn't help but feel proud of his compassionate nature.

The woman thanked him graciously, her eyes twinkling with gratitude. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said, her gaze shifting between you both. "You two look like a nice couple. It reminds me of when my late husband and I used to go shopping together."

A sudden flush crept up your cheeks as the weight of her words settled upon the both of you. You knew it wasn't intentional, but the implication made your heart race faster than it should. Swallowing hard, you felt the need to clarify things.

"We're not a couple," you quickly replied, your voice tinged with slight awkwardness. The heat from your blush radiated outward, an audible confession of your true feelings.

Mike smiled gently at you, his eyes dancing with a mix of mirth and sadness. "Definitely not a couple," he affirmed, a hint of longing lurking beneath the surface.

As he turned to face you, he couldn't help but notice the defensive posture you took, your arms firmly crossed over your chest. Was there pain in your eyes? No, it couldn't be. He pushed the thought aside, choosing to focus on the present moment.

"Well, you seem pretty insulted by that," he remarked casually, attempting to shift the topic away from the elephant in the room.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “What? I’m not good enough for you?” Your words were laced with humor, but the underlying emotion was undeniable. There was a yearning, a desire for something more.

Mike sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he shook his head. "We are not having this conversation again," he stated firmly. Today, he simply couldn't muster the energy for the friendly flirtation that had become a routine between the two of you.

The innocent, fun activity of grocery shopping quickly transformed into something far more uncomfortable between the two of you. The mood had shifted dramatically, leaving behind a heavy silence that seemed to grow more oppressive with every passing second.

Mike could no longer mask his emotions – his face bore the unmistakable signs of anger, complete with furrowed eyebrows and heavy breathing. His movements became more forceful as he tossed items into the cart, each action an expression of the tumultuous emotions churning within him.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, you hesitantly asked, "Are you alright?" The question hung in the air, seemingly adding fuel to the fire. The guilt you felt for asking it gnawed at your insides, knowing that you might have only exacerbated the situation.

Mike glared at you, his dark eyes flashing with hurt and resentment. At that moment, he couldn't bring himself to answer your question.

As you tried to find a way to bridge the gap, you couldn't help but wonder if this was truly the last straw in maintaining the delicate balance of your friendship. For years, the two of you had shared laughter, tears, and dreams, but now you stood on the precipice of something unfamiliar and uncertain.

…

To lighten the mood, you attempted a weak joke, "Where else, boss?" but it fell flat in the wake of the tension between the two of you.

Mike provided a terse response, focusing on giving directions to Walmart without acknowledging your attempt at humor. "I need to get a few things for Abby, she's doing a project for school," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

Attempting to ignore the growing discord, you asked, "Oh, are there any close by?" and started the car, navigating the streets according to the directions Mike had given you. However, your nerves got the better of you, and you found yourself missing turns and getting lost.

Each error only served to fuel the fire. Mike's frustration grew with every misstep, a slow burn that threatened to consume the both of you. And then, finally, it boiled over. "Left, I said fucking left!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the strain of holding back his emotions.

"My fucking god. Can you drive?"

Stung by his harsh words, you couldn't help but retaliate. "What the hell is your problem? Why are you suddenly acting like a bitch?" Angry tears pricked at your eyes, the frustration of the day taking its toll on your composure.

His eyes locked onto yours, the transit stretching on as he struggled to find the right words. Finally, he snapped, "Because you're terrible at driving!" It was a feeble excuse, an attempt to deflect from the real issue that loomed between you.

Your heart sank as you demanded answers, pleading with him to reveal the truth. "I'm not stupid, Mike. Tell me what is it!"

Mike's jaw clenched tightly, his mind racing as he tried to find the words to articulate his thoughts. But the harder he tried, the more elusive the truth seemed to become. The weight of the question pressed down upon him, threatening to crush the fragile foundation of their friendship.

Finally, he posed the question that hung between him like a cloud. "Do you hate the idea of being with me?" His heart pounded in your chest, waiting for your response, fear and hope to battle within him.

"What? Am I disgusting to you? Is it because I don't have a set job? Why?"

The weight of those words hung heavily between you, the car falling silent except for the hum of the engine. In that moment, everything felt on the line – your friendship, your future, and the truth that had been bubbling under the surface for so long.

"I never said that," you responded, your voice shaking with hurt and confusion. You grasped for some semblance of control amidst the chaos of your emotions.

"Well, you don't have to!" Mike declared, his voice wavering. Years of unspoken feelings finally burst forth, spilling out in a torrent of raw honesty. "We've avoided this for years. We're not friends!" The accusation hung in the air.

Mike recounted memories that flooded your minds, moments shared between the two of you that transcended the boundaries of friendship. "Holding hands at IKEA? Almost kissing? Showering together and almost having shower sex?"

With a bitter laugh, Mike snarled, "Friends, my balls. We're more than that, and we've been avoiding the truth for too long. It's time to face it."

"I just didn't know you liked me..." you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the truth bore down on you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief mixed with the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you.

Mike's eyes softened, and for a moment, the tension between you seemed to dissipate. "I've liked you for a long time," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I was scared to say anything, scared of losing you as a friend."

The car fell silent once more, the hum of the engine the only sound that broke the heavy silence. At that moment, the two of you sat there, grappling with the new reality that had been laid bare between you. The path forward was uncertain, but one thing was clear – the friendship you had cherished for so long has now changed.

Mike sighed deeply, attempting to gather his thoughts and steady his escalating emotions. "I understand if you don't want to ever see me again," he murmured, his tone filled with a combination of regret and resignation. Despite the turmoil, he reached out and gripped your hand tightly, a silent plea for understanding.

"But, if that is the case," he continued, his voice catching in his throat, "at least let me kiss you... for the first and last time." The request hung in the air, heavy with the implication of finality.

You felt your body tremble at his words, a mix of excitement and fear coursing through you. The prospect of sharing this intimate moment with Mike, the one person you'd always cared for, both thrilled and terrified you.

"I don't want to die without knowing what it feels like to kiss you," he said, his voice filled with a mix of longing and desperation. The weight of the moment bore down on both of you, the unspoken emotions finally giving voice.

"And you won't have to," you whispered, desperation mingling with determination in your voice. Without another word, you leaned in, closing the distance between you until your lips met his in a searing kiss that echoed the years of longing that had built up between you.

Mike hesitated for only a moment before responding, his arms wrapping around you as the passion of the moment took hold. The weight of the past years melted away, replaced by the intensity of the present. For once, the uncertainty that had plagued your friendship was gone, replaced instead by the electric connection that had always been there, hiding just beneath the surface.

As the kiss lingered, you began to realize that this was not the end, but the beginning of a new chapter for you both. The path forward may be fraught with uncertainty, but you were ready to face it together, finally embracing the love that had grown between you.

Fin, Hope you enjoyed! I just wanted to write more than smut 😪

#mike schmidt #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt fanfic #mike schmidt angst #mike schmidt headcanons #mike schmidt fnaf #mike schmidt x reader #mike schimdt x reader #mike schimdt smut #mike schmidt smut #mike schimdt x you #mike schmidt x y/n #mike schmidt x gn!reader #gender neutral reader

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demigoddessqueens · 2 months ago

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Hi could you do a ares ( blood of Zeus ) relationship time line like how they meet how did he ask her out and some cute moments

Ps: if it possible also she hard to get so ares have to work for it

Thank you @navyhua for the request 😁!

Masterlist 11

Ares knows he’s not the best to get along with

Because everyone takes the liberty to tell him all the time 😒

But you? You never join in the ridicule, rather sometimes you cheer for him at the tournaments held on Olympus

You’re polite to him, engaging in friendly banter and dueling, even if war and battle are not your divine domains

Aside from Aphrodite, he begins to enjoy your company more and with that comes the

You notice this and pause his persuasions one afternoon as he goes in for a kiss, pausing two fingers over his lips

“War is your strong suit, Lord Ares, so let it be. The thrill is in the anticipation but we’ll both get what soon enough.”

