#shakespearean heroines

[a-a-a-anon]

absolutely fascinated by young dee who is criminally under-discussed so here is my dissertation on what happened in her college years (ft. dr. gainer, setting her roommate on fire, being institutionalized)/my idea for a fic that I will almost certainly never write/my way too serious take on a few throwaway dee lore lines

timeline background: we know that dee majored in psychology ('charlie got molested') and got "three fourths" of the way in (meanwhile dennis finished his psych minor.) assuming this was a four year program, I'm gonna guess that in her third year she got institutionalized and most likely had to drop out ('gun fever too: still hot'.) we also know that she had her back brace until she was twenty ('underage drinking'), so I'm guessing that means she got her back brace off in her third year.

we know that dennis fancied himself a psychologist since he was young, but I think dee did too. in particular I think she was wary and interested in her brother's psychology; she seems very aware of his psychopathy and bpd in 'making dennis reynolds a murderer' and 'psycho pete returns.' in my head she's been interested in dennis' psychology since they were kids and she saw him snapping crows necks. so instead of forcing her way into acting school, she studied psychology to better understand her brother (and also deep down, herself, who is very much the other side of the same fucked up coin.) it also meant she could tell herself she could study her characters even better when she became an actress.

i think she put in (her version of) genuine academic effort to get in, fuelled kind of by spite (remember the way she studied that thick medical book in 'hero or hate crime' or her very quick math in 'boggs: ladies reboot'). she studies books and gets cricket to quiz her and she still fails to get into penn. but frank always pitied her (i think she was his favorite of the twins-remember "let your sister into the gang", "that's my girl!", "i'm sorry the grift didn't work out, sweetie") so he shells out cash to get her in, but also to get her away from home so he has to deal with her even less.

dennis wants to do anything dee does but better and he wants to keep her close by (to watch her crash and burn, and also because he's weirdly possessive-see 'the gang broke dee' "i'm your select!"). and obviously he's barbara's favorite. so barbara gives him money to get in too. she also gets him into a frat and pays for his classes and his rent and everything he needs. dee has to live in a dumpy dorm with a female roommate.

but college presents dee a chance to moult her previous place in life where she was known as a monster (remember how insistent she was that "people can change!" in 'franks pretty woman'. I think dees always wanted to believe she can shed that feeling she's inferior, but she never has). in my head her female roommate is basically normal-has real friends of her own, mentally stable, attractive-which is exactly what dee craves. dee wants to be popular and well liked and she wants to infiltrate her roommates life, imitate her, be in the Cool group. and she places all her hopes on a friendship with the roommate but dee has never navigated real female friendships before, not with someone like her. deep down she also wishes she found what dennis found in mac, whatever it was, because ever since dennis met mac he's never been as close to her. and i do think dee is some flavor of queer. and the roommate is well liked in the way that dee admires and envies. so there is that blurriness between wanting to be her and wanting to be with her. in my head her roommate looks like the woman from dee's fantasy in 'the gang saves the day' (and they both represent that promise of escape from dee's shitty life).

dee is so desperate for the roommates approval and her love and her life that she goes insane, copying and flattering and competing with her. ever the shitty actress, she tries to emulate her, but comes off as manic and creepy. and maybe her roommate is nice enough to not completely shun her, recognizing that she's struggling. maybe in dees mind they actually are becoming friends when her roommate asks things like "are you okay?"

and dee has to talk about her plan with dennis because he's the only person who would Get It. and she makes it sound like it's almost working. dennis feels jealous and worried and threatened that maybe dee might actually be seen as normal, especially when she gets her back brace off in the third year. so dennis fucks her roommate, more of a show that he owns and controls each and every pathetic part of dee’s life than anything else. and so that dee knows she'll never be as good as him, she'll never as easily charm people as dennis does. (or at least he tells her he does).

to prove that To Someone dee is Good Enough, and so desperate for attention, dee (who's been groomed all this time) enters a sexual relationship with her professor dr. gainer. she tells herself she has the power in it, that she seduced him ("he didn't molest me. i had sex with him 'cause i wanted to.") and she has a mental break, because the thing she told herself held her back from being loved (her back brace) is finally gone by now and yet she still feels like a monster, and the only scrap of "love" she can get is from her professor.

and then she can't take the fact that she can steal her roommates clothes, can emulate her sexual prowess (in dee's own fucked up, delusional way), and still neither be well liked like her nor be loved by her. so maybe dee will always be a monster. so dee tried to burn her roommate in her bed, because she represented the promise of change and popularity, and that promise was a lie and dee's effort was for nothing. and she's institutionalized.

and i think there was kind of a falling out between the twins and their parents, because barbara wants to abandon dee but dennis can't help but visit her. and frank doesn't even step foot in a place that reminds him of his traumatic childhood, and avoids dee even more than he used to because she is his childhood mirror image. so the family becomes even more fractured and estranged.

and maybe dee becomes medicated and slowly crawls her way halfway to normal by the first season (her acting classes are so well-adjusted, taking part in healthy hobbies of her!). until her father comes back into her life and everything falls apart <3

side note, even though dee is crushingly lonely-"I just got a cat 'cause I wanted something to hang out with. I don't have, you know, a roommate or anything, and I don't really have anyone to talk to..."-AND she struggles to pay rent whenever frank cuts her off, i hc that she refused to ever get a roommate in particular female roommate again after this because both her internalized misogyny got worse and she was afraid of what would happen (what she would do) again.

[britneyshakespeare]

The gaslighting Duke of Vienna

[cleverclove-arts]

Withered lilacs

[Image ID: Digital art piece of Ophelia from Hamlet. Her hair is cropped short and she is carrying a burning lilac with a smile on her face. One eyebrow is raised. /End ID.]

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[victusinveritas]

The beetle wings dress

ELLEN TERRY AS LADY MCBETH AND THE BEETLE WINGS DRESS, 1889

"On 29 December 1888 a packed auditorium at London’s Lyceum Theatre sat in anticipation of the opening of Henry Irving’s revival of Macbeth. In taking the male lead and casting Ellen Terry (1847-1928) as Lady Macbeth, Irving was reuniting one of British theatre’s most cherished acting partnerships. Moreover, audience curiosity was piqued by Terry’s departure from her usual role of Shakespearean heroine to play a plotting villainess. As the curtain rose, her appearance on stage immediately drew gasps. For she emerged wearing a costume of bewitching splendour, a dress of shimmering green embellished with iridescent beetle-wing cases, finished with a velvet heather-coloured cloak over which her dark red hair, plaited in gold, cascaded.

Created by the esteemed costume designer Alice Laura Comyns-Carr and her dressmaker Ada Cort Nettleship, it was the first of three costumes intended to illustrate Lady Macbeth’s changing psychological state through the play. Inspired by a medieval effigy of Clotilde, queen of the Franks originally from Notre-Dame de Paris, Comyns-Carr combined the form of her open sleeved long gown and long braided hair surmounted by a crown with contemporary influences of artists in her circle, such as the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones. The dress’s green embodied the ruthless ambition and plot to murder of the play’s opening acts, while the crochet construction overlaid with beetle-wing cases combined the look of ‘soft chain armour’, with the ‘appearance of the scales of a serpent’.

Although critics and theatregoers were divided over Terry’s characterisation, they were united on the visual impact of her performance. Her costume created an ethereal vision that ‘might have stood in the court of Camelot’. Oscar Wilde, noting the contrast between her dress and the austere garb of the male cast, quipped ‘Lady Macbeth seems an economical housekeeper, and evidently patronises local industries for her husband’s clothes and the servants’ liveries; but she takes care to do her own shopping in Byzantium’. The dress was further immortalised in John Singer Sargent’s commanding full-length portrait of Terry as Lady Macbeth in 1889 which pictured the dramatic moment Lady Macbeth claims her crown as witnessed by him on opening night."

Nationaltrustcollections.co.uk

[michele-apricity]

𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓪 ˙⟡🪶─

𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

Dark academia is rooted in a love for philosophy, history and literature... so here are some recommendations for books that fit the dark academia aesthetic and you should definitely read

𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The cornerstone of dark academia literature. A group of elite classics students is drawn into a web of obsession, betrayal, and murder.

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

A dark exploration of beauty, morality, and corruption in Victorian England.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

A Gothic classic delving into the pursuit of forbidden knowledge, ambition, and the consequences of creation.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

A story of love, mystery, and self-discovery, set against the brooding backdrop of Thornfield Hall.

Dracula by Bram Stoker

A Gothic masterpiece full of eerie atmospheres, academic investigation, and the dark allure of the unknown.

𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔

If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio

A Shakespearean tragedy set in an elite performing arts college, where students’ lives unravel after a murder.

Vita Nostra by Marina & Sergey Dyachenko

A surreal and unsettling novel about a young woman attending a mysterious school where reality bends under the weight of knowledge.