From that day on, it appears that you two are inseparable. Visitations and flirtations become more evident in the public courtyards

Jealousy from Aphrodite does cause a scene every once in a while, which Ares tries quickly to quell

There was a particular occasion that left you humiliated and alone, wanting some refuge after such a spectacle

“Why aren’t you with Hephaestus’s wife? That never seemed to stop you before…”

“Because I’m loyal to another, and hope they return the same feelings I have in my heart.”

Despite his words, you still feel hesitant to act on your feelings.

Only then does Ares advance forward and finally kiss you, and you do not pull away but simply melt in his arms.

#submission #inbox requests #ares x reader #blood of zeus #boz ares #writeblr #blood of zeus ares x reader #blood of zeus ares #BoZ ares x reader #my writing #headcanons

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gaypiratepropaganda · 10 months ago

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Izzy's apology in the finale seems to have taken some people by surprise. During the break between seasons, I tried a few times to politely bring up the fact that Izzy was technically abusing Ed. Not because I wanted anyone to stop liking him (you can like a character who's doing abuse! it's not real. who cares), but because I was worried about the reaction when season two came out. I love this show very much and I know how tumblr can get. Most importantly, I love fucked up fictional relationships and cannot abide people making these two boring. So here we go. (I also love lists)

First. Emotional abuse can occur in intimate relationships, family relationships like father and son, or in the workplace (Ed/Izzy triple threat!). Second, it has to be an ongoing thing. Someone doing one of these things once is not abuse. Abuse is a pattern of cruel and frightening behavior in order to control the victim.

(Don't feel bad if you didn't notice this stuff! It's relatively subtle and we're kind of trained to ignore and forgive it, especially from characters like Izzy. I wasn't 100% sure I was right about this either until season two confirmed it. I think a lot of people don't even know what emotional abuse is, at least where I live.)

Below are some pretty solid warning signs (this said "criteria" before but I changed it to be more accurate) for emotional abuse, followed by examples:

•Monitoring and controlling a person’s behavior, such as who they spend time with or how they spend money.

One of Izzy's main motivations in season one was trying to force Ed to act more like his image of Blackbeard. To achieve that, he bullied, belittled, and threatened Ed. He attempted to kill Stede because Ed was spending too much time with him and he felt that Stede was a bad influence.

• Threats to a person’s safety, property, or loved ones

He tried to kill Stede (Ed's loved one) or get him killed several times. Once trying to get Ed to do it himself with the doggy heaven situation, once directly with the duel, and once by calling in the navy.

He didn't directly threaten Ed's safety until episode ten, but he did seem to have Ed convinced that the crew would kill him if Izzy wasn't there to protect him and then when Ed did things he didn't like, Izzy threatened to leave. It's indirect, but has the same result: Ed felt he was unsafe unless he did what Izzy wanted.

• Isolating a person from family, friends, and acquaintances

Izzy seemed to keep Ed isolated from the crew, act as a go-between, and control their perceptions of each other to a certain extent. In the first few episodes, Ed was always shown alone in his goth cabin with Izzy as his only contact. When he started to make new friends Izzy tried to make him kill them.

After Izzy was banished, he secretly sent Ed's ex in to manipulate him and get him away from his new community. Then he got them all arrested, culminating in the deal he made with the English that would have made Ed his prisoner. Not sure that was on purpose, but it was so fucked up I had to mention it.

The bit that really got me, for some reason, was when Frenchie asked after Ed and Izzy told the crew he was sick.

• Demeaning, shaming, or humiliating a person

Izzy is often shown berating Ed and yelling at him. The way Ed reacts suggests to me that he may be used to this kind of treatment from people in general, or from Izzy in particular. He never leaves or asks him to stop, he just takes it.

• Extreme jealousy, accusations, and paranoia

He was so jealous of Ed's relationship with Stede that he got the literal military involved. His explanation to for why Ed enjoys spending time with Stede was that he has "done something to [Ed's] brain." Like, what magic powers do you think he has, Izzy?

• Making acceptance or care conditional on a person’s choices

Izzy made it very clear that he would only support Ed if he conformed to the Blackbeard persona. He also seemed to have Ed convinced that there was no way he could survive without Izzy's support.

I just realized that if you subscribe to the headcanon that Izzy acts as a sort of caretaker to Ed (I do not) then all of this is way more fucked up.

• Constant criticism, ridicule, or teasing.

In season one he criticized everything Ed did, all his plans, even while telling him to come up with more plans. He ridiculed Ed and called him names pretty often: "twat, namby-pamby, insane." Even in season two when he's doing better, most of their interactions consist of Izzy teasing and making fun of Ed for being mopey or in love.

• Refusing to allow a person to spend time alone

I didn't think of this until now, but Izzy is often around when Ed thinks he's alone. He knows about things that happen in scenes he isn't in. Izzy's always sort of lurking, though? And he does it to everyone. So I'm not sure if we should count this one.

• Thwarting a person’s professional or personal goals

He's ok about piracy related goals, but as soon as Ed tried to do something other than that he got so weird about it. "This crew is so talented, why are we even being pirates?" is what got Izzy to threaten Ed. Which is interesting because he was fine with the retirement idea before, when he thought he'd get to be captain.

• Instilling feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness

"insane unpleasant shell of a man merely posing as blackbeard." "I should have let the English kill you. This... whatever it is you've become is a fate worse than death."

• Gaslighting: making a person question their competence and even their basic perceptual experiences.

He called Ed insane and implied that the crew would mutiny if he wasn't there to stop them. This is clearly untrue, as we were already shown that his method of "massaging the crew" consisted of calling Ed half insane and pulling Fang's beard even though Fang hates that. The fact that he calls Ed insane more than once while at the same time trying to get him to act more insane seems like basic gaslighting to me. Then again, Izzy's definition of "insanity" may be like, depression, crying, showing emotions, loneliness, and enjoying softness.

[can't find a gif of this so just imagine Ed in the gravy basket with Hornigold saying "you're worried you're insane."]

Something that wasn't on this specific list but is generally considered part of emotional abuse is manipulation: the use of indirect tactics to change someone's thoughts, feelings, or behaviors in an attempt to influence them for personal gain.

I think Izzy often tries to be manipulative. He's not the greatest at it, but it's the thought that counts. He manages to be surprisingly successful through persistence and repetition.

He's got Ed convinced from the first time we see them that he is useless as a captain without Izzy. That's why Ed feels like he needs him. He tells him that the only thing standing between Ed and a crew constantly on the brink of mutiny is Izzy. Then he tells him that he will leave if he can't live up to his expectations.

He has a pattern of lying to Ed or not telling him the whole truth. He threatens him directly and indirectly in an attempt to influence him and control his behavior. He wants power, whether he gets it by becoming a captain when Ed retires or by making sure Ed remains powerful by any means necessary.

this is what he was apologizing for, along with the years of being terrible to Ed before Stede came into the picture. I never expected him to admit it so clearly like that. He fed Ed's "darkness," poked at his trauma for so long because he needed Blackbeard. It was something they did together, and he enjoyed Blackbeard's dominance and cruelty.

Of course there are other things that can be part of this kind of abuse, like infantilization, silence, and harassment. There are more examples of abusive behavior from Izzy at the start of season two, especially in the scene where Ed's asking Izzy to kill him. but I am not ready to get into that right now.