Bunny by Mona Awad

A darkly humorous and sinister look at creativity, academia, and a cult-like clique in a prestigious MFA program.

The Atlas Six trilogy by Olivie Blake

A magical dark academia tale about six exceptionally talented magicians competing for a place in a secret society that guards knowledge.

In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

A memoir with Gothic undertones that explores trauma, storytelling, and academic reflection.

𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒚/𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒔

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

A mysterious and haunting tale of a young boy discovering a forgotten book and its dark history.

The Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

A supernatural dark academia story set in Yale’s secret societies, where magic and danger collide.

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

A chilling Gothic mystery set in a decaying mansion, with a protagonist investigating her cousin's eerie marriage.

The Lying Game by Ruth Ware

A tale of friendship, deceit, and secrets in the shadow of a Gothic boarding school.

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth

A queer, layered story blending Gothic horror and academic intrigue across timelines.

𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 & 𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔

The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

Dickinson’s introspective and haunting poetry complements the aesthetic’s love of literature and existential reflection.

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

For the intellectual side of dark academia, this stoic philosophical work is a guide to self-reflection and understanding.

Paradise Lost by John Milton

An epic poem exploring rebellion, ambition, and the fall from grace, perfect for the themes of the aesthetic.

Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake

Poetry reflecting duality, beauty, and the darker aspects of human nature.

𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik

A magical school where survival is key, blending dark academia with fantasy and wit.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Noell by Susanna Clarke

A dense, Gothic tale of magic, rivalry, and ambition in 19th-century England.

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

A modern, darker take on a magical academy, filled with existential musings and flawed characters.

A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness

A historical and fantastical romance steeped in academia, libraries, and ancient mysteries.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

A haunting, introspective story set in an otherworldly labyrinth that plays with memory, knowledge, and solitude.

𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒕

Ace of Spades by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

A suspenseful story of privilege, power, and systemic secrets in an elite private school.

Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas

A slow-burning, atmospheric novel about an experimental university and the price of knowledge.

We Were Liars by E. Lockhart

A tale of mystery, tragedy, and privilege among a wealthy, secluded family.

The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater

A series rich with mysticism, academic undertones, and a search for ancient knowledge.

An Enchantment of Ravens by Margaret Rogerson

A romantic and artistic dark fantasy set in a world of fae and forbidden craft.

Did you read any of the books mentioned here? And if so what was your favorite/your opinion on them?

I personally read most of the books here and loved every single one.

-michala♡

[insanityclause]

In recent months it seems many a West End director has had to learn the hard way that putting any Hollywood star with any Shakespeare script does not always equal success.

However, with this particular equation – that of two Marvel superheroes, plus the Bard's best-loved rom-com, plus... a jukebox musical? – Jamie Lloyd has at last found the answer, because his latest adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing is a big hearted, bombastic and utterly bonkers joy from start to finish.

Despite the austere setting of the Theatre Royal Drury lane, this show manages to walk the line between literary classic and millennial house party, thanks in part to a packed soundtrack of '90s club classics. Throughout the performance hot pink confetti rains from the ceiling – to the extent I worried for the clean up crew – and in the first act, a giant inflatable heart descends onto the stage, because to hell with subtlety. When you’re dealing one of the most iconic enemies to lovers stories of all time then why not relish in it?

And relish they did. Tom Hiddleston literally dances across stage as the swashbuckling, sweet talker Benedick who starts off a sworn bachelor, but upon learning Beatrice 'loves him', turns delightfully awkward to the point I wanted to say, "Tom, your Hugh Grant is showing".

Atwell is similarly supreme as Beatrice, showing her wholeness as a barbed, intelligent, yet soft hearted woman who welcomes love with open arms when the time comes. In her performance, Atwell manages to carry the legacy of Shakespeare’s sharpest heroin while also bringing a world-weariness to the words which feels entirely her own.

When they're together, sparks fly. Whether it's because the pair have moved in similar Marvel-sized circles over the last decade, or they're simply that good, the duo seem entirely comfortable in each other's presence, flinging insults back and forth with hardly contained glee before later moving into throaty declarations of loves that, I admit, brought tears.

Joining the two film stars on stage is a stellar cast which includes Mason Alexander Park – the highlight of Jamie Lloyd’s last production The Tempest – who adds soul to the entire performance, not only with their deft portrayal of the loyal maid Margaret, but also by singing a number of ballads and party hits throughout.