Anyway, Ed and Izzy's storylines in season two only make sense to me with this in mind. Ed is recovering from not only the suicide attempts but also this fucked up situation he was in, whether he realizes it or not. Izzy learns to stop being such a shitboy and admits he was wrong. ~growth~

if you interpret their relationship differently that's obviously fine. but I think this is the most interesting interpretation, as well as what was intended. It's no fun for me when people make them both equally awful to each other. I like it better as it is in the show: Ed fighting back against Izzy's emotional abuse with physical violence, which only ends up traumatizing him further. It's such a unique and fascinating story.

#our flag means death #Ed Teach #izzy hands #ed/izzy #blackbeard #ed/stede #tw abuse #abuse cw #@piratecaptainscaptainpirates #I should have posted this a long time ago but #I was kind of afraid you guys would kill me lmao #I think we're good now #we can talk about this #if you think of anything else I'll add it #one more thing I didn't know how to fit in here #is the way Izzy really wants Ed to be violent #to other people but also to him #when Ed doesn't want to do that #and is specifically triggered by being violent #also the first thing that really made me go #hey wait a minute #about Izzy was when he apologized to Ed for calling him a 'shell of a man' while he was 'leaving'#Ed said 'no. you were right. about all of it.'#and then Izzy immediately went back to being a dick to him two episodes later #reminds me so much of what one of my friends went through #wow this is so long

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cafeleningrad · 11 months ago

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Ohtori is such a disorienting place. It's so emblematic that none of the actual needs of the people in it are met. In fact it gives answers but none actually are satisfying for anyone yet the answers are presented as only alternative. ("You have to revolutionize the world (by participating in the duels that ensure the world continues to run on the same old dynamic.)"

What system Ohtori, Akio by proxy, proposes is the idea of power over another. It's very gendered power as we learn later. Women's power exists either as extension's of a man (Nanami's high social status by virtue of being Touga's little sister), be inspired to have power by extension of a man (Wakaba), surrendering to a man (Kozue), or can be easily taken away power if a man decides that the woman had enough power (Juri,Utena). In the instance a woman has power it's also used to dominate others just like men do. (Nanami being cruel to others, to Tsuwabuki in particular, Utena treating Anthy her a puzzle piece to her princely identity.) In the end there is an idea how someone who should hold all the power should be like (the Prince), and they're given free reign. However that's not what the characters need.

Touga is entirely helpless to his paternal CSA. Akio's proposition is to become, for once, the one in charge of others so none can exploit him again. And Touga fails to see how Akio still exploits him by directing Touga, with quiet implicit imagery stressing that dynamic. What Touga would have needed was protection and a trusting family.

Nanami grew up so isolated and shamed for diverging from the norm, she is entirely dependent on external subjects and objects to define her. Either it's being defined by her relationship to Touga which is the entire basis of her social status, and her only hope for affection. Nanami can only define herself by traditional feminine and classicist means like her perceived ideal femininity, and brand-name jewelry which can easily turn on her, if external voices tell her that she should wear something. Nanami is so desperate for affection, being cared and loved for but the only language she is given is Ohtori's language of "men and women are only corresponding romantically". She can't express her need for familial proximity to Touga. The only other form of gaining adoration she knows is by violence, be it Touga's kitten, Tsuwabuki, or beating her three nameless underlings into submission.

It's not until the third arc that we learn about the Kaoru twins are in the middle of their parents separating. Their childhood is getting disrupted. Both of them are longing for time of connection and chance to hold onto each other. But Ohtori tells them that Miki can only adore Kozue as innocent and helpless. Kozue, like Nanami, gets told that her only chance to express affection to her male twin is by a sexualized, romanticized interaction. For two characters who're living through turbulent times, and need some stability in the other, twisting their chance of proximity is exactly the wrong answer.

Saionji really wants to remain friends with Touga he admires so much. (If not being in love with him.) Even more than Juri, he knows that the duel platform is just a set up, he swallows Touga's poison of "true friendship doesn't exist" again and again. The only chance of proximity to Touga is to disrespect others, demonstrate superiority over them, especially Anthy, as best proxy to a close male-male-dynamic. Saionji's only given path is to delude himself further and further.

Juri pushes so many people away because she's afraid her homosexuality will be revealed. Ohtori as a place does punish homosexuality severely, see Mikage's twisted memory, Ruka trying to converse Juri. This place convinces Juri over and over again that she's wrong for loving Shiori. But the truth is, Shiori is so much in love with Juri that she will resort to abuse her emotional power as long as it serves the purpose of Juri remaining close to her. What they would have needed is the chance to know that actually they're safe to be honest, at least to each other.

Utena is deeply grief-stricken by her parent's death. As a child the idea that everything will fade is terrifying. The only alternative she is shown is that Anthy's suffering is eternal. She wants to help. But the only path for being admired and adored is becoming a prince. The only agency to help and save others is by exercising the prince's power over someone. Akio becomes even crueler by trying to convince Utena that a girl's actual aspiration is romance (with a man). What else should she want? It also distract her from her genuine compassion for Anthy, and wishing for Anthy's happiness.

#Revolutionary Girl Utena #Idk I have a cold therefore to much time in the RGU tag

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bestworstcase · 6 months ago

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I can't remember whether you've answered this before, but. You postulate that everything Salem does in 8.9 after learning Yang's identity is a ruse to justify letting Yang and the others go free; that threatening Emerald is a deliberate attempt to provoke Hazel into attacking her so she has an excuse to turn her attention away from the prisoners.

My question is: Why does she need an excuse? Salem doesn't answer to anyone, and I can't see any particular risk in just saying "I've decided you're free to go, goodbye" and leaving the kids baffled. So what does she have to gain from... making herself seem more dangerous and unreasonable than she is? Not that I think she feels any hope she could convince the heroes she's reasonable -- as you've stated, Oz has done a very good job de-personing her for a very long time -- but I'm not sure why she would go to the effort of constructing an artificial scenario solely to make her enemies think she's more monstrous. What's her motivation here?

in the course of answering the question of her motivation i'm actually going to lay out my argumentation for reading the salem vs hazel fight this way, 'cause i don't think i've ever done so comprehensively before. (on tumblr, anyway.)

the foundational theory isn’t "salem did all this as a ruse to let her hostages go" but rather that this duel with hazel is a performative means to an end. and the reason i think that is the way the fight itself, along with the duel in the lost fable and the brief altercation with the kids preceding the fight, are choreographed.

to preface this discussion, rwby's fight choreography is subordinate to characterization. (this is less true in v1, wherein centerpiece fight scenes put a greater emphasis on style and spectacle, but from v2 onward there’s been an increasing focus on using combat to develop character.) team rwby vs ace-ops is a good example of this: ruby struggles in her matchup with harriet not only because she’s a grimm-fighting specialist whose main advantage (agility) is negated by her opponent being able to match her speed, but also because her heart isn’t in it; she pauses to plead with harriet to stop and think about what she’s doing and never really recovers her footing.

so my first presupposition is that salem isn’t an exception to this principle and her fight with hazel is not meant to just be a dramatic spectacle that Looks Cool but has nothing substantive to say about the characters involved. the writing and fight choreography are reliably cogent and i trust that the same amount of thought was put into this scene. i say this because i think "empty spectacle" is the only other way to parse what happens here.

now on to the most salient piece of context: we know that salem can fight well. because, as ruby puts it, we’ve seen what she’s capable of. the lamp showed us.

in the lost fable, we see:

salem and ozma fighting together, back-to-back, as they escaped her father’s fortress together.

salem stopping a nevermore the size of a commercial plane cold, and then crumpling it up like tissue paper.

salem matching ozma, a skilled, highly-experienced warrior who at the time had the combined might of the four maidens put together at his disposal, exactly blow-for-blow in their last duel.

nevermore crunch gives us a sense of not just the force but also the sheer precision of control that salem has over her magical power. the first fight tells us that even with no formal training, salem had the raw talent (and desperation) to keep up with ozma and hold her own against professional soldiers; the second fight tells us that by the time the ozlem kingdom fell, salem and ozma were equally matched in terms of skill.

the fanon idea that salem can't fight but won their duel by virtue of her invulnerability—whittling ozma down one lucky hit at a time—is a) contradicted by the swift and even back-and-forth volleys shown, and b) plainly at odds with the fanon nonsense that ozma spent most of the duel desperately and futilely on the defensive fighting to shield the girls from her onslaught.

from the tableaux in the second fight, it's hard to determine whether salem bothers with self-defense under normal circumstances (she doesn't, in the tableaux, but nor does ozma). but that in itself isn't a reason to presume a lack of skill in combat because salem has no incentive—other than pain avoidance, which given her extreme tolerance for pain isn't much—to fight defensively.

with all this in mind: we begin with her altercation with the kids.

salem enters the scene by exploding her way out of the whale. notice the kids knocked over like bowling pins on the left: oscar was standing approx. fifty-three feet away from the epicenter of the blast, measured based on salem being six feet tall. (<- with perspective taken into account. from wall to edge, the dock is 48ft wide)

emerald keeps her feet, perhaps because she knows better what to brace for; she's about the same distance away. in any case, salem's next move is to launch herself to the edge of the dock (again, a distance of 48ft—measured based on a different screenshot) and stretch to grab emerald in a fraction of a second.

ok. the women's world record 60m sprint is 6.92 seconds; this works out, rounded, to about 28.4ft/s. at that speed, you can cover forty-eight feet in about 1.7s; salem closes the distance in about half a second, which works out to 96ft/s. from a dead stop.

salem is could-probably-keep-up-with-ruby-rose fast.

next point. these two frames:

are a split second apart. the blast is aimed at ren and when jaune leaps in front of him, hits his shield right in the middle:

had jaune not gotten there in time, this would've hit ren squarely in the chest. in any case it hits with enough force to blast both boys off their feet and slams them into the flesh wall (roughly, eyeballing it based on several shots) 20-30 feet behind them hard enough to visibly strain jaune's aura. keep this timing in your mind for later. salem can fire these things off literally faster than you can blink.

the distance between her and ren at this point is approx. forty-five feet, again using the wide shot from earlier to measure. precise accuracy isn't impressive at this range necessarily but it's worth noting in relation to ren, who fires on her from the same distance, kneeling, with his fully automatics. every bullet goes wide:

& then salem whips around and noscopes him.

similarly, she sticky-hands yang in the face (catching her gauntlets only because yang throws up her arms to shield herself) while upside down with her eyes closed and paste for bones. she's a GOOD shot.

another detail to note here is the difference in salem's reaction to ren's attack versus yang's; ren fires on her, misses, she retaliates with her magical equivalent to his guns, but when yang punches bombs into her chest a second later, salem literally just stands there, even lowering her arm to let yang do it...

...and then after being blown up, rather than firing back with magic, snags yang and pulls her over to look intently at her:

we know that the reason salem grabbed emerald is with the intent to question her about what happened to the lamp, because salem concludes from the available facts that em must have stolen it. we also know that when ren shot at her, salem returned fire immediately, within a fraction of a second—this woman is inhumanly fast, and the time between these two frames:

is exactly equal to the time between these two:

what this tells is that salem did have time to blast yang in the gut with magic. through the whole sequence with yang punching her, salem is looking at yang's face, her gaze tracks down to follow her movement. she sees this coming and she's reacting to it, just making a deliberate choice not to retaliate.

and then she grabs yang.

this is the first weird thing salem does in this scene—every move she makes prior unambiguously follows from salem's belief that emerald stole the lamp and her desire to recapture oscar and take the relic back—and i don't think it's a coincidental that the weirdness begins with salem noticing yang...

...whom she saw like, two days ago rushing forward to comfort ruby after salem your mother-ed her to the ground. i've made this point before but prior to her arrival in atlas salem might at most have seen toddler pictures of these kids; ruby takes after her mother enough to be impossible to mistake for anyone but summer's daughter, but yang isn't even biologically related to summer. so salem wouldn't know her on sight. but this interaction a couple days ago would've given her enough circumstantial context to at least guess that this girl is summer's eldest.

so here, when salem sees yang and instantly flips from slinging bolts of magic around with enough force to break or at least visibly strain jaune's aura to sticky-handing yang to drag her over and grab her, the question is okay, why? why does that shift happen? what is it about this moment that alters salem's motivation? and because the situation hasn't changed whatsoever and there's no other reason for yang to have any significance to salem, the simplest and really only cogent explanation is her relation to summer rose.

onwards. salem isn't expecting oscar to zap her. you can tell because every time salem takes a hit on purpose in this scene, she either tracks her opponent's movements or visibly braces herself and neither of those things happens in the split second between oscar starting to fire and his blast hitting her; and also, she grunts in pain both when it hits her and when she doubles over afterward. given that oscar shouts at her first (so he has her attention) and what oscar and ozma say when they discuss the state of the merge in 7.13 and earlier in 8.9, i think it's pretty likely that salem didn't realize oscar could tap into ozma's magic and thus he caught her off guard.

also i'm not sure oscar realized he could do that until he did it. look at this boy. he's so busy going "wait what?" at himself that he doesn't even notice salem yeeting yang at him until a split second before yang hits him ->

that, or oscar's use of magic jostled oz to the front and neither of them were expecting that to happen.

at this point salem stops fucking around and pins everyone to the floor. and again this is something i want to emphasize because it is effortless for her. when she does this to hazel in 6.4 she makes a gesture with her hands, but here she just decides it's going to happen and it does. (which tells us that the gesturing in 6.4 is for show, just like flipping the table and raising her voice. she's exaggerating her irritation into this over-the-top anger for the sake of intimidating everyone else in the room. it's performative.)

anyway, she hangs emerald on the wall, conjures a ball of magic, and:

SALEM: What did you do with the lamp? EMERALD: ...N-nothing! [Salem leans in to hold the magic close to her face.] SALEM: It's missing. Where is it? EMERALD: I didn't do anything with it! SALEM: Where—[she lowers her hand, turning away]–is it?

ok. salem can tell when people lie. she's also grimm—she can probably sense or perceive emotion the way all other grimm do.

emerald isn't lying to her and salem knows she's telling the truth. the pseudo-repetition of the questions obfuscates this a little, because they're almost but not quite the same, but salem believes both of the truthful answers emerald gives her.

her initial assumption is that emerald stole the lamp and must have done something to hide it ("what did you do with it?"). emerald is startled, confused, and answers "nothing." salem explains why she's asking ("it's missing") and then asks if emerald knows where it is or who took it ("where is it?") because her next guess is that emerald conspired with somebody else who stole the lamp while emerald snuck oscar out.

when the lamp went missing, there were eight people on the whale: salem herself, hazel, emerald, neopolitan, oscar, yang, and these other two children whose names salem probably doesn't know. right before the seers sounded the alarm about intruders, salem encountered emerald and someone she thought was hazel in the corridor. at that point in time, salem expected hazel to still be interrogating oscar, as she's mildly surprised to see him: "ah, hazel. have you gotten what we need yet?"—and 'hazel' behaved oddly enough that salem was side-eyeing him before the alarm distracted her. her reaction to emerald a few minutes later ("you really have been honing that semblance of yours") confirms that she's figured out that 'hazel' was really oscar.

hazel assumes there is an alarm that will go off if they move the lamp, but he's wrong: neo swipes it seconds after they leave the chamber, and salem doesn't know anything is wrong until a) the seers alert her to the presence of intruders, several minutes layer, and b) she goes to personally secure the lamp and finds it already missing.

so salem does not know exactly when the lamp was taken, only that it happened before the seers sounded the alarm. that her suspicion falls first on emerald suggests that salem has—for whatever reason—already considered and ruled out the possibility that the intruders are the thieves (most likely, because the seer alarm calls convey more information than just "stranger danger!" and salem knows the intruders didn't get that far into the whale before being caught). plus by the time she's questioning emerald, salem has a) terrified emerald well past being able to maintain her semblance, which requires active focus, and b) visually confirmed that none of the intruders nor oscar are carrying the lamp with them.

ruling out emerald as the thief therefore leaves her with just two suspects: neopolitan, or hazel. now, salem does not have any reason to trust another of cinder's little pet illusionists, so on the face of it neo might seem to be the obvious suspect.