As a whole though the entire cast carry off the switch in tone in the second act unbelievably well. All the goofiness and joy of the first half is instantly extinguished as Hero is accused of being ‘un-chaste’, to be replaced by nasty words and gut punching grief.

But of course this is a Shakespearean comedy, so naturally all that confusion and sadness is sorted at the end, leaving the characters with nothing left to do but marry and dance – what a wonderful way to spend an evening.

Overall, I defy anyone, from the harshest Shakespearean traditionalist, to the die-hard Loki stan, not to enjoy this sparkling rendition of Shakespeare meets Mamma Mia.

Who would have thought that a play over 400 years old, would have people cackling, crying and catcalling – but then again, Tom Hiddleston is in it, so what did I expect?

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

[blacknedsoul-blog]

The master post of my Nevermore analysis

This post has links to all the extensive reviews I've written about Nevermore (webtoon) so it doesn't get lost in the depths of the internet. I'll update it as I write more and I'm going to try to maintain some degree of order in this mess.

Another detail: if you see that some of these reviews contradict each other or are not entirely consistent with each other, it is because I write them as the comic progresses, so it is very possible that one or more of them end up being outdated, but anyway I think it's worth keeping them.

An unnecessarily detailed analysis

These are practically vignette by vignette revisions of certain scenes or moments of the comic.

An incessantly detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo"

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo" (part II)

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of Lenore's face when she realizes how gay she is

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the alcoholic beverages at the last meal

Literary analysis

Reviews of Nevermore from the perspective of literary theory.

Nevermore is a gothic tragedy. Part I: Classical and Shakespearean Tragedy

Nevermore is a gothic tragedy. Part II: Supernatural Brides

I think the Deans are fucking Lovecraftian gods

Character Study

These are character analyses. Some of them could fit in the previous category, but I decided to leave them aside because they are much more specific.

Annabel Lee Whitlock: The Hypocrite, the Vampire and the Femme Fatale. A review of archetypes

Lenore Vandernatch: the rogue, the gothic heroine and the courtly knight. A review of archetypes

Montresor is the Bad Ending of White Raven

Montresor is the Bad Ending of White Raven II: Electric Bogaloo

Montresor (and Willtresor) is the Bad Ending of White Raven III: now it is personal

Social climbers and the relationship with power: Ada's tragedy

Nevermore themed cocktails

Fun fact: I'm a cocktail/mixology aficionado, here are some cocktail recipes based on Nevermore.

Note: the knowledge required for the preparation of mocktails is very different from the knowledge required for the preparation of cocktails. Therefore, while I may occasionally upload non-alcoholic versions of these cocktails, I may not always have the skills to make the transfer from one to the other.

Harlequin

Posh Besties

Stolen Moments

Stolen Moments (mocktail version)

Love at first sight

Bouquet of flowers (I didn't think there would be flowers again)

The box of cookies (which has no cookies)

Here's basically whatever nonsense I've burned more time on than I should and don't want it to go to waste.

A detailed explanation from my headcanon that Annabel has ADHD

[elkieselkiewrites]

Intros and such

Hi! I'm Jasper, in the mire of my 30s, I use they/them, and this is my new writeblr!

I mainly write fantasy and gothic fiction but I also dip my toe into science-fantasy every now and again. Most of what I write is Teen appropriate, but all of my fiction is for Adults and I will occasionally dip into 18+ territory, so this is a warning to Minors that this might not be the space for you.

My main WIPs are:

The Postmaster's Apprentice

A high fantasy tale of a postie trying desperately to deliver a letter, but forced to have adventures along the way. It has tree nymph elves, stone folk made of real stone, trolls with trade unions, mushroom forests, mountain vampires, giant ghosts, shipwrecks, and more! [wip intro]

Current Phase: Actively writing - 18,281 words (06/03/25)

The Playwright King

A low fantasy story about a terrible playwright, but excellent actor, who finds himself playing the role of monarch to save the Queen Consort after the real king dies. There are plots and shenanigans, silly Shakespearean identity hijinks, and sentient talking swords. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning (06/03/25)

Tupper's Tale

A low fantasy tale about Hob Tupper, a monk-in-training, scribe's apprentice, and (secretly) not really a boy. The story follows Hob as they learn their trade, uncover monastic secrets, solve murders and scandals, fall in love, and change the destiny of a kingdom or two. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Reworking - 13,856 words (06/03/25)