BUT.

salem expected hazel to be in oscar's cell at the time she unwittingly caught emerald in the act of helping oscar escape. and she knows that hazel is attached to emerald—that's why she punishes him for lying to her in 6.4 by forcing emerald to answer the question hazel tried to dodge, she knows hazel lied to protect emerald.

and emerald could not have freed oscar from his cell without hazel knowing about it.

based on the facts of the situation as salem understands them at the point when she turns away from emerald to ask, rhetorically, where the lamp is, there are only two possible explanations:

hazel stole the lamp while emerald helped oscar escape.

neo stole the lamp while emerald tried to sneak oscar out, either with hazel's assistance or while hazel was somewhere other than where salem expected him to be, doing something he shouldn't.

there is no way—no way—that salem does not realize, at this juncture, that hazel has most likely betrayed her. this woman is a clever strategist who has been running circles around ozpin and his inner circle since the show began and, while she lacks the charisma and social dexterity to be a truly masterful manipulator, she understands human nature and her manipulative tactics are always very shrewd. unless you're willing to assume that the writers just idiot balled her for the sake of the plot—which i'm not; rwby is too well-written—salem's assumption now is that hazel stole the lamp.

(which, she's wrong, but the underlying reasoning in how she handles the situation on the docks up to this point is an application of occam's razor; she begins with the simplest explanation and works upward in complexity from there, so she'd land on hazel stealing the lamp before she got to "neo stole the lamp, emerald freed oscar, hazel was doing something else.")

the shift in her tone as she turns away from emerald and the things she then says to oscar evince this also: her second "where is it?" is rhetorical. she knows that either hazel or neo has it, and hazel is the more likely suspect. since neither of them are here at the moment, but neither of them can leave the whale except through the dock, the question is no longer urgent. she has the situation fully under control. all she needs to do is wait.

so her attention shifts to oscar or ozma. (whether oz is fronting or salem thinks he’s fronting because oscar used ozma's magic is somewhat unclear, but given that she correctly identifies them in both 8.4 and 8.6 i'm inclined to think she’s right this time too, and oz got pulled forward by oscar’s use of his magic)

SALEM: Look how you've diminished. How you've lessened yourself—and for what? These children? This ruined world...? Why—do—you—keep—coming—back? YANG: Why do you?! [Salem glances at her, startled.] YANG: All of this endless death, just because something bad happened to you once upon a time? Nobody gets a fairytale ending! Everything I've lost—every person I've lost!—is because of you! SALEM: And who is it I've taken from you, girl? YANG: Summer Rose. My mom. SALEM: Hm. [amused] Her again?

as i said, salem already has reasonable confidence that this girl is summer rose's eldest daughter, but if she had any doubt or uncertainty prior she now knows for sure. "and who is it i've taken from you, girl?" is salem both engaging with what yang said to her and also fishing for a confirmation that she is who salem thinks she is, which yang obligingly gives to her.

so at this juncture salem now has three goals:

don't severely hurt or kill summer's daughter.

determine who stole the lamp and get it back.

recapture oz/oscar.

with the third being a means to the end of finding out how to access the lamp. this makes #3 the lowest priority, because there are at least six people who know the "password" (ozma, oscar, ruby, yang, and their two teammates) and if salem loses oz/oscar now she can still try to capture one of the other children later.

of the first two, which is more important doesn't really matter yet, because right now they aren't in opposition. she can accomplish the first by not doing anything to harm yang and the second by staying put until the thief—either neo or hazel—tries to get past her.

of course, then hazel IMMEDIATELY shows up. he is, remember, salem's primary suspect at this point and she knows that he, at a minimum, wasn't where she thought he was when emerald snuck oscar out of his cell. even if hazel doesn't have the lamp, salem has to consider him a possible traitor until proven otherwise because there is also this unspoken question of how emerald got oscar out. either hazel was incompetent or he was an accomplice.

salem wants to know which it is.

he walks onto the docks, greets her. salem glances over at him and sees that he does not have the lamp, so either he stashed it somewhere on the whale with the intent to sneak it out later or he isn't the thief. the question of how emerald got oscar past him remains. there is a possibility that hazel wasn't involved in the jailbreak or the theft—he's been in and out of that cell all day—and if salem makes this accusation and she's wrong, she risks losing his loyalty. right. like hazel is already terrified of her and she knows ozma has been feeding him bullshit all day about how she's bent on destroying the world, she walked in on that.

if she takes an aggressive posture here on the basis of an incorrect suspicion that's going to play right into ozma's hands by making her look unreasonable, untrustworthy, dangerous. even if he remains loyal in the moment, he'll have all of this in the back of his mind and he might turn against her at a more crucial juncture in the future.

salem is very risk-averse. she's not going to do that. so now she has a fourth goal: test hazel in a way that will strengthen his commitment to her if he remains loyal, or else force him to definitively prove himself a traitor.

when salem meets emerald and 'hazel' in the corridor earlier in this episode she says "ah, hazel. have you gotten what we need yet?" and then, after the seer alarm, "it seems we have guests [...] find them!"

when hazel arrives at the docks, salem says "ah, hazel. i found our guests." the intonation of "ah, hazel" is the same but exaggerated, and salem's taking "we have guests: find them" and flipping it around; "i found our guests." now, she's aware that the 'hazel' she spoke to in the corridor a few minutes ago was really oscar, so hazel doesn't have context for why this is funny. but she's making a sarcastic little joke at his expense about how she doesn't trust him now.

"ah, hazel" is how she greeted the false 'hazel' whom she did trust and told to find their "guests." she suspects that the real hazel was an accomplice to this scheme so she parodies that greeting and then makes a sardonic jab at him as if the false 'hazel' in the corridor were real and just failed so abysmally at finding the intruders that salem had to do it herself. and then she specifically draws his attention to emerald and goes "this one was helping them."

and this is the test, right.

before she asks emerald "what did you do with the lamp?" salem conjures up a ball of magic and holds it up where emerald can see. very unsubtle threat. she does the exact same thing here.

"this one was helping them," she says, magic crackling in her hand where hazel can see it. there is, again, a very unsubtle threat that she'll hurt emerald. and then she pauses for a solid three seconds, which doesn't sound like a lot but it's the similar in length to her other dramatic pauses like "find the girl that did this to cinder... and bring her to me" (~3.5s) and "before you go, inform tyrian... that i wish to have a word with him" (~2s)

in 6.4, salem asks hazel to give her a specific piece of information about cinder, and he tries to evade by saying "i take full responsibility," so she flips the table, pins him to the ground, and intimidates emerald into telling her instead, because she knows hazel is lying to shield emerald from the imaginary threat of salem's wrathful retribution.

in this scene, salem has emerald pinned to the wall and makes an implicit but extremely clear threat to hurt emerald because, she tells hazel pointedly, this one was helping the intruders sneak oscar, the boy hazel was supposed to be interrogating at the time, off the whale: SIGNIFICANT LOOK. DRAMATIC PAUSE.

this is the test. this is the test. the last time salem put hazel into a situation where he anticipated a punishment falling on emerald's head, he lied to try to redirect that punishment onto himself. if he tries to do the same thing now, he's either going to implicate himself as an accomplice, attack her, or exonerate himself by lying (because salem will know that he's lying if he falsely claims to have been in on it a la "i take full responsibility").

she's not making any accusations but she is giving him the chance to come clean. the last time this happened and he lied to her, she bullied emerald to punish him. the implicit promise she's making this time is that if he was also "helping them" and he tells her the truth now, she won't hurt emerald. if he gives her what she wants, she'll reward him with what he wants.

as. usual. she does not communicate this clearly enough for it to be effective (⭐️ SHE TRIED) and hazel doesn't give her anything to work with, just stands there silently, so... she escalates. "take the boy back to his chamber; i have work to do with this one."

if hazel's silence is because he's upset but still remains loyal, he'll obey and she'll know that she has a much firmer hold on him than she thought. if... he was involved, then his silence is because he's trying to figure out a way to salvage this situation. she still does not have absolute certainty. so she provokes him by raising the stakes and turning her back on him.

um, another noteworthy detail that i think supports reading "i have work to do with this one" as a performative threat salem's making to force hazel to make his loyalties clear:

salem touches emerald's face with this very ominous-looking magic crackling around her hands and nothing happens. the specific threat she's been making in this scene of "answer me or i'll burn your face with this nasty dark magic" is quite literally bluffing. it doesn't hurt emerald upon contact with her skin. emerald just experiences the untold horrors of salem grabbing her face.

HOWEVER. escalating in this manner a) takes the risk of hazel choosing to betray her for emerald’s sake right now even if he wasn’t an accomplice before, and b) insures that if hazel is already a traitor, there will be a violent altercation.

the former is a much less dangerous risk than alienating hazel if he's truly loyal by making open accusations (an immediate betrayal that she provoked and is prepared to handle vs a possible betrayal an unknown amount of time in the future which might catch her with her guard down). the latter is a problem, because there are children glued to the floor who will be in the crossfires of any fight, and one of those children is her general's eldest.

and this is where that second goal of "don't severely harm or kill summer's daughter" comes into play and comes into conflict with salem's need to recapture oscar & oz and recover the stolen relic. it's at this point salem has to make a decision about what to prioritize, and her choice is to—if hazel does what she expects him to do and attacks her—let the children go while she "fights" hazel, then pry information out of hazel once they're gone. so she reveals that her priorities are:

summer's daughter.

the lamp.

hazel's loyalty.

the lamp's "password."

also notice that salem does keep her implicit promise not to harm emerald if hazel gives her what she wants—she releases emerald, too, after hazel punches her. she's thinking ahead to what she'll do once the children are gone and she has hazel alone on the docks. by letting emerald and the rest of the children escape, she removes his motivation for betraying her: he no longer has anyone around whom he could possibly sacrifice himself to protect from salem, because all of them have made it to safety. now salem can pin him to the wall and start asking questions.

either hazel took the lamp and stashed it somewhere on the whale once he realized she'd caught the children, or neopolitan stole it and—if she's still aboard—will need to pass the docks sooner or later. so salem stays put, with hazel, until she has the lamp in hand again or knows where hazel hid it. summer's daughter is safe, hazel has no one to sacrifice himself for (and she has some leverage to counter ozma's lies; letting the children go is her proof that she isn't unreasonable), and salem has everything she needs to get the lamp back. she might have to capture someone again in the future to extract the lamp's password, but there's a chance hazel learnt it from oscar before the jailbreak and theft.

worst case scenario, neo stole it and escaped before salem intercepted the jailbreak on the docks, but at least by questioning hazel she'll be able to determine whether that's the case.

a partial victory is preferable to a loss, and knowing what to sacrifice in pursuit of one's priorities is important. this is salem's basic strategic philosophy and it shows through in her actions throughout this scene; she's making choices about what matters to her most and what she can afford to let go, always with the intent to achieve as many of her goals as possible, in descending order of importance.

with salem it's important to keep in mind that she thinks like this. strategic acumen is her greatest strength and being able to evaluate all of one's objectives in terms of priority, feasibility, and tactical means at once is a critical strategic skill. strategy is about the long term, big picture thinking, where salem excels. so she almost never does anything for just one reason; every decision she makes is a balancing act taking into account all of her important short- and long-term goals.

speaking of which, i've so far limited this discussion to her immediate objectives in this scene, but it's worth remembering that salem has long-term plans that she is working toward and her actions and choices in any given scene are mediated by the big picture; her inner conflict regarding cinder aside, salem is never going to do anything that achieves a short-term goal by harming her strategic ends (and her erratic behavior toward cinder arises from a conflict between her strategic ends and her increasing reluctance to treat cinder like a pawn, i.e. her big-picture wants and needs can no longer be easily reconciled.)

it's much harder to discern salem's long-term objectives because we don't really know what her plan is, except in the broadest strokes. but we can hazard a few guesses:

salem is very circumspect about what happened to summer rose; it may be necessary for her plans to preserve the heroically-martyred idea of summer rose—the most obvious reason would be that "summer was the best, and even she failed" is a very exploitable weakness in her opponents' morale.

if salem intends to confront the brothers face-to-face, using the final judgment as bait, and she fails, the only thing she can do that might prevent the gods from annihilating remnant is ensuring that everyone is rallied against her. forcing the truth of her existence into the open while performing to "monstrous evil witch bent on destruction of all things" expectations is the surest way to do that.

likewise, winnowing her own inner circle such that she is truly and completely alone by the time she has all four relics in hand may be part of the plan.

also worth taking into consideration are the ways salem's trauma circumscribes her decision-making. she is:

terrified of rejection.

terrified to care or admit to caring because the divine mandate is a justification and a threat of genocide strictly to punish her, and she knows it.

convinced that no one will ever truly care about her, hear her, or want to help her without getting something in return.

resigned to being seen as a monster no matter what she does, solely on the basis of her inhuman appearance.

all of these things predispose her to retreat behind her emotional walls and just reflect the expectations of others back to them. she's been viciously, brutally punished every single time she's tried to be authentic and vulnerable with others and it hurts less to shut down and be what she's "supposed" to be than to try and be cut down over and over again. this is a defensive learned response and it informs both her strategic planning and her tactical decisions; even in situations where breaking expectations and being emotionally honest might benefit her if people were to give her a chance, she's not going to do it unless she is really, really certain that she won't be punished for trying again.

now, to wrap this up, let's go over the fight with hazel.

i actually debate with myself a lot as to whether salem did or didn't anticipate hazel punching her, because she a) doesn't brace and b) cries out when his fist makes contact with her face, but i am certain that by this juncture salem did expect and was counting on him to do SOMETHING to stop her. the sequence of events is this:

salem approaches emerald while telling hazel, "take the boy back to his chamber; i have work to do with this one." after a brief pause, hazel answers "yes. of course," and begins to walk over to oscar. at this point, salem puts both of her hands on emerald's face and leans in to emphasize the threat, but still doesn't hurt her.

keep in mind that there is a significant distance between salem and oscar. relative to her position when she entered the scene, salem has moved (roughly, eyeballing) about thirty feet to the left and knocked oscar about the same distance from where he fell when she burst through the side of the whale. so they're still about fifty feet apart.

an able-bodied human walks about 4.2ft/s at a normal pace on average; hazel is quite tall—i believe word of god is eight feet, but he is NOT two feet taller than salem, the top of her head is level with his shoulder line, which if salem is six feet tall exactly would make him about 7'2"—which gives him a much longer than average stride, so we'll presume his normal walking pace is about 4.5ft/s.

when salem walks from emerald over to oscar, it takes her about twelve seconds. if we assume that her pace is the average 4.2ft/s, that would make this distance just about exactly fifty feet. 50ft 5in, to be precise. the consistency here between the visible spatial distance and the temporal distance suggests close attention to detail on the part of the creative team.