Burning Branches, Golden Trees

A science-fantasy, espionage space opera loosely based on the fairy tale Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree, wherein our heroine Belin enters an arranged marriage, tasked by her boss to discover whether or not her new husband is a traitor, and if not, to uncover the truth of the strange happenings on Palatinate-709. It has far-off planets, space KGB, telepathic eugenicists, spycraft, giant snails, queer polyamory, and more! [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning (06/03/25)

Winter Winds

A dark fantasy story about a travelling cursebreaker called Nightjar, her wife Siskin, her children Finch and Pipit, and the consequences of getting involved in disputes between gods. The first part of the story follows Nightjar as she fights to keep her family safe battling monsters with alchemy, and uncovering godly conspiracies. The second part follows Pipit as she learns about her place in the world, and how her mother's monsters and her father's gods are sometimes one and the same. [wip intro]

Current Phase: Planning & Reworking (06/03/25)

You can also find my fantasy maps here

My askbox is always open for questions, and I'm happy to take part in tag games too!

[myclutteredbookshelf]

Let's save a doomed Shakespearean heroine from the narrative!

Please reblog for a greater sample size.

[likeniobe]

Juliet’s artfulness is often ignored. It is common to cast her as a girlish victim of desires beyond her control, and the long tradition of playing her as wide-eyed and naive prevents us from seeing her any other way. Nonetheless, Shakespeare’s first great heroine is an extravagant foreign prodigy with a wider emotive range than that of passion-torn heroines in classical and Renaissance tragedy, while her Italianate theatricality and poetic brilliance set her apart from the more prosaic Juliets of his sources. To pull off this feat, he deftly deployed theatergrams shaped by the great Italian divas abroad and the appeal of the skilled boy player at home. 

Like the ardent innamorata of the Italians, Juliet is self-aware, hyper-literary, and charged with erotic will. […] To her first spectators Juliet’s amorous precocity was an index of her Italianness. The English stereotyped Italian girls as prematurely lusty in comparison to English girls, and Italian women as prone to romantic melodrama and tragedies of passion. […] Shakespeare makes Juliet’s ardor hot-blooded and violent, and thus disturbingly foreign. No mere name change [from Giulietta to the Anglicized Juliet] could translate this tragic prodigy into a sweet and star-crossed English girl. It took an Anglocentric critical tradition and centuries of naive Juliets to domesticate the Italian innamorata accesa.

from pamela allen brown, the diva's gift to the shakespearean stage: agency, theatricality, and the innamorata

[shakespearenews]

King Lear Alotting His Kingdom to His Three Daughters, by Julia Margaret Cameron, 1872. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, bequest of Maurice B. Sendak, 2012.

---

The Liddells never returned to be photographed by Carroll, but the sisters reappeared a decade later before Julia Cameron’s camera. Alice, Ina, and Edith posed for Cameron’s complicated tableaux vivants as Roman goddesses, literary heroines, and Shakespearean stories. In one photograph that typifies Cameron’s work, Alice and her sisters pose with her husband, Charles Hay Cameron, enacting a scene from King Lear. Charles plays the role of King Lear while the Liddells pose as his three ill-fated daughters, Ina’s index finger poignantly laid on his shoulder while Alice, hair down, fixes her gaze outside of the photograph’s frame, a look echoed by her younger sister Edith.

[solxamber]

⋆˚✿˖ Twisted Wonderland Masterlist II ˖✿˚⋆

Main Masterlist ; Twst Masterlist I ; Twst Masterlist III

Heartslabyul

Ruined - Riddle x reader

In which he slowly realizes that he'll never be able to look at anyone else, he's been ruined for everyone else but you.

Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want a Refund - Trey x reader

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

Possessed - Ace x reader

Something’s going on with Ace. He's being nice which either means he's possessed or has done something extremely illegal. (Spoiler alert: It's neither)

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud - Ace x reader

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Trash Novel Chronicles: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Get Married - Deuce x reader

You get isekai’d into a garbage novel as the villain, so you take it as a sign that morality is optional now. So, you do what any reasonable person would: you set the world on fire (metaphorically… mostly) and somehow bag your knight, Deuce Spade in the process.

Savanaclaw

Still Into You - Leona x reader

You return to your old town, only to cross paths with Leona Kingscholar—the one who got away and the one you never stopped loving. Perhaps this time, fate is offering a second chance to make things right.

or: Exes to Lovers with Leona

Octavinelle

Trash Novel Chronicles: My Consort Calls Me Shrimpy - Floyd x reader

"You get isekaid into a novel where the perfect Empress got absolutely wrecked by the plot, and now you have to juggle a bland heroine, 15 consorts, a traitor and a delightfully unhinged eel who’s oddly good at solving all your problems."