(salem returns from oscar to emerald, off screen, in about two seconds, but this is not problematic given her super-fast gliding pace—we can assume that salem slingshot herself across most of the distance and then walked the last couple steps.)

so at a normal pace of 4.5ft/s, it should take hazel about eleven seconds to walk from salem's side to where oscar is... and in fact it takes him exactly that: he begins to walk at 14:35 and stops in front of oscar at 14:46. again, the consistency is telling—particularly because there is no dialogue at all in this span, so how long it took wasn't dictated by the length of a spoken line.

hazel picks oscar up, murmurs "no more gretchens, boy," into his ear, pushes the long memory into his hands, and then drops him again. this takes another ten seconds. hazel turns away from oscar and begins to walk back toward salem at 14:56, punching her at 15:04, so his return is faster but within the range of a brisk walking pace (eight seconds, fifty feet, approx. 6.3ft/s).

the reason i'm belaboring this point is that salem says "i have work to do with this one," and then... stands there without doing anything except holding emerald's face menacingly for a genuinely awkward amount of time. thirty-one seconds, counting the beat before hazel began to move. it's not even clear that salem said anything to emerald—when hazel turns away from oscar and the camera cuts back to emerald and salem, em blurts out "i really don't know!" but whether this is in response to another question salem asked off-screen or just responding to what she assumes salem wants from her is ambiguous.

compare the way salem questioned emerald earlier in this scene: she asked two questions, one after the other, confirming that emerald didn't take or hide the lamp and doesn't know where it is. as soon as it became clear to her that she wouldn't get useful information from emerald—because em truly did not know anything—salem dropped it and moved on to Plan B. she doesn't LIKE emerald and she's ANGRY that em tricked her and helped oscar escape, but what salem CARES about is finding out what happened to the lamp. she's not going to waste her time trying to get blood from a stone.

and compare the way salem conducts herself when she interrogates oscar in 8.4. again, her questioning is guided by practicality, but the more salient point of comparison for this discussion is what salem does when she shifts gears to punishment and torture. namely, she just tortures him. no hesitating, no warnings, no threats, no grandstanding, she just turns around and does it. practical, again.

if what salem intended to do at this point in the scene was torture emerald, either to punish her or for information, she would do so.

instead, salem just...clutches emerald's face. evilly.

for thirty-one seconds.

now, i will remind you that salem has excellent spatial awareness; she sticky-hands yang from at least ten or fifteen feet away while upside-down with her eyes closed. hazel's footsteps are clearly audible. when hazel enters, salem hears him speak and answers him across this fifty-foot span. oscar cries out when hazel picks him up and grunts in pain when hazel drops him, which also makes a quite loud thud. hazel's footsteps would also be audible to her when he returned, although they aren't to the audience.

so she'd be able to sense hazel approaching her again, and if she paid attention—which she must have, because salem's just spent half a minute doing the bare minimum to sell that she's toootally going to start torturing emerald, any second now, and the only reason for her to do that is if this is about intimidating or provoking hazel—then she would have at least heard him dropping oscar, so she knows he isn't "taking the boy back to his chamber" as ordered.

ok.

when the focus shifts back to them, salem's got emerald like this:

this shot is at 15:01.167. hazel will punch her at 15:04 exactly, which at his brisk pace of 6.3ft/s means he's about eighteen feet away. around 15:02.750, when hazel is less than eight feet away from her, salem begins to pull back, lifting her arm as if preparing to strike:

she holds this pose without moving for almost a whole second. remember just how fast salem can be. her release when she fires back at ren, from the moment she begins her 180° spin to the moment the opalescent bolt leaves her hand, is sixteen frames. from the appearance of the black/violet magic bubbles to the release of the opalescent bolt is one frame. ONE.

when she reaches this position, hazel is quite literally right next to her. he cannot be more than three or four feet away, and we can see in both the initial shot and the replay from the opposite angle that he comes at salem directly from the side, not from behind her.

the point is that salem can see him. unless you have vision problems impacting your peripheral sight, even if you're looking straight ahead, as salem is here, you can visually detect motion directly to the left or right within a close radius. and indeed:

salem's gaze flicks to the side before his fist makes contact, and the wider shot from behind shows just how close he is to her before throwing the punch.

and the last detail i want to note regarding the punch is that salem lets go of emerald when hazel hits her, which is something that she does NOT do when yang blows her up:

if salem can remain standing and keep her death grip on this girl's arm while her ENTIRE TORSO IS EXPLODED WITH BOMBS, it... does not matter how strong hazel is or to what degree salem may have been caught off-guard. she had at least a split second recognition before his fist hit her face; that alone is enough to reflexively clamp down on emerald's jaw if she didn't want to let go.

so whether or not salem anticipated that hazel would punch her in the face specifically—and it doesn't seem like she did, given that she yelps—she must have had at least a vague awareness of his presence/approach (because he marched right up to her), and she made the choice to just ragdoll with the hit. the simplest explanation is that once she heard him drop oscar and start power-walking back toward her, salem knew he was going to try something to save emerald and committed to the bit.

she also isn't actually ragdolling; she lets the force of hazel's punch throw her off her feet, but then instead of falling she soars away in this high arc, flips herself around in midair, drops down in a perfectly-controlled landing at the far end of the dock, and rises again:

ok? ok. this sequence, from the end of the slo-mo reaction shot to when salem reaches altitude, runs 15:08 to 15:11—three seconds.

and then she just, erm...hangs out there, not doing anything, until hazel finishes cramming dust into his body and turning his back on salem to give his heartfelt last goodbye to emerald and everything, and faces salem again at 15:41. at which point she says "so, you've decided against vengeance for your sister, after all this time?"

thirty. seconds.

during which the ONLY ACTION salem takes is this... this:

<- make a particular note of how jaune reacts. the tactics guy. while the other kids gasp in shock/relief, jaune is like "wait what?" as he pushes himself up to look at salem—he's confused, because he knows intuitively that Something Weird just happened.

why did she do that?

she didn't need to. it wasn't an accident. salem manifested these sigils with a mere thought, and later in this same scene we'll see her do that again right after hazel smashes her head like an egg. summoning these things also clearly doesn't inhibit any of her other powers, so this is effortless for her and costs her nothing to maintain.

either happened by narrative fiat, because the kids had to escape and the writers just couldn't be bothered to figure out how. the... problem with this explanation, aside from the obvious that rwby is a well-written story that doesn't pull this sort of bullshit, is that the prelude to the big fight makes a HUGE POINT of,

this! oscar is already free and has long memory. if the intention is for the kids to escape while hazel keeps salem distracted, you don't need a narrative contrivance like this; you just slip in a shot or two of oscar snapping these grimm hands or disarming the sigils with his own magic to release his friends instead.

orrr... salem let them go on purpose.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

wheeze. ok. we're almost done.

remember how salem can go from empty fist to black magic bubble to releasing an opalescent blast in just three frames?

this first shot is at 15:49. the second is at 15:51. in between, salem just kind of sways side-to-side and then waves her arms around for forty-five frames. even if we count only from her conjuring of the Big Bubble at 15:50, it's twenty-two frames—longer than it took her to snap around and fire off a blast that hit her target dead-on and slammed two teenage boys into a wall some 20-30 feet back.

woman's telegraphing harder than a dark souls boss here.

and speaking of aiming...

these are the three bolts salem fires in the wide shot. top row on the left is her first shot in the instant before hazel begins to run up the slope—i've marked the trajectory and the eventual point of impact in green to make it easier to see that this would not have hit him even if he hadn't moved. top row on the right is the real impact, with hazel now running. on the bottom row are her next two shots. one strikes the edge of the dock nowhere even close to him, the other hits the ground about 8-9 feet in front of him (measuring based on hazel being 7'2" tall). and in the next shot:

it's not that she never hits him. hazel is quite a bit farther away from her than ren was and he's also running at a dead sprint while dodging blasts. tricky target. it wouldn't be strange at all if she missed.

but look at where she is aiming.

top row: both bolts strike the ground 1-2ft directly ahead of him—in the shot on the left, he's veering closer to the wall to avoid stepping on the point of impact. bottom left: this is a second bolt aimed just a little bit forward and 1-2ft out from the wall relative to the top right; these two bolts strike eight frames apart and hazel lunges sideways toward the dock's edge as the second one comes into frame, so when salem fired the second one, hazel was still where he is in the top right. and (the clincher) bottom right: this bolt strikes six frames after the one preceding, 1-2ft directly in front of him, and hazel swerves toward the wall to avoid stepping on the point of impact; notice the correction from #3 to #4 when hazel swerved more toward the ledge than salem anticipated.

not a single one of these bolts is actually aimed at hazel. salem is aiming to hit the ground directly in front of hazel, close enough to convince him that she means to hit him but also low enough that if she misjudges his speed she's going to strike his ankles... and when one blast nearly hits him in the head or chest because he jumped further sideways than salem guessed he would, she instantly corrects her aim to ankle-height again.

she is herding him.

up the docks, closer to her, away from the children, all while taking care NOT to hit him without being obvious about it.

this is the same kind of behavior we see from her in 6.4, where she's at worst a little vexed but flips a table and shouts and throws him to the ground as if she's in a terrible fury—and then a minute later hazel tells her something that genuinely infuriates her and we see her freeze while the windows start to crack, before she sends them all out of the room and struggles to press this rage back down.

because there is a huge difference between the loud, explosive "anger" salem performs to intimidate her associates and her real anger, which she tries very hard to contain.

in a similar vein, we get this fleeting glimpse of salem's actual skill in combat when she spins around and blasts the boys into a wall in the time it takes to blink... and then she sees yang, and the key changes. instantly. for the rest of the scene.

onward. hazel vaults over salem's final bolt and launches three fireballs at her. as these spiral up toward her, salem threads herself between them like they're not even there—it's really fast, the whole sequence from when the fireballs form in front of his fist to when she slings past the third one is forty frames and if you count from when the first fireball enters the frame, her evasive maneuver is over within twelve frames. as she continues past the last fireball, salem swings her arms to finish her movement, as if she's going to lash forward and fire off a riposte:

but then instead, she re-centers, pauses, and does... this:

which i'm sure looks very impressive and terrifying for everyone on the ground, but she is... literally just tossing magic around in random directions. this is not an attack. this is a light show. a firework. her big swarm of magic bubbles spits out of of the opalescent bolts and only one hits anywhere close to hazel. she is just fucking around.

from here, hazel sprints to the edge of the dock and launches himself into the air above her, where he dust-conjures a biiiiig spiky boulder to smash her with... and, uh. three things. first:

this shot occurs in slo-mo to really underscore what happens here. note that salem is looking up at him and has a firing bubble ready to go. hazel is approx. twenty-eight feet directly in front of her (measured in salems); a few minutes ago we've seen her be dead accurate at just a bit more than half again that distance, and we know a blast from her has plenty enough force to knock hazel out of the sky. from the beginning to end of this shot her head moves as she tracks his motion.

she has a clear shot lined up here. she chooses not to take it. then:

hazel conjures The Boulder, and we get this shot of salem's reaction—from waiting indifferently to see what he'll do to wry amusement. and then she physically braces herself to take the hit:

after which point salem just Lies There letting him pummel her for a few seconds before evidently deciding that she's done enough fucking around for those children she let out of gay baby jail about sixty seconds ago to have gotten away so she'll just flick her fingers (while her skull is caved in and her brains are splashed all over the floor, mind you) to pull some more grabby hands out of the air and wrap this one up except—

—NO WHOOPS THEY'RE ALL STILL HERE. lol.

like the fight is over, when the camera cuts back to the kids. salem has hazel completely immobilized. jaune is at the other end of the docks, shouting for everyone to hurry. "she'll just come after us," oscar says, but if salem cared to recapture any of them she would've left hazel restrained and dropped down off the dock to scoop them up as they hit the ground.

she's visibly irritated after regrowing her face, yes. but we have seen over and over—there are multiple examples in this scene alone—that salem can and will set irritation aside to focus on what doing what is necessary to advance her practical goals. she's poisonous with emerald but asks her two questions and then turns away as soon as she's confirmed that emerald doesn't know anything. she takes a deep breath and shelves her fury at ozma to listen calmly while yang yells at her. salem just isn't a character ruled by her anger.

so the fact that she a) continues to focus all of her attention on hazel after restraining him, and b) actually hurls him out of the restraints, in the opposite direction from her escaping prisoners, and turns away from them to just bash hazel's face repeatedly into the floor, suggests to me that her annoyance is perhaps more because these children are STILL FUCKING HERE and she needs them to be gone before she can start to properly wring the truth out of hazel.

she pays zero attention to the children until she hears long memory activate, which seems to startle her; after that she straightens up and stares him down for about four seconds.

they're about ninety feet apart here. salem covers a just over half that distance in two seconds... meaning she is gliding at what is for her a downright leisurely 24.5ft/s. that's a little bit more than a QUARTER of her top speed which is, in case you've forgotten whilst reading this very long post, 96ft/s. or 65mph.

(and here i will remind you that the walking speed distance math earlier checks out perfectly with the measurable spatial distance between emerald and oscar. this scene was choreographed and animated with very close attention to time and distance and i think that's because the speed at which salem does certain things at different points is doing a lot of narrative work. it's seldom necessary to be this precise but in this scene it matters.)

the point is that while salem does slingshot herself at oscar pretty fast here, relative to how much faster she CAN go, salem isn't trying especially hard to Get Him. this is like a brisk jog for her.

now granted, if hazel hadn't scraped up the wherewithal to, i assume, yeet himself after salem with all the dust cooking his body from the inside out, oscar would have been toast whether salem zipped along at a normal human sprinting pace or clotheslined him at car-on-a-highway speeds. but it does speak to the intensity of salem's interest in getting oscar in this moment versus when she went for emerald at the top of the scene.

salem had, by this point, already given up recapturing oz/oscar as a loss, accepted sacrificing the opportunity to do that as a price she was willing to pay for the sake of 1. getting summer's daughter safely off the whale and 2. after clarifying hazel's loyalties, removing the children from the equation so she can squeeze him for information about what happened to the lamp. i think the possibility that oz/oscar might have shared the "password" with hazel when hazel decided to help them escape would've at least crossed her mind as soon as she narrowed her list of suspects down to hazel and neo, too.

there's also the factor that with hazel now compromised, the only person around to interrogate oz/oscar is salem herself, and because that would involve being in the same room with and talking to ozma for an indeterminate amount of time, i don't think salem's all that keen anymore.

thennnn hazel sets her on fire and she screams and thrashes because she's having traumatic flashbacks to the moonfall and then oz blows her and her whale the fuck up.

thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

#TOO LONG DIDN'T READ:#she's balancing between two main goals #(get yang off the whale & determine #who took the lamp and where it is)#both of which can be advanced at once by #manipulating hazel in this specific way #for reasons that i discuss at extravagant length because 8.9 lives rent free in my head

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