Shot Through the Heart - Jade x reader

As a senior Cupid with a 99% matchmaking rate, your flawless record crumbles before your eyes when Jade Leech resists every arrow you shoot.

Trash Novel Chronicles: How to Ruin a Plot || Jade x reader

When you end up as the villainess in a story that's hellbent on making her suffer for no reason, you decide to make the main characters suffer just for catharsis. Good thing that your fiancé, Jade Leech seems to like chaos as much as you.

Signed, Sealed, Bonded - Jade x reader

Being an Esper is hard. Finding a Guide is harder. Somehow, the only one who can handle you is Jade Leech, who is both the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you.

Scarabia

Trash Novel Chronicles: Stealing the Plot for Drama - Jamil x reader

The book you've been looking forward to turns out to be a piece of crap, and you have the bad luck of getting pulled into it. So you decide to steal the main character's show, just for sport.

Mission: Emotionally Compromised - Jamil x reader

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

Trash Novel Chronicles: Falling for the Sun in a Cold Empire - Kalim x reader

You lose everything you've worked after getting transported to the novel that you read when you were a teenager after a freak accident. As the villainess.

It's time to rebuild yourself, one step at a time with a little help from Kalim Al-Asim, your betrothed.

Brighter than the Sun - Kalim x reader

Kalim shines like the sun, radiant and unwavering—yet each day, he burns a little closer to the edge, waiting for the moment he no longer has to be the light for everyone else.

Pomefiore

Just the Way You Are - Vil x reader {Request}

Vil shows you that you’re perfect as you are, helping you embrace your beauty inside and out.

Take Two - Vil x reader

You and Vil, once lovers, are forced to reunite through work, stirring up old heartbreak and undeniable tension. Slowly, you realize love never truly left, and some stories deserve a second chance.

How to Handle Your Diva - Vil x reader

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Caught in the Crossfire- Vil x reader

You and Vil, partners in crime, find that the line between business and pleasure is thinner than you'd like to admit when you can’t outrun the feelings that come with sharing a life together

Or: Mafia Boss! Vil x Mafia Boss! Reader

Totally Normal Romance - Rook x reader

You've fallen hard for the hunter and you're dating! But when you tell your friends the good news, they immediately try staging interventions. Huh, I wonder why?

Supervillain's Guide to Romance - Rook x reader

You planned for a lifetime of rivalry, but instead, Rook Hunt just keeps breaking into your lair with snacks.

Where did it all go wrong?

(Villain! Reader x Hero! Rook)

Ignihyde

Fae Courtship 101: Romance Gone Wrong - Idia x reader

In your desperation to confess your feelings to Idia, you've recruited Malleus to help you. Except his help is mildly concerning at best and extremely alarming at worst.

Diasomnia

Starstruck - Malleus x reader

After debuting with a gothic, fantasy-inspired theme, you somehow managed to hit Malleus Draconia’s exact vibe. Now, the fae prince has single-handedly appointed himself your Number One Fan—and he's taking his job very, very seriously.

Lost in Translation - Malleus x reader

You have an idea: what better way to confess to Malleus than in his native language? Except you have severely overestimated your abilities.

Guide Rank: Overwhelmed - Malleus x reader

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him.

And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

Or: Guideverse au!

Betraying the Gods in Three Easy Steps - Malleus x reader

Step 1: Befriend the Demon King.

Step 2: Fall in love.

Step 3: Quit your hero job.

1800-Curse-Control - Lilia x reader

You decide to open a hotline for curing curses with Lilia. It goes exactly how you imagined it would—maybe even a little better.

Familiar, Not So Familiar - Lilia x reader

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

Others

Campus Scandal - Neige x reader

Neige: hopeless romantic. You: begrudging (absolutely willing) participant.

or: Opposites attract— you, the resident delinquent and Neige, the campus golden boy, fall for each other.

Multi Characters

Making Up After an Argument With: Vice Housewardens + Kalim

Vice Housewardens + Kalim trying a period simulator

Summer Nights with: Housewardens + Jamil

Romance Clichés with: Leona ; Azul ; Vil ; Kalim ; Idia ; Jamil ; Riddle

Desperate Confessions with: Leona, Riddle ; Jamil, Sebek

Holding Them and Not Letting Go with: Housewardens + Jamil ; Vice Housewardens + Rollo, Neige ; First Years

Pick Us! (In which you have to choose a club and everyone wants a piece of you)

And I Pick... (In which you choose the club)

Kiss Cam with: First Years

Cuteness Aggression with: Idia, Cater, Octatrio ; Malleus, Rook, Lilia, Jamil, Riddle, Leona

Vs Plushies: Overblot gang + Rollo

Zoo Tycoon: Housewardens (In which they turn into animals)

Drunken Confessions with: Octatrio + Idia

You Try to Sleep on the couch after an argument: Housewardens ; Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie ; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Choose Us! (In which you have to choose a dorm to join)

And I Choose... (In which you choose the dorm)

Labor of Love with: Housewardens

Jealousy, Jealousy with: Housewardens

Giving them chocolates on Valentine's Day

Receiving Gifts on White Day

Requests

Skully J. Graves x reader (feat. Sally)

Skully J. Graves x reader (Double Halloween!)

Jealous! Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Epel

Vil x Mermaid! Reader

Jamil x Intimidating! Reader

Azul, Malleus, Idia x Alien! Reader

First Year Trio vs Freshly Painted Bench

Vil x Reader who finds Neige creepy

White Rabbit! Reader Aftermath (All NRC + Staff + Rollo, Neige, Che'nya)

Housewardens x Reader with a blinding smile

Leona x Reader (Romantic, Reader considers him their king)

Malleus, Silver, Ace with a Sheep in Wolf's clothing

Leona with drunk! reader

Malleus x Leona’s Bodyguard! Reader

Silver x reader x RSA! Silver

Rook, Trey, Malleus, Vil x Witch! Reader

Jamil, Floyd, Azul, Idia with the Orange Peel Theory (Kinda)

Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil reacting to reader singing their Villain songs

Ace x reader x Malleus (Love Triangle)

Leona, Octatrio, Malleus, Riddle, Vil, Rook, Rollo x Kokomi! Jellyfish! Reader

Deuce x Snow White! reader

Housewardens x M! Cowboy! Reader

Ace, Deuce reacting to a glow up (hcs)

Overblot Gang + Trey Being your Comfort Person

They realise what you went through - All NRC + Rollo + Neige + Grim, Staff

They react to you breaking down - Ace, Deuce x reader

Housewardens with a Miku! Reader

Second Years, Riddle, Leona, Malleus, Vil, Lilia, Jack x Buff! Fem! Reader

Azul, Trey, Rook x Jealous! Reader

Octavinelle + Diasomnia x Airhead! Jellyfish! Reader

Housewardens x Tease! Reader

Memorizing the Queen's rules with Heartslabyul

Diasomnia x Blacksmith! Reader

Ficlets/Asks/Drabbles

Kissing Malleus’s forehead scale

[pinkglassmind]

The Course of Love: Professor D./Reader (Resident Lover) [Snippet]

When one misstep from Cassandra leads to her opting out of the school play to you preforming as the lover for the world of theatre, you find yourself dressed beside Professor Dimitrescu, awaiting the curtains to reveal the light. OR: You are Romeo. She is Juliet—and your professor.

You know all too well that Cassandra, daughter of the Professor Dimitrescu and star of Mother Miranda All Girls' University, can be quite the—

"Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!" Juliet's finger curls over the pommel, releasing the weapon from the deceased Romeo's belt; the first for a fair girl. "This is thy sheath;" She lifts the dagger and points the blade to her chest, thrusting in with the carry of a sharp gasp. "there rust, and let me die." She mutters her final words to the audience, dramatically so for the effect, before joining the body that lays beside her. The death marks the end of a young love that how so appealing, would so too be pronounced guilty on six charges (With one manslaughter.) of murder.

Woe, Juliet, by a miracle come true, walks the day once more and converses with Romeo on stage, rolling up his sleeve to write her phone number on.

"ENOUGH!"

—clutter, one you cannot pinpoint a singular word to ascribe to it.

Cassandra, the actress posing as Juliet, sheepishly winks at the director before bringing herself up, dusting off her dress as the backstage crew steps in, beginning to re-arrange the equipment for a restart of the scene.

"The rest is silence, as Hamlet said. I advise the same to you all." Cassandra declares elegantly, holding up a hand in honour.

She stretches her arms out, standing tall for her upcoming soliloquy, that of which is but a ramble. She has always been one to become her character in act.

"We all know he's the best Shakespearean hero to take advice from." Estera reacts scornfully, mocking Cassandra, who discards her response nonetheless.

"Well, the play should have ended here, the perfect moment. People come to watch Romeo and Juliet for Romeo and Juliet. I bet you no one buying our tickets knows any of the other characters' names or even the plot itself." Cassandra raises fair points, receiving differing answers to her words, with a 'Don't steal my thunder after stealing the whole show.' from Prince Escalus and two 'The final lines have meaning even if they're not said by you, attention whore.' from Lord Montague and Lord Capulet, respectively. 

With a quick turn of her heel, Cassandra shifts to face your classmates and instead, shamelessly so, falls behind and into the Capulet tomb, pushing it against Romeo, injuring the actress (You wonder how the poor thing could deserve such luck?).

'A minor sprain', they said, would not mean a new rehearsal nor a hundred so students aligned politely at 8 in the morning with playbooks and mugs in hand, determined to prove themselves a candidate, a suitor even, fit to be the new Juliet's new Romeo. 

Most shocking of all, you had not pictured a goddess ascending down on a rainy Monday of exam week to throw a dice and gamble her chance for a role—Oh, wait, now, that hat does seem most familiar...

"Professor Dimitrescu? What are you doing here?!" A wave of students exclaim at the sight of Cassandra's own mother, here to replace her daughter as the tale's heroine; a dispute between family, to be called the classical soap opera trope you were but swoon over with as a teenager. 'O, traitorous villainy!' shouts the audience, yet in your love would this woman be cherished.

Suddenly, Romeo seems a fate for you to play.

Ignore the low-quality edit. It has become a ritual for me.

The full work will be posted later on ao3. When? Great question...

[chthonic-cassandra]

💌 :)

I love your excellent taste in both Greek and Shakespearean heroines, and willingness to be raw and vulnerable about the things that move you!

[hauntedwizardmoment]

PLEASE talk more about the clones' various genres and the points of friction and overlap with that, I'm so here for this (I famously can't hear the words "Shakespearean tragedy" without going absolutely nuts, so seeing that for j3.....ough)

!!! YAY there's SO much drama here

so like. with jace and j2, because jace is in a horror movie vs. j2 who is in a bodice ripper. jace is constantly saying creepy ominous shit about how porter doesnt really care about j2 and like, vaguely implying that porter's gonna kill him the same way he killed jace. and j2 is like. not heeding these warnings at all. j2 is able to put jace in the category of a bodice ripper heroine's well-meaning yet extremely wrong friend who is telling her to NOT follow her heart and instead settle for safety and comfort. and to jace, j2's unwavering, almost naive love of porter makes him read as the ditzy cheerleader who dies first in a slasher.

and j2 and j3 have a similar level of conflict bc j3 is like rosencrantz from rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead. he's a bit character who's become aware that he's a bit character and is trying to eke out any semblance of joy and meaning with his small role in life. and j2 is ophelia, and he can't save j2 from his tragic fate, he can't save anyone, not even himself. meanwhile to j2 (bodice ripper) j3 is literally a side character who's like, technically important, but come on. he's not worried about j3, why would he bother? j3 is like the legislative assembly in all of those romance novels about royalty. taxation rates? public infrastructure? foreign policy??? who fucking cares about all of that. porter got j2 flowers, thats whats REALLy important.

and jace and j3 are like. theyre both genre-aware. they both know how terrible things are. but jace is surviving the horror movie (or at least dying last) and j3's suffering and death is a foregone conclusion that gets ramped over on the way to the main storyline. and j3 is somehow both thankful he doesnt have that spotlight on him but also eternally vying for it and trying to prove himself worthy of it.

j4 and jace are in SEVERE conflict because j4 is like "you know the torment nexus wouldnt exist if it wasnt for you, right? you realize it's your fault we're all stuck like this?" because she's the audience in the horror movie thats like "why the fuck did you idiots go into the woods where the serial killer's cabin is??" and jace is like "yes but i'm winning the torment nexus, or if i don't win, at least all of you lose" which j4 views as so insanely petty and cruel that she honestly doesnt even want to waste her breath on it

but i think the worst conflict is j4 and j2 because j4 is like. j2. you do not need or want a booktok boyfriend. you DO NOT. that is BAD. porter is BAD. and j2 is like "you dont get him like i do" and is convinced j4 is just jealous or bitter that she can't get porter's attention like he can. j2 was written by a lonely, angry man whose wish fulfillment fantasy is that a guy like j2 might be charmed by him and date him (porter).

lastly j3 and j4... i cant even look directly at this. j4 sees how lovely and important j3 is when even the text itself doesnt. j3 is the only one able to break the fourth wall and see j4. despite everything, they found each other. oh god theyre in love